



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive





Transcriber's notes:
   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/progressionists00bolagoog

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].





                                  THE



                            PROGRESSIONISTS,



                                  AND



                                ANGELA.



          _TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN_.


                           *   *   *   *   *


                               New York:
                   THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
                            9 WARREN STREET.
                                 1873.






                           *   *   *   *   *

       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
                   THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

                           *   *   *   *   *





                          THE PROGRESSIONISTS.




                               CHAPTER I.

                               THE WAGER


The balcony of the _palais_ Greifmann contains three persons who
together represent four million florins. It is not often that one sees
a group of this kind. The youthful landholder, Seraphin Gerlach, is
possessor of two millions. His is a quiet disposition; very calm, and
habitually thoughtful; innocence looks from his clear eye upon the
world; physically, he is a man of twenty-three; morally, he is a child
in purity; a profusion of rich brown hair clusters about his head; his
cheeks are ruddy, and an attractive sweetness plays round his mouth.

The third million belongs to Carl Greifmann, the oldest member of the
group, head _pro tem_. of the banking-house of the same name. This
gentlemen is tall, slender, animated; his cheeks wear no bloom; they
are pale. His carriage is easy and smooth. Some levity is visible in
his features, which are delicate, but his keen, glancing eye is
disagreeable beside Seraphin's pure soul-mirror. Greifmann's sister
Louise, not an ordinary beauty, owns the fourth million. She is seated
between the young gentlemen; the folds of her costly dress lie heaped
around her; her hands are engaged with a fan, and her eyes are sending
electric glances into Gerlach's quick depths. But these flashing beams
fail to kindle; they expire before they penetrate far into those
depths. His eyes are bright, but they refuse to gleam with intenser
fire. Strange, too, for a twofold reason; first, because glances from
the eyes of beautiful women seldom suffer young men to remain cool;
secondly, because a paternal scheme designs that Louise shall be
engaged and married to the fire-proof hero.

Millions of money are rare; and should millions strive to form an
alliance, it is in conformity with the genius of every solid banking
establishment to view this as quite a natural tendency.

For eight days Mr. Seraphin has been on a visit at the _palais_
Greifmann, but as yet he has yielded no positive evidence of intending
to join his own couple of millions with the million of Miss Louise.

Whilst Seraphin converses with the beautiful young lady, Carl Greifmann
cursorily examines a newspaper which a servant has just brought him on
a silver salver.

"Every age has its folly," suddenly exclaims the banker. "In the
seventeenth century people were busy during thirty years cutting one
another's throats for religion's sake--or rather, in deference to the
pious hero of the faith from Sweden and his fugleman Oxenstiern. In the
eighteenth century, they decorated their heads with periwigs and
pigtails, making it a matter of conjecture whether both ladies and
gentlemen were not in the act of developing themselves from monkeydom
into manhood.

"Elections are the folly of our century. See here, my good fellow, look
what is written here: In three days the municipal elections will come
off throughout the country--in eighteen days the election of delegates.
For eighteen days the whole country is to labor in election throes.
Every man twenty-one years of age, having a wife and a homestead, is to
be employed in rooting from out the soil of party councilmen, mayors,
and deputies.

"And during the period these rooters not unfrequently get at
loggerheads. Some are in favor of Streichein the miller, because
Streichein has lavishly greased their palms; others insist upon
re-electing Leimer the manufacturer, because Leimer threatens a
reduction of wages if they refuse to keep him in the honorable
position. In the heat of dispute, quite a storm of oaths and ugly
epithets, yes, and of blows too, rages, and many is the voter who
retires from the scene of action with a bloody head. The beer-shops are
the chief battle-fields for this sort of skirmishing. Here, zealous
voters swill down hogsheads of beer: brewers drive a brisk trade during
elections. But you must not think, Seraphin, that these absurd election
scenes are confined to cities. In rural districts the game is conducted
with no less interest and fury. There is a village not far away, where
a corpulent ploughman set his mind on becoming mayor. What does he, to
get the reins of village government into his great fat fist? Two days
previous to the election he butchers three fatted hogs, has several
hundred ringlets of sausage made, gets ready his pots, and pans for
cooking and roasting, and then advertises: eating and drinking _ad
libitum_ and _gratis_ for every voter willing to aid him to ascend the
mayor's throne. He obtained his object.

"Now, I put the question to you, Seraphin, is not this sort of election
jugglery far more ridiculous and disgusting than the most preposterous
periwigs of the last century?"

"Ignorance and passion may occasion the abuse of the best
institutions," answered the double millionaire. "However, if beer and
pork determine the choice of councilmen and mayors, voters have no
right to complain of misrule. It would be most disastrous to the state,
I should think, were such corrupt means to decide also the election of
the deputies of our legislative assembly."

The banker smiled.

"The self-same man[oe]uvring, only on a larger scale," replied he. Of
course, in this instance, petty jealousies disappear. Streichein the
miller and Leimer the manufacturer make concessions in the interest of
the common party. All stand shoulder to shoulder in the cause of
_progress_ against Ultramontanes and democrats, who in these days have
begun to be troublesome.

"Whilst at municipal elections office-seekers employed money and
position for furthering their personal aims, at deputy elections
_progress_ men cast their means into a common cauldron, from which the
mob are fed and made to drink in order to stimulate them with the
spirit of _progress_ for the coming election. At bottom it amounts to
the same--the stupefaction of the multitude, the rule of a minority, in
which, however, all consider themselves as having part, the folly of
the nineteenth century."

"This is an unhealthy condition of things, which gives reason to fear
the corruption of the whole body politic," remarked the landholder with
seriousness. "The seats of the legislative chamber should be filled not
through bribery and deception of the masses, nor through party passion,
but through a right appreciation of the qualifications that fit a man
for the office of deputy."

"I ask your pardon, my dear friend," interposed the banker with a
laugh. "Being reared by a mother having a rigorous faith has prompted
you to speak thus, not acquaintance with the spirit of the age. Right
appreciation! Heavens, what _naivete_! Are you not aware that
_progress_, the autocrat of our times, follows a fixed, unchanging
programme? It matters not whether Tom or Dick occupies the cushions of
the legislative hall; the main point is to wear the color of
_progress_, and for this no special qualifications are needed. I will
give you an illustration of the way in which these things work. Let us
suppose that every member is provided with a trumpet which he takes
with him to the assembly. To blow this trumpet neither skill, nor quick
perception, nor experience, nor knowledge--neither of these
qualifications is necessary. Now, we will suppose these gentlemen
assembled in the great hall where the destinies of the country are
decided; should abuses need correction, should legislation for church
or state be required, they have only to blow the trumpet of _progress_.
The trumpet's tone invariably accords with the spirit of progress, for
it has been attuned to it. Should it happen that at a final vote upon a
measure the trumpets bray loudly enough to drown the opposition of
democrats and Ultramontanes, the matter is settled, the law is passed,
the question is decided."

"Evidently you exaggerate!" said Seraphin with a shake of the head.
"Your illustration beats the enchanted horn of the fable. Do not you
think so. Miss Louise?"

"Brother's trumpet story is rather odd, 'tis true, yet I believe that
at bottom such is really the state of things."

"The instrument in question is objectionable in your opinion, my
friend, only because you still bear about you the narrow conscience of
an age long since buried. As you never spend more than two short winter
months in the city, where alone the life-pulse of our century can be
felt beating, you remain unacquainted with the present and its spirit.
The rest of the year you pass in riding about on your lands, suffering
yourself to be impressed by the stern rigor of nature's laws, and
concluding that human society harmonizes in the same manner with the
behests of fixed principles. I shall have to brush you up a little. I
shall have to let you into the mysteries of progress, so that you may
cease groping like a blind man in the noonday of enlightenment. Above
all, let us have no narrow-mindedness, no scrupulosity, I beg of you.
Whosoever nowadays walks the grass-grown paths of rigorism is a doomed
man."

Whilst he was saying this, a smile was on the banker's countenance.
Seraph in mused in silence on the meaning and purpose of his
extraordinary language.

"Look down the street, if you please," continued Carl Greifmann. "Do
you observe yon dark mass just passing under the gas-lamp?"

"I notice a pretty corpulent gentleman," answered Seraphin.

"The corpulent gentleman is Mr. Hans Shund, formerly treasurer of this
city," explained Greifmann. "Many years ago, Mr. Shund put his hand
into the public treasury, was detected, removed for dishonesty, and
imprisoned for five years. When set at liberty, the ex-treasurer made
the loaning of money on interest a source of revenue. He conducted this
business with shrewdness, ruined many a family that needed money and in
its necessity applied to him, and became rich. Shund the usurer is
known to all the town, despised and hated by everybody. Even the dogs
cannot endure the odor of usury that hangs about him; just see--all the
dogs bark at him. Shund is moreover an extravagant admirer of the
gentler sex. All the town is aware that this Jack Falstaff contributes
largely to the scandal that is afloat. The pious go so far as to
declare that the gallant Shund will be burned and roasted in hell for
all eternity for not respecting the sixth commandment. Considered in
the light of the time honored morality of Old Franconia, Shund, the
thief, the usurer and adulterer, is a low, good-for-nothing scoundrel,
no question about it. But in the light of the indulgent spirit of the
times, no more can be said than that he has his foibles. He is about to
pass by on the other side, and, as a well-bred man, will salute us."

Seraphin had attentively observed the man thus characterized, but with
the feelings with which one views an ugly blotch, a dirty page in the
record of humanity.

Mr. Shund lowered his hat, his neck and back, with oriental
ceremoniousness in presence of the millions on the balcony. Carl
acknowledged the salute, and even Louise returned it with a friendly
inclination of the head.

The landholder, on the contrary, was cold, and felt hurt at Greifmann's
bowing to a fellow whom he had just described as a scoundrel. That
Louise, too, should condescend to smile to a thief, swindler, usurer,
and immoral wretch! In his opinion, Louise should have followed the
dictates of a noble womanhood, and have looked with honest pity on the
scapegrace. She, on the contrary, greeted the bad man as though he were
respectable, and this conduct wounded the young man's feelings.

"Apropos of Hans Shund, I will take occasion to convince you of the
correctness of my statements," said Carl Greifmann. "Three days hence,
the municipal election is to come off. Mr. Shund is to be elected
mayor. And when the election of deputies takes place, this same Shund
will command enough of the confidence and esteem of his fellow-citizens
to be elected to the legislative assembly, thief and usurer though he
be. You will then, I trust, learn to understand that the might of
progress is far removed from the bigotry that would subject a man's
qualifications to a microscopic examination. The enlarged and liberal
principles prevailing in secular concerns are opposed to the
intolerance that would insist on knowing something of an able man's
antecedents before consenting to make use of him. All that Shund will
have to do will be to fall in under the glorious banner of the spirit
of the age; his voting trumpet will be given him; and forthwith he will
turn out a finished mayor and deputy. Do you not admire the power and
stretch of _liberalism_?"

"I certainly do admire your faculty for making up plausible stories,"
answered Seraphin.

"Plausible stories? Not at all! Downright earnest, every word of it.
Hans Shund, take my word for it, will be elected mayor and member of
the assembly."

"In that event," replied the landholder, "Shund's disreputable
antecedents and disgusting conduct at present must be altogether a
secret to his constituents."

"Again you are mistaken, my dear friend. This remark proceeds from your
want of acquaintance with the genius of our times. This city has thirty
thousand inhabitants. Every adult among them has heard of Hans Shund
the thief, usurer, and companion of harlots. And I assure you that not
a voter, not a progressive member of our community, thinks himself
doing what is at all reprehensible by conferring dignity and trust on
Hans Shund. You have no idea how comprehensive is the soul of
liberalism."

"Let us quit a subject that appears to me impossible, nay, even
unnatural," said Gerlach.

"No, no; for this very reason you need to be convinced," insisted the
banker with earnestness. "My prospective--but hold--I was almost guilty
of a want of delicacy. No matter, my _actual_ friend, landholder and
millionaire, must be made see with his eyes and touch with his fingers
what marvels _progress_ can effect. Let us make a bet: Eighteen days
from now Hans Shund will be mayor and member for this city. I shall
stake ten thousand florins. You may put in the pair of bays that won
the best prizes at the last races."

Seraphin hesitated.

"Come on!" urged the banker. "Since you refuse to believe my
assertions, let us make a bet. May be you consider my stakes too small
against yours? Very well, I will say twenty thousand florins."

"You will be the loser, Greifmann! Your statements are too
unreasonable."

"Never mind; if I lose, you will be the winner. Do you take me up?"

"Pshaw, Carl! you are too sure," said Louise reproachfully.

"My feeling so sure is what makes me eager to win the finest pair of
horses I ever saw. Is it possible that you are a coward?"

The landholder's face reddened. He put his right hand in the banker's.
"My dear fellow," exclaimed he jubilantly, "I have just driven a
splendid bargain. To convince you of the entire fairness of the
transaction, you are to be present at the manipulation that is to
decide. Even though you lose the horses, your gain is incalculable, for
it consists in nothing less than being convinced of the wonderful
nature and of the omnipotence of progress. I repeat, then, that,
wherever progress reigns, the elections are the supreme folly of the
nineteenth century; for in reality there is no electing; but what
progress decrees, that is fulfilled."




                               CHAPTER II.

                              THE LEADERS.


The banker was seated at his office table working for his chance in the
wager with the industry of a thorough business man. Whilst he was
engaged in writing notes, a smile indicative of certainty of success
lit up his countenance; for he was thoroughly familiar with the figures
that entered into his calculations, and, withal, Hans Shund invested
with offices and dignity could not but strike him as a comical anomaly.
"Happy thought! My father travels half of the globe; many wonderful
things come under his observation, no doubt, but the greatest of all
prodigies is to be witnessed right here: Hans Shund, the thief,
swindler, usurer, wanton--mayor and law-maker! And it is the venerable
sire _Progress_ that alone could have begotten the prodigy of a Hans
Shund invested with honors. My Lord Progress is therefore himself a
prodigy--a very extraordinary offspring of the human mind, the
culminating point of enlightenment. Admitting humanity to be ten
thousand million years old, or even more, as the most learned of
scientific men have accurately calculated it, during this rather long
series of years nature never produced a marvel that might presume to
claim rank with progress. Progress is the acme of human culture--about
this there can be no question. Yes, indeed, _the acme_." And he
finished the last word in the last note. "Humanity will therefore have
to face about and begin again at the beginning; for after progress
nothing else is possible." He rang his bell.

"Take these three notes to their respective addresses immediately,"
said he to the servant who had answered the ring. Greifmann stepped
into the front office, and gave an order to the cashier. Returning to
his own cabinet, he locked the door that opened into the front office.
He then examined several iron safes, the modest and smooth polish of
which suggested neither the hardness of their iron nature nor the
splendor of their treasures.

"Gold or paper?" said the banker to himself. After some indecision, he
opened the second of the safes. This he effected by touching several
concealed springs, using various keys, and finally shoving back a huge
bolt by means of a very small blade. He drew out twenty packages of
paper, and laid them in two rows on the table. He undid the tape
encircling the packages, and then it appeared that every leaf of both
rows was a five-hundred florin banknote. The banker had exposed a
considerable sum on the table. A sudden thought caused him to smile,
and he shoved the banknotes where they came more prominently into view.

The blooming double millionaire entered.

"Sit down a moment, friend Seraphin, and listen to a short account of
my scheme. I have said before that our city is prospering and growing
under the benign sceptre of progress. The powers and honors of the
sceptre are portioned among three leaders. Everything is directed and
conducted by them--of course, in harmony with the spirit of the times.
I have summoned the aforesaid magnates to appear. That the business may
be despatched with a comfortable degree of expedition, the time when
the visit is expected has been designated in each note; and those
gentlemen are punctual in all matters connected with money and the
bank. You can enter this little apartment, next to us, and by leaving
the door open hear the conversation. The mightiest of the corypheuses
is Schwefel, the straw-hat manufacturer. This potentate resides at a
three-minutes walk from here, and can put in an appearance at any
time."

"I am on tiptoe!" said Gerlach. "You promise what is so utterly
incredible, that the things you are preparing to reveal appear to me
like adventures belonging to another world."

"To another world!--quite right, my dear fellow! I am indeed about to
display to your astounded eyes some wonders of the world of progress
that hitherto have been entirely unknown to you. Within eighteen days
you shall, under my tutorship, receive useful and thorough instruction.
This promise I can make you, as we are just in face of the elections, a
time when minds put aside their disguises, when they not unfrequently
shock one another, and when many secrets come to light!"

"You put me under many obligations!"

"Only doing my duty, my most esteemed! We are both aware that,
according to the wishes of parents and the desired inclinations of
parties known, our respective millions are to approach each other in
closer relationship. To do a relative of mine _in spe_ a favor, gives
me unspeakable satisfaction. I shall proceed with my course of
instruction. See here! Every one of these twenty packages contains
twenty five-hundred florin banknotes. Consequently, both rows contain
just two hundred thousand florins--an imposing sum assuredly, and, for
the purpose of being imposing, the two hundred thousand have been laid
upon this table. Explanation: the mightiest of the spirits of progress
is--Money.

"All forces, all sympathies, revolve about money as the heavenly bodies
revolve about the sun. For this reason the mere proximity of a
considerable sum of money acts upon every man of progress like a
current of electricity: it carries him away, it intoxicates his senses.
The leaders whom I have invited will at once notice the collection of
five-hundred florin notes: in the rapidity of calculating, they will
overestimate the amount, and obtain impressions in proportion, somewhat
like the Jews that prostrated themselves in the dust in adoration of
the golden calf. As for me, my dear fellow, I shall carry on my
operations in the auspicious presence of this power of two hundred
thousands. Such a display of power will produce in the leaders a frame
of mind made up of veneration, worship, and unconditional
submissiveness. Every word of mine will proceed authoritatively from
the golden mouth of the two hundred thousands, and my proposals it will
be impossible for them to reject. But listen! The door of the ante-room
is being opened. The mightiest is approaching. Go in quick." He pressed
the spring of a concealed door, and Seraphin disappeared.

When the straw-hat manufacturer entered, the banker was sitting before
the banknotes apparently absorbed in intricate calculations.

"Ah Mr. Schwefel! pardon the liberty I have taken of sending for you.
The pressure of business," motioning significantly towards the
banknotes, "has made it impossible for me to call upon you."

"No trouble, Mr. Greifmann, no trouble whatever!" rejoined the
manufacturer with profound bows.

"Have the goodness to take a seat!" And he drew an arm-chair quite
near to where the money lay displayed. Schwefel perceived they were
five-hundreds, estimated the amount of the pile in a few rapid glances,
and felt secret shudderings of awe passing through his person.

"The cause of my asking you in is a business matter of some magnitude,"
began the banker. "There is a house in Vienna with which we stand in
friendly relations, and which has very extensive connections in
Hungary. The gentlemen of this house have contracts for furnishing
large orders of straw hats destined mostly for Hungary, and they wish
to know whether they can obtain favorable terms of purchase at the
manufactories of this country. It is a business matter involving a
great deal of money. Their confidence in the friendly interest of our
firm, and in our thorough acquaintance with local circumstances, has
encouraged them to apply to us for an accurate report upon this
subject. They intimate, moreover, that they desire to enter into
negotiations with none but solid establishments, and for this reason
are supposed to be guided by our judgment. As you are aware, this
country has a goodly number of straw-hat manufactories. I would feel
inclined, however, as far as it may be in my power, to give your
establishment the advantage of our recommendation, and would therefore
like to get from you a written list of fixed prices of all the various
sorts."

"I am, indeed, under many obligations to you, Mr. Greifmann, for your
kind consideration," said the manufacturer, nodding repeatedly. "Your
own experience can testify to the durability of my work, and I shall
give the most favorable rates possible."

"No doubt," rejoined the banker with haughty reserve. "You must not
forget that the straw-hat business is out of our line. It is incumbent
on us, however, to oblige a friendly house. I shall therefore make a
similar proposal to two other large manufactories, and, after
consulting with men of experience in this branch, shall give the house
in Vienna the advice we consider most to its interest, that is, shall
recommend the establishment most worthy of recommendation."

Mr. Schwefel's excited countenance became somewhat lengthy.

"You should not fail of an acceptable acknowledgment from me, were you
to do me the favor of recommending my goods," explained the
manufacturer.

The banker's coldness was not in the slightest degree altered by the
implied bribe. He appeared not even to have noticed it. "It is also my
desire to be able to recommend you," said he curtly, carelessly taking
up a package of the banknotes and playing with ten thousand florins as
if they were so many valueless scraps of paper. "Well, we are on the
eve of the election," remarked he ingenuously. "Have you fixed upon a
magistrate and mayor?"

"All in order, thank you, Mr. Greifmann!"

"And are you quite sure of the order?"

"Yes; for we are well organized, Mr. Greifmann. If it interests you, I
will consider it as an honor to be allowed to send you a list of the
candidates."

"I hope you have not passed over ex-treasurer Shund?"

This question took Mr. Schwefel by surprise, and a peculiar smile
played on his features.

"The world is and ever will be ungrateful," continued the banker, as
though he did not notice the astonishment of the manufacturer. "I could
hardly think of an abler and more sterling character for the office of
mayor of the city than Mr. Shund. Our corporation is considerably in
debt. Mr. Shund is known to be an accurate financier, and an economical
householder. We just now need for the administration of our city
household a mayor that understands reckoning closely, and that will
curtail unnecessary expenses, so as to do away with the yearly
increasing deficit in the budget. Moreover, Mr. Shund is a noble
character; for he is always ready to aid those who are in want of
money--on interest, of course. Then, again, he knows law, and we very
much want a lawyer at the head of our city government. In short, the
interests of this corporation require that Mr. Shund be chosen chief
magistrate. It is a subject of wonder to me that progress, usually so
clear-sighted, has heretofore passed Mr. Shund by, despite his numerous
qualifications. Abilities should be called into requisition for the
public weal. To be candid, Mr. Schwefel, nothing disgusts me so much as
the slighting of great ability," concluded the banker contemptuously.

"Are you acquainted with Shund's past career?" asked the leader
diffidently.

"Why, yes! Mr. Shund once put his hand in the wrong drawer, but that
was a long time ago. Whosoever amongst you is innocent, let him cast
the first stone at him. Besides, Shund has made good his fault by
restoring what he filched. He has even atoned for the momentary
weakness by five years of imprisonment."

"'Tis true; but Shund's theft and imprisonment are still very fresh in
people's memory," said Schwefel. "Shund is notorious, moreover, as a
hard-hearted usurer. He has gotten rich through shrewd money
speculations, but he has also brought several families to utter ruin.
The indignation of the whole city is excited against the usurer; and,
finally, Shund indulges a certain filthy passion with such effrontery
and barefacedness that every respectable female cannot but blush at
being near him. These characteristics were unknown to you, Mr.
Greifmann; for you too will not hesitate an instant to admit that a man
of such low practices must never fill a public office."

"I do not understand you, and I am surprised!" said the millionaire.
"You call Shund a usurer, and you say that the indignation of the whole
town is upon him. Might I request from you the definition of a usurer?"

"They are commonly called usurers who put out money at exorbitant,
illegal interest."

"You forget, my dear Mr. Schwefel, that speculation is no longer
confined to the five per cent. rate. A correct insight into the
circumstances of the times has induced our legislature to leave the
rate of interest altogether free. Consequently, a usurer has gotten to
be an impossibility. Were Shund to ask fifty per cent, and more, he
would be entitled to it."

"That is so; for the moment I had overlooked the existence of the law,"
said the manufacturer, somewhat humiliated. "Yet I have not told you
all concerning the usurer. Beasts of prey and vampires inspire an
involuntary disgust or fear. Nobody could find pleasure in meeting a
hungry wolf, or in having his blood sucked by a vampire. The usurer is
both vampire and wolf. He hankers to suck the very marrow from the
bones of those who in financial straits have recourse to him. When an
embarrassed person borrows from him, that person is obliged to mortgage
twice the amount that he actually receives. The usurer is a heartless
strangler, an insatiable glutton. He is perpetually goaded on by
covetousness to work the material ruin of others, only so that the ruin
of his neighbor may benefit himself. In short, the usurer is a monster
so frightful, a brute so devoid of conscience, that the very sight of
him excites horror and disgust. Just such a monster is Shund in the
eyes of all who know him--and the whole city knows him. Hence the man
is the object of general aversion."

"Why, this is still worse, still more astonishing!" rejoined the
millionaire with animation. "I thought our city enlightened. I should
have expected from the intelligence and judgment of our citizens
that they would have deferred neither to the sickly sentimentalism
of a bigoted morality nor to the absurdity of obsolete dogmas. If
your description of the usurer, which might at least be styled
poetico-religious, is an expression of the prevailing spirit of this
city, I shall certainly have to lower my estimate of its intelligence
and culture."

The leader hastened to correct the misunderstanding.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Greifmann! You may rest assured that we
can boast all the various conquests made by modern advancement.
Religious enthusiasm and foolish credulity are poisonous plants that
superannuated devotees are perhaps still continuing to cultivate here
and there in pots, but which the soil will no longer produce in the
open air. The sort of education prevailing hereabout is that which has
freed itself from hereditary religious prejudices. Our town is blessed
with all the benefits of progress, with liberty of thought, and freedom
from the thraldom of a dark, designing priesthood."

"How comes it, then, that a man is an object of contempt for acting in
accordance with the principles of this much lauded progress?" asked the
millionaire, with unexpected sarcasm. "We are indebted to progress for
the abolition of a legal rate of interest. Shund takes advantage of
this conquest, and for doing so citizens who boast of being progressive
look upon him with aversion. A further triumph secured by progress is
freedom from the tyranny of dogmas and the tortures of a conscience
created by a contracted morality. This beautiful fruit of the tree of
enlightened knowledge Shund partakes of and enjoys; and for this he has
the distinction of passing for a vampire. And because he displays the
spirit of an energetic business man, because his capacity for
speculating occasionally overwhelms blockheads and dunces, he is
decried as a ravenous wolf. It is sad! If your statements are correct,
Mr. Schwefel, our city ought not to boast of being progressive. Its
citizens are still groping in the midnight darkness of religious
superstition, scarcely even united with modern intellectual
advancement. And to me the consciousness is most uncomfortable of
breathing an atmosphere poisoned by the decaying remnants of an age
long since buried."

"My own personal views accord with yours," protested Schwefel candidly.
"The subversion of the antiquated, absurd articles of faith and moral
precept necessarily entails the abrogation of the consequences that
flow from them for public life. For centuries the cross was a symbol of
dignity, and the doctrine of the Crucified resulted in holiness.
Paganism, on the contrary, looked upon the gospel as foolishness, as a
hallucination, and upon the cross as a sign of shame. I belong to the
classic ranks, and so do millions like myself--among them Mr. Shund.
Viewed in the light of progress, Shund is neither a vampire nor a wolf;
at the worst, he is merely an ill used business man. They who suffer
themselves to be humbugged and fleeced by him have their own stupidity
to thank for it. This exposition will convince you that I stand on a
level with yourself in the matter of advanced enlightenment.
Nevertheless, you overlook, Mr. Greifmann, that, so far as the masses
of the people are concerned, reverence for the cross and the holiness
of its doctrines continue to prevail. The acquisitions of progress are
not yet generally diffused. The mines of modern intellectual culture
are being provisionally worked by a select number of independent, bold
natures. The multitude, on the other hand, still continue folding about
them the winding-sheet of Christianity. The views, customs, principles,
and judgments of men are as yet widely controlled by Christian
elements. Our city does homage to progress, pretty nearly, however, in
the manner of a blind man that discourses of colors."

"I do not catch the drift of your simile of the blind man and colors,"
interrupted Greifmann.

"I wanted to intimate that thousands swear allegiance to progress
without comprehending its nature. Very many imagine progress to be a
struggle in behalf of Germany against the enfeebling system of
innumerable small states, or a battling against religious rigorism and
priest-rule in secular concerns. In unpretending guises like these, the
spirit of the age circulates among the crowd travestied in the
fashionable epithet _progressive_. Were you, however, to remove the
shell from around the kernel of progress, were you to exhibit it to the
multitude undisguised as the nullification of religion, as the denial
of the God of Christians, as the rejection of immortality, and of an
essential difference between man and the beast--were you to venture
thus far, you would see the millions flying in consternation before the
monster Progress. Now, just because the multitude, although
progressive-minded, everywhere judges men by Christian standards, very
often, too, unconsciously, therefore Shund has to pass, not for an able
speculator, but for a miserable usurer and an unconscionable
scoundrel."

"For this very cause, the liberal leaders of this city should stand up
for Shund," opposed the banker. "Just appreciation and respect should
not be denied a deserving man. To speak candidly, Mr. Schwefel, what
first accidentally arrested my attention, now excites my most lively
interest. I wish to see justice done Mr. Shund, to see his uncommon
abilities recognized. You must set his light upon a candlestick. You
must have him elected mayor and member of the legislature; in both
capacities he will fill his position with distinction. I repeat, our
deeply indebted city stands in want of a mayor that will reckon closely
and economize. And in the legislative assembly Shund's fluency will
talk down all opposition, his readiness of speech will do wonders. Were
it only to spite the stupid mob, you must put Shund in nomination."

"It will not do, Mr. Greifmann! it is impracticable! We have to proceed
cautiously and by degrees. Our policy lies in conducting the
unsophisticated masses from darkness into light, quite gradually, inch
by inch, and with the utmost caution. A sudden unveiling of the inmost
significance of the spirit of the age would scare the people, and drive
them back heels over head into the clerical camp."

"I do not at all share your apprehensions," contended the millionaire.
"Our people are further advanced than you think. Make the trial. Your
vast influence will easily manage to have Shund returned mayor and
delegate."

"Undoubtedly, but my standing would be jeopardized," rejoined Schwefel.

"That is a mistake, sir! You employ four hundred families."

"Four hundred and seventy now," said the manufacturer, correcting him
blandly.

"Four hundred and seventy families, therefore, are getting a living
through you, consequently you have four hundred and seventy voters at
your command. Add to these a considerable force of mechanics who earn
wages in your employ. You have, moreover, a number of warm friends who
also command a host of laborers and mechanics. Hence you risk neither
standing nor influence, that is," added he with a smile, "unless
perhaps you dread the anathemas of Ultramontanes and impostors."

"The pious wrath of believers has no terrors deserving notice,"
observed the leader with indifference.

"And yet all this time Shund's remarkable abilities have not been able
to win the slightest notice on the part of progressive men--it is
revolting!" cried the banker. "Mr. Schwefel, I will speak plainly,
trusting to your being discreet; I will recommend your factory at
Vienna, but only on condition that you have Hans Shund elected mayor
and member of the legislature."

"This is asking a great deal--quite flattering for Shund and very
tempting to me," said the leader with a bright face and a thrice
repeated nod to the banker. "Since, however, what you ask is neither
incompatible with the spirit of the times nor dishonorable to the sense
of a liberal man, I accept your offer, for it is no small advantage for
me from a business point of view."

"Capital, Mr. Schwefel! Capital, because very sensible!" spoke Carl
Greifmann approvingly. A short groan, resembling the violent bursting
forth of suppressed indignation, resounded from the adjoining
apartment. The banker shuffled on the floor and drowned the groan by
loudly rasping his throat.

"One condition, however, I must insist upon," continued the
manufacturer of straw hats. "My arm might prove unequal to a task that
will create no ordinary sensation. But if you succeeded in winning over
Erdblatt and Sand to the scheme, it would prosper without fail and
without much noise."

"I shall do so with pleasure, Mr. Schwefel! Both those gentlemen will,
in all probability, call on me today in relation to matters of
business. It will be for me a pleasing consciousness to have aided in
obtaining merited recognition for Hans Shund."

"Our agreement is, however, to be kept strictly secret from the
public."

"Of course, of course!"

"You will not forget, at the same time, Mr. Greifmann, that our very
extraordinary undertaking will necessitate greater than ordinary
outlay. It is a custom among laborers not to work on the day before
election, and the same on election day itself. Yet, in order to keep
them in good humor, they must get wages the same as if they had worked.
This is for the manufacturer no insignificant disadvantage. Moreover,
workingmen and doubtful voters, require to be stimulated with beer
gratis--another tax on our purses."

"How high do these expenses run?" asked the millionaire.

"For Sand, Erdblatt, and myself, they never fall short of twelve
hundred florins."

"That would make each one's share of the costs four hundred florins."

Taking a five-hundred florin banknote between his thumb and forefinger,
the banker reached it carelessly to the somewhat puzzled leader.

"My contribution to the promotion of the interests of progress! I shall
give as much to Messrs. Sand and Erdblatt."

"Many thanks, Mr. Greifmann!" said Schwefel, pocketing the money with
satisfaction.

The millionaire drew himself up. "I have no doubt," said he, in his
former cold and haughty tone, "that my recommendation will secure your
establishment the custom already alluded to."

"I entertain a similar confidence in your influence, and will take the
liberty of commending myself most respectfully to your favor." Bowing
frequently, Schwefel retreated backwards towards the door, and
disappeared. Greifmann stepped to the open entrance of the side
apartment. There sat the youthful landholder, his head resting heavily
on his hand. He looked up, and Carl's smiling face was met by a pair of
stern, almost fierce eyes.

"Have you heard, friend Seraphin?" asked he triumphantly.

"Yes--and what I have heard surpasses everything. You have bargained
with a member of that vile class who recognize no difference between
honor and disgrace, between good and evil, between self-respect and
infamy, who know only one god--which is money."

"Do not show yourself so implacable against these _vile_ beings, my
dearest! There is much that is useful in them, at any rate they are
helping me to the finest horses belonging to the aristocracy."

A stealthy step was heard at the door of the cabinet.

"Do you hear that timid rap?" asked the banker. "The rapper's heart is
at this moment in his knuckles. It is curious how men betray in trifles
what at the time has possession of their feelings. The mere rapping
gives a keen observer an insight into the heart of a person whom he
does not as yet see. Listen--" Rapping again, still more stealthily and
imploringly. "I must go and relieve the poor devil, whom nobody would
suspect for a mighty leader. Now, Mr. Seraphin, Act the Second. Come
in!"

The man who entered, attired in a dress coat and kids, was Erdblatt, a
tobacco merchant, spare in person, and with restless, spering eyes. The
millionaire greeted him coldly, then pointed him to the chair that had
been occupied by Schwefel. The impression produced by the two hundred
thousands on the man of tobacco was far more decided than in the case
of the manufacturer of straw hats. Erdblatt was restless in his chair,
and as the needle is attracted by the pole, so did Erdblatt's whole
being turn towards the money. His eyes glanced constantly over the
paper treasures, and a spasmodic jerking seized upon his fingers. But
he soon sat motionless and stiff, as if thunderstruck at Greifmann's
terrible words.

"Your substantial firm," began the mighty man of money, after some few
formalities, "has awaked in me a degree of attention which the ordinary
course of business does not require. I have to-day received notice from
an English banking-house that in a few days several bills first of
exchange, amounting to sixty thousand florins, will be presented to be
paid by you."

Erdblatt was dumfounded and turned pale.

"The amount is not precisely what can be called insignificant,"
continued Greifmann coolly, "and I did not wish to omit notifying you
concerning the bills, because, as you are aware, the banking business
is regulated by rigorous and indiscriminating forms."

Erdblatt took the hint, turned still more pale, and uttered not a word.

"This accumulation of bills of exchange is something abnormal,"
proceeded Greifmann with indifference. "As they are all made payable on
sight, you are no doubt ready to meet this sudden rush with proud
composure," concluded the banker, with a smile of cold politeness.

But the dumfounded Erdblatt was far from enjoying proud composure. His
manner rather indicated inability to pay and panic terror. "Not only is
the accumulation of bills of exchange to the amount of sixty thousand
florins something abnormal, but it also argues carelessness," said he
tersely. "Were it attributable to accident, I should not complain; but
it has been occasioned by jealous rivalry. Besides, they are bills
first of exchange--it is something never heard of before--it is
revolting--there is a plot to ruin me! And I have no plea to allege for
putting off these bills, and I am, moreover, unable to pay them."

The banker shrugged his shoulders coldly, and his countenance became
grave.

"Might I not beg you to aid me, Mr. Greifmann?" said he anxiously. "Of
course, I shall allow you a high rate of interest."

"That is not practicable with bills of exchange," rejoined the banker
relentlessly.

"When will the bills be presented?" asked the leader, with increasing
anxiety.

"Perhaps as early as to-morrow," answered Greifmann, still more
relentless.

The manufacturer of tobacco was near fainting.

"I cannot conceive of your being embarrassed," said the banker coldly.
"Your popularity and influence will get you assistance from friends, in
case your exchequer happens not to be in a favorable condition."

"The amount is too great; I should have to borrow in several quarters.
This would give rise to reports, and endanger the credit of my firm."

"You are not wrong in your view," answered the banker coldly.
"Accidents may shake the credit of the most solid firm, and other
accidents may often change trifling difficulties into fatal
catastrophes. How often does it not occur that houses of the best
standing, which take in money at different places, are brought to the
verge of bankruptcy through public distrust?"

The words of the money prince were nowise calculated to reassure Mr.
Erdblatt.

"Be kind enough to accept the bills, and grant me time," pleaded he
piteously.

"That, sir, would be contrary to all precedents in business," rejoined
Greifmann, with an icy smile. "Our house never deviates from the paths
of hereditary custom."

"I could pay in ten thousand florins at once," said Erdblatt once more.
"Within eight weeks I could place fifty thousand more in your hands."

"I am very sorry, but, as I said, this plan is impracticable," opposed
Greifmann. "Yet I have half a mind to accept those bills, but only on a
certain condition."

"I am willing to indemnify you in any way possible," assured the
tobacco merchant, with a feeling of relief!

"Hear the condition stated in a few words. As you know, I live
exclusively for business, never meddle in city or state affairs.
Moreover, labor devoted by me to political matters would be
superfluous, in view of the undisputed sway of liberalism.
Nevertheless, I am forced to learn, to my astonishment, that progress
itself neglects to take talent and ability into account, and exhibits
the most aristocratic nepotism. The remarkable abilities of Mr. Shund
are lost, both to the city and state, merely because Mr. Shund's
fellow-citizens will not elect him to offices of trust. This is unjust;
to speak plainly, it is revolting, when one considers that there is
many a brainless fellow in the City Council who has no better
recommendation than to have descended from an old family, and whose
sole ability lies in chinking ducats which he inherited but never
earned. Shund is a genius compared with such boobies; but genius does
not pass current here, whilst incapacity does. Now, if you will use
your influence to have Shund nominated for mayor of this city, and for
delegate to the legislature, and guarantee his election, you may
consider the bills of exchange as covered."

Not even the critical financial trouble by which he was beset could
prevent an expression of overwhelming surprise in the tobacco man's
face.

"I certainly cannot have misunderstood you. You surely mean to speak of
Ex-Treasurer Shund, of this place?"

"The same--the very same."

"But, Mr. Greifmann, perhaps you are not aware--"

"I am aware of everything," interrupted the banker. "I know that many
years ago Mr. Shund awkwardly put his hand into the city treasury, that
he was sent to the penitentiary, that people imagine they still see him
in the penitentiary garb, and, finally, that in the stern judgment of
the same people he is a low usurer. But usury has been abrogated by
law. The theft Shund has not only made good by restoring what he stole,
but also atoned for by years of imprisonment. Now, why is a man to be
despised who has indeed done wrong, but not worse than others whose
sins have long since been forgotten? Why condemn to obscurity a man
that possesses the most brilliant kind of talent for public offices?
The contempt felt for Shund on the part of a population who boast of
their progress is unaccountable--may be it would not be far from the
truth to believe that some influential persons are jealous of the
gifted man," concluded the banker reproachfully.

"Pardon me, please! The _thief_ and _usurer_ it might perhaps be
possible to elect," conceded Erdblatt. "But Shund's disgusting and
shameless amours could not possibly find grace with the moral sense of
the public."

"Yes, and the origin of this _moral sense_ is the sixth commandment of
the Jew Moses," said the millionaire scornfully. "I cannot understand'
how you, a man of advanced views; can talk in this manner."

"You misinterpret my words," rejoined the leader deprecatingly. "To me,
personally, Shund exists neither as a usurer nor as a debauchee.
Christian modes of judging are, of course, relegated among absurdities
that we have triumphed over. In this instance, however, there is no
question of my own personal conviction, but of the conviction of the
great multitude. And in the estimation of the multitude unbridled
liberty is just as disgraceful as the free enjoyment of what,
_morally_, is forbidden."

"You are altogether in the same rut as Schwefel."

"Have you spoken with Schwefel on this subject?" asked Erdblatt
eagerly.

"Only a moment ago. Mr. Schwefel puts greater trust in his power than
you do in yours, for he agreed to have Shund elected mayor and
delegate. Mr. Schwefel only wishes you and Sand would lend your aid."

"With pleasure! If Schwefel and Sand are won over, then all is right."

"From a hint of Schwefel's," said Greifmann, taking up a
five-hundred-florin banknote from the table, "I infer that the election
canvass is accompanied with some expense. Accept this small
contribution. As for the bills of exchange, the matter is to rest by
our agreement."

Erdblatt also backed out of the cabinet, bowing repeatedly as he
retreated.

Seraphin rushed from his hiding-place in great excitement.

"Why, Greifmann, this is terrible! Do you call that advanced education?
Do you call that progress? Those are demoralized, infernal beings. I
spit upon them! And are these the rabble that are trying to arrogate to
themselves the leadership of the German people?--rabble who ignore the
Deity, the human soul, and morality generally! But what completely
unsettles me is your connivance--at least, your connection with these
infernal spirits."

"But be easy, my good fellow, be easy! _I_ connected with tobacco and
straw?"

"At all events, you have been ridiculing the ten commandments and
Christian morals and faith."

"Was I not obliged to do so in order to show how well the thief,
usurer, and filthy dog Shund harmonizes with the spirit of progress?
Can he who wishes to make use of the devil confer with the devil in the
costume of light? Not at all; he must clothe himself in the mantle of
darkness. And you must not object to my using the demon Progress for
the purpose of winning your span of horses and saving my stakes. Let us
not have a disgraceful altercation. Consider me as a stage actor,
whilst you are a spectator that is being initiated into the latest
style of popular education. Ah, do you hear? The last one is drawing
near. Be pleased to vanish."

The third leader, house-builder Sand, appeared. The greater portion of
his face is hidden by a heavy black beard; in one hand he carries a
stout bamboo cane; and it is only after having fully entered, that he
deliberately removes his hat.

"I wish you a pleasant morning, Mr. Greifmann. You have sent for me:
what do you want?"

The banker slowly raised his eyes from the latest exchange list to the
rough features of the builder, and remembering that the man had risen
up from the mortarboard to his present position, and had gained wealth
and influence through personal energy, he returned the short greeting
with a friendly inclination of the head.

"Will you have the goodness to be seated, Mr. Sand?"

The man of the black beard took a seat, and, having noticed the
handsome collection of banknotes, his coarse face settled itself into a
not very attractive grin.

"I want to impart to you my intention of erecting a villa on the
Sauerberg, near the middle of our estate at Wilheim," continued the
millionaire.

"Ah, that is a capital idea!" And the man of the beard became very
deeply interested. "The site is charming, no view equal to it; healthy
location, vineyards round about, your own vineyards moreover. I could
put you up a gem there."

"That is what I think, Mr. Sand! My father, who has been abroad for the
last three months, is quite satisfied with the plan; in fact, he is the
original projector of it."

"I know, I know! your father has a taste for what is grand. We shall
try and give him satisfaction, which, by the bye, is not so very easy.
But you have the money, and fine fortunes can command fine houses."

"What I want principally is to get you to draw a plan, consulting your
own taste and experience in doing so. You will show it to me when
ready, and I will tell you whether I like it or not."

"Very well, Mr. Greifmann, very well! But I must know beforehand what
amount of money you are willing to spend upon the house; for all
depends upon the cost."

"Well," said the millionaire, after some deliberation, "I am willing to
spend eighty thousand florins on it, and something over, perhaps."

"Ah, well, for that amount of money something can be put up--something
small but elegant. Are you in a hurry with the building?"

"To be sure! As soon as the matter is determined upon, there is to be
no delay in carrying it out."

"I am altogether of your opinion, Mr. Greifmann--I agree with you
entirely!" assented the builder, with an increase of animation. "I
shall draw up a plan for a magnificent house. If it pleases you, all
hands shall at once be set at work, and by next autumn you shall behold
the villa under roof."

"Of course you are yourself to furnish all the materials," added the
banker shrewdly. "When once the plan will have been settled upon, you
can reach me an estimate of the costs, and I will pay over the money."

"To be sure, Mr. Greifmann--that is the way in which it should be done,
Mr. Greifmann!" responded the man of the black beard with a satisfied
air. "You are not to have the slightest bother. I shall take all the
bother upon myself."

"That, then is agreed upon! Well, now, have you learned yet who is to
be the next mayor?"

"Why, yes, the old one is to be reelected!"

"Not at all! We must have an economical and intelligent man for next
mayor. Of this I am convinced, because the annual deficit in the
treasury is constantly on the increase."

"Alas, 'tis true! And who is the man of economy and intelligence to
be?"

"Mr. Hans Shund."

"Who--what? Hans Shund? The thief, the usurer, the convict, the
debauchee? Who has been making a fool of you?"

"Pardon me, sir! I never suffer people to make a fool of me!" rejoined
the banker with much dignity.

"Yes, yes--somebody has dished up a canard for you. What, that
good-for-nothing scoundrel to be elected mayor! Never in his life! Hans
Shund mayor--really that is good now--ha, ha!"

"Mr. Sand, you lead me to suspect that you belong to the party of
Ultramontanes."

"Who--_I_ an Ultramontane? That is ridiculous! Sir, I am at the head of
the men of progress--I am the most liberal of the liberals--that, sir,
is placarded on every wall."

"How come you, then, to call Mr. Sand a good-for-nothing scoundrel?"

"Simply for this reason, because, he is a usurer and a dissipated
wretch."

"Then I am in the right, after all! Mr. Sand belongs to the ranks of
the _pious_," jeered the banker.

"Mr. Greifmann, you are insulting!"

"Nothing is further from my intention than to wound your feelings, my
dear Mr. Sand! Be cool and reasonable. Reflect, if you please. Shund,
you say, puts out money at thirty per cent. and higher, and therefore
he is a usurer. Is it not thus that you reason?"

"Why, yes! The scoundrel has brought many a poor devil to ruin by means
of his Jewish speculations!"

"Your pious indignation," commended the millionaire, "is praiseworthy,
because it is directed against what you mistake for a piece of
scoundrelism. Meanwhile, please to calm down your feelings, and let
your reason resume her seat of honor so that you may reflect upon my
words. You know that in consequence of recent legislation every
capitalist is free to put out money at what rate soever he pleases.
Were Shund to ask _fifty_ per cent., he would not be stepping outside
of the law. He would then be, as he now is, an honest man. Would he
not?"

"It is as you say, so far as the law is concerned!"

"Furthermore, if after prudently weighing, after wisely calculating,
the _pros_ and _cons_, Shund concludes to draw in his money, and in
consequence many a poor devil is ruined, as you say, surely no
reasonable man will on that account condemn legally authorized
speculation!"

"Don't talk to me of legally authorized speculation. The law must not
legalize scoundrelism; but whosoever by cunning usury brings such to
ruin is and ever will be a scoundrel."

"Why a scoundrel, Mr. Sand? Why, pray?"

"Surely it is clear enough--because he has ruined men!"

"Ruined! How? Evidently through means legally permitted. Therefore,
according to your notion the law _does_ legalize scoundrelism; at least
it allows free scope to scoundrels. Mr. Sand, no offence intended: I am
forced, however, once more to suspect that you do, perhaps without
knowing it, belong to the _pious_. For they think and feel just as you
do, that is, in accordance with so-called laws of morality, religious
views and principles. That, judged by such standards, Shund is a
scoundrel who hereafter will be burned eternally in hell, I do not
pretend to dispute."

"At bottom, I believe you are in the right, after all--yes, it is as
you say," conceded the leader reluctantly. "Ahem--and yet I am surprised
at your being in the right. I would rather, however that you were in
the right, because I really do not wish to blame anybody or judge him
by the standard of the Ultramontanes."

"That tone sounds genuinely progressive, and it does honor to
your judgment!" lauded the banker. "Again, you called Shund a
good-for-nothing scoundrel because he loves the company of women. Mr.
Sand, do you mean to vindicate the sacred nature of the sixth
commandment in an age that has emancipated itself from the thrall of
symbols and has liberated natural inclinations from the servitude of a
bigoted priesthood?--you, who profess to stand at the head and front of
the party of progress?"

"It is really odd--you are in the right again! Viewed from the
standpoint of the times, contemplated in the light of modern
intellectual culture, Shund must not really be called good-for-nothing
for being a usurer and an admirer of women.

"Shund's qualifications consequently fit him admirably for the office
of mayor. He will be economical, he will make the expenditures balance
with the revenue. Even in the legislature, Shund's principles and
experience will be of considerable service to the country and to the
cause of progress. I am so much in favor of the man that I shall award
you the building of my villa only on condition that you will use all
your influence for the election of Shund to the office of mayor and to
the legislature."

"Mayor--assemblyman, too--ahem! that will be hard to do."

"By no means! Messrs. Schwefel and Erdblatt will do their best for the
same end."

"Is that so, really? In that case there is no difficulty! Mr.
Greifmann, consider me the man that will build your villa."

"The canvass will cost you some money--here, take this, my contribution
to the noble cause," and he gave him a five-hundred-florin banknote.

"That will suffice, Mr. Greifmann, that will suffice. The plan you
cannot have until after the election, for Shund will give us enough to
do."

"Everything is possible to you, Mr. Sand! Whatever Caesar, Lepidus, and
Antony wish at Rome, that same must be."

"Very true, very true." And the last of the leaders disappeared.

"I would never have imagined the like to be possible," spoke the
landholder, entering. "They all regard Shund as a low, abandoned
wretch, and yet material interest determines every one of them to
espouse the cause of the unworthy, contemptible fellow. It is
extraordinary! It is monstrous!"

"You cannot deny that progress is eminently liberal," replied the
banker, laughing.

"Nor will I deny that it possesses neither uprightness nor conscience,
nor, especially, morals," rejoined the young man with seriousness.

Carl saw with astonishment Seraphin's crimsoned cheeks and flaming
eyes.

"My dear fellow, times and men must be taken as they are, not as they
should be," said the banker. "Interest controls both men and things. At
bottom, it has ever been thus. In the believing times of the middle
ages, men's interest lay in heaven. All their acts were done for
heaven; they considered no sacrifice as too costly. Thousands quit
their homes and families to have their skulls cloven by the Turks, or
to be broiled by the glowing heats of Palestine. For the interests of
heaven, thousands abandoned the world, fed on roots in deserts,
gave up all the pleasures of life. At present, the interest lies in
this world, in material possessions, in money. Do not therefore get
angry at progress if it refuses to starve itself or to be cut down by
Moorish scimitars, but, on the other hand, has strength of mind and
self-renunciation enough to promote Hans Shund to honors and offices."

Seraphin contemplated Greifmann, who smiled, and hardly knew how to
take him.

"An inborn longing for happiness has possession of all men," said he
with reserve. "The days of faith were ruled by moral influences; the
spirit of this age is ruled by base matter. Between the moral struggles
of the past strong in faith, and the base matter of the present, there
is, say what you will, a notable difference."

"Doubtless!" conceded Greifmann. "The middle ages were incontestably
the grandest epoch of history. I am actuated by the honest intention of
acquainting you with the active principles of the present."

"Yes, and you have been not immaterially aided by luck. But for the
order from Vienna for straw hats, the bills of exchange, and that
villa, you would hardly have attained your aim."

Greifmann smiled.

"The straw-hat story is merely a mystification, my dear friend. When
the end will have been reached, when Hans Shund will have been elected
mayor and assemblyman, a few lines will be sufficient to inform Mr.
Schwefel that the house in Vienna has countermanded its order. Nor is
any villa to be constructed. I shall pay Sand for his drawings, and
this will be the end of the project. The matter of the bills of
exchange is not a hoax, and I am still free to proceed against Erdblatt
in the manner required by the interests of my business."

Seraphin stood before the ingenuous banker, and looked at him aghast.

"It is true," said Greifmann gaily, "I have laid out fifteen hundred
florins, but I have done so against one hundred per cent.; for they are
to secure me victory in our wager."

"Your professional routine is truly admirable," said Gerlach.

"Not exactly that, but practical, and not at all sentimental, my
friend."

"I shall take a walk through the garden to get over my astonishment,"
concluded Gerlach; and he walked away from the astute man of money.




                              CHAPTER III.

                          SERAPHIN AND LOUISE.


Sombre spirits flitted about the head of the young man with the
blooming cheeks and light eyes. He was unable to rid himself of a
feeling of depression; for he had taken a step into the domain of
progress, and had there witnessed things which, like slimy reptiles,
drew a cold trail over his warm heart. Trained up on Christian
principles, schooled by enlightened professors of the faith, and
watched over with affectionate vigilance by a pious mother, Seraphin
had had no conception of the state of modern society. For this reason,
both Greifmann _Senior_ and Gerlach _Senior_ committed a blunder in
wishing to unite by marriage three millions of florins, the owners of
which not merely differed, but were the direct opposites of each other
in disposition and education.

Louise belonged to the class of emancipated females who have in vain
attempted to enhance the worth of noble womanhood by impressing on
their own sex the sterner type of the masculine gender. In Louise's
opinion, the beauty of woman does not consist in graceful gentleness,
amiable concession and purity, but in proudly overstepping the bounds
set for woman by the innate modesty of her sex. The beautiful young
lady had no idea of the repulsiveness of a woman who strives to make a
man of herself, but she was sure that the cause and origin of woman's
degradation is religion. For it was to Eve that God had said: "Thou
shalt be under thy husband's power, and he shall have dominion over
thee." Louise considered this decree as revolting, and she detested the
book whose authority among men gives effect to its meaning. On the
other hand, she failed to observe that woman's sway is powerful and
acknowledged wherever it exerts itself over weak man through affection
and grace. Quite as little did Miss Louise observe that men assume the
stature of giants so soon as women presume to appear in relation to
them strong and manlike. Least of all did she discover anything
gigantic in the kind-hearted Seraphin. In the consciousness of her
fancied superiority of education, she smiled at the simplicity of his
faith, and, as the handsome young gentleman appeared by no means an
ineligible _parti_, she believed it to be her special task to train her
prospective husband according to her own notions. She imagined this
course of training would prove an easy undertaking for a lady whose
charms had been uniformly triumphant over the hearts of gentlemen. But
one circumstance appeared to her unaccountable--that was Seraphin's
cold-bloodedness and unshaken independence. For eight days she had
plied her arts in vain, the most exquisite coquetry had been wasted to
no purpose, even the irresistible fire of her most lovely eyes had
produced no perceptible impression on the impregnable citadel of the
landholder's heart.

"He is a mere child as yet, the most spotless innocence," she would
muse hopefully. "He has been sheltered under a mother's wings like a
pullet, and for this I am beholden to Madame Gerlach, for she has
trained up an obedient husband for me."

Seraphin sauntered through the walks of the garden, absorbed in gloomy
reflections on the leaders of progress. Their utter disregard of honor
and unparalleled baseness were disgusting to him as an honorable man,
whilst their corruption and readiness for deeds of meanness were
offensive to him as a Christian. Regarding Greifmann, also, he
entertained misgivings. Upon closer examination, however, the
unsuspecting youth thought he discovered in the banker's manner of
treating the leaders and their principles a strong infusion of ridicule
and irony. Hence, imposed upon by his own good nature, he concluded
that Greifmann ought not in justice to be ranked among the hideous
monstrosities of progress.

With head sunk and rapt in thought, Gerlach strayed indefinitely amid
the flowers and shrubbery. All at once he stood before Louise. The
young lady was seated under a vine-covered arbor; in one hand she held
a book, but she had allowed both hand and book to sink with graceful
carelessness upon her lap. For some time back she had been observing
the thoughtful young man. She had been struck by his manly carriage and
vigorous step, and had come to the conclusion that his profusion of
curling auburn hair was the most becoming set-off to his handsome
countenance. She now welcomed the surprised youth with a smile so
winning, and with a play of eyes and features so exquisite, that
Seraphin, dazzled by the beauty of the apparition, felt constrained to
lower his eyes like a bashful girl. What probably contributed much to
this effect was the circumstance of his being at the time in a rather
vacant and cheerless state of mind, so that, coming suddenly into the
presence of this brilliant being, he experienced the power of the
contrast. She appeared to him indescribably beautiful, and he wondered
that this discovery had not forced itself upon him before.
Unfortunately, the young gentleman possessed but little of the
philosophy which will not suffer itself to be deceived by seductive
appearances, and refuses to recognize the beautiful anywhere but in its
agreement with the true and good.

Louise perceived in an instant that now was at hand the long-looked-for
fulfilment of her wishes. The certainty which she felt that the
conquest was achieved diffused a bewitching loveliness over her person.
Seraphin, on the other hand, stood leaning against the arbor, and
became conscious with fear and surprise of a turmoil in his soul that
he had never before experienced.

"I have been keeping myself quiet in this shady retreat," said she
sweetly, "not wishing to disturb your meditations. Carl's wager is a
strange one, but it is a peculiarity of my brother's occasionally to
manifest a relish for what is strange."

"You are right--strange, very strange!" replied Seraphin, evidently in
allusion to his actual state of mind. The beautiful young lady,
perceiving the allusion, became still more dazzling.

"I should regret very much that the wager were lost by a guest of ours,
and still more that you were deprived of your splendid race-horses. I
will prevail on Carl not to take advantage of his victory."

"Many thanks, miss; but I would much rather you would not do so. If I
lose the wager, honor and duty compel me to give up the stakes to the
winner. Moreover, in the event of my losing, there would be another
loss far more severe for me than the loss of my racers."

"What would that be?" inquired she with some amazement.

"The loss of my good opinion of men," answered he sadly. "What I have
heard, miss, is base and vile beyond description." And he recounted for
her in detail what had taken place.

"Such things are new to you, Mr. Seraphin; hence your astonishment and
indignation."

The youth felt his soul pierced because she uttered not a word of
disapproval against the villainy.

"Carl's object was good," continued she, "in so far as his man[oe]uvre
has procured you an insight into the principles by which the world is
just now ruled."

"I would be satisfied to lose the wager a thousand times, and even
more, did I know that the world is not under such rule."

"It is wrong to risk one's property for the sake of a delusion," said
she reprovingly. "And it would be a gross delusion not to estimate men
according to their real worth. A proprietor of fields and woodland,
who, faithful to his calling, leads an existence pure and in accord
with nature's laws, must not permit himself to be so far misled by the
harmlessness of his own career as to idealize the human species. For
were you at some future day to become more intimately acquainted with
city life and society, you would then find yourself forced to smile at
the views which you once held concerning the present."

"Smile at, my dear miss? Hardly. I should rather have to mourn the
destruction of my belief. Moreover, it is questionable whether I could
breathe in an atmosphere which is unhealthy and destructive of all the
genuine enjoyments of life!"

"And what do you look upon as the genuine enjoyments of life?" asked
she with evident curiosity.

He hesitated, and his childlike embarrassment appeared to her most
lovely.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Seraphin! I have been indiscreet, for such a
question is allowable to those only who are on terms of intimacy." And
the beauty exhibited a masterly semblance of modesty and amiability.
The artifice proved successful, the young man's diffidence fled, and
his heart opened.

"You possess my utmost confidence, most esteemed Miss Greifmann!
Intercourse with good, or at least honorable, persons appears to me to
be the first condition for enjoying life. How could any one's existence
be cheerful in the society of people whose character is naught and
whose moral sense expired with the rejection of every religious
principle?"

"Yet perhaps it might, Mr. Seraphin!" rejoined she, with a smile of
imagined superiority. "Refinement, the polished manners of society, may
be substituted for the rigor of religious conviction."

"Polished manners without moral earnestness are mere hypocrisy,"
answered he decidedly. "A wolf, though enveloped in a thousand
lambskins, still retains his nature."

"How stern you are!" exclaimed she, laughing. "And what is the second
condition for the true enjoyment of life, Mr. Seraphin?"

"It is evidently the accord of moral consciousness with the behests of
a supreme authority; or to use the ordinary expression, a good
conscience," answered the millionaire earnestly.

A sneering expression spontaneously glided over her countenance. She
felt the hateful handwriting of her soul in her features, turned
crimson, and cast down her eyes in confusion. The young man had not
observed the expression of mockery, and could not account for her
confusion. He thought he had perhaps awkwardly wounded her
sensitiveness.

"I merely meant to express my private conviction," said Mr. Seraphin
apologetically.

"Which is grand and admirable," lauded she.

Her approbation pleased him, for his simplicity failed to detect the
concealed ridicule. After a walk outside of the city which Gerlach took
towards evening, in the company of the brother and sister, Carl
Greifmann made his appearance in Louise's apartment.

"You have at last succeeded in capturing him," began he with a chuckle
of satisfaction. "I was almost beginning to lose confidence in your
well-tried powers. This time you seemed unable to keep the field, to
the astonishment of all your acquaintances. They never knew you to be
baffled where the heart of a weak male was to be won."

"What are you talking about?"

"About the fat codfish of two million weight whom you have been
successful in angling."

"I do not understand you, most mysterious brother!"

"You do not understand me, and yet you blush like the skies before a
rainstorm! What means the vermilion of those cheeks, if you do not
understand?"

"I blush, first, on account of my limited understanding, which cannot
grasp your philosophy; and, secondly, because I am amazed at the
monstrous figures of your language."

"Then I shall have to speak without figures and similes upon a subject
which loses a great deal in the light of bare reality, which, I might
indeed say, loses all, dissolves into vapor, like will-o'-the-wisps and
cloud phantoms before the rising sun. I hardly know how to mention
the subject without figures, I can hardly handle it except with
poetic figures," exclaimed he gaily, seating himself in Louise's
rocking--chair, rocking himself. "Speaking in the commonest prose, my
remarks refer to the last victim immolated to your highness--to the
last brand kindled by the fire of your eyes. To talk quite broadly, I
mean the millionaire and landholder Seraphin Gerlach, who is head and
ears in love with you. Considered from a business and solid point of
view, it is exceedingly flattering for the banker's brother to see his
sister adored by so considerable a sum of money."

"Madman, you profane the noblest feelings of the heart," she chidingly
said, with a smile.

"I am a man of business, my dear child, and am acquainted with no
sanctuary but the exchange. Relations of a tender nature, noble
feelings of the heart, lying as they do without the domain of
speculation, are to me something incomprehensible and not at all
desirable. On the other hand, I entertain for two millions of money a
most prodigious sympathy, and a love that casts the flames of all your
heroes and heroines of romance into the shade. Meanwhile, my sweet
little sister, there are two aspects to everything. An alliance between
our house and two millions of florins claims admiration, 'tis true; yet
it is accompanied with difficulties which require serious reflection."
The banker actually ceased rocking and grew serious.

"Might I ask a solution of your enigma?"

"All jesting aside, Louise, this alliance is not altogether free from
risks," answered he. "Just consider the contrast between yourself and
Seraphin Gerlach's good nature is touching, and his credulous
simplicity is calculated to excite apprehension. Guided, imposed upon,
entirely bewitched by religious phantasms, he gropes about in the
darkness of superstition. You, on the contrary, sneer at what Seraphin
cherishes as holy, and despise such religious nonsense. Reflect now
upon the enormous contrast between yourself and the gentleman whom fate
and your father's shrewdness have selected for your husband. Honestly,
I am in dread. I am already beginning to dream of divorce and every
possible tale of scandal, which would not be precisely propitious for
our firm."

"What contradictions!" exclaimed the beauty with self-reliance. "You
just a moment ago announced my triumph over Seraphin, and now you
proclaim my defeat."

"Your defeat! Not at all! But I apprehend wrangling and discord in your
married life."

"Wrangling and discord because Seraphin loves me?"

"No--not exactly--but because he is a believer and you are an
unbeliever; in short, because he does not share your aims and views."

"How short-sighted you are! As you conceive of it, love is not a
passion; at most, only, a cool mood which cannot be modified by the
lovers themselves. Your apprehension would be well grounded concerning
that kind of love. But suppose love were something quite different?
Suppose it were a passion, a glowing, dazzling, omnipotent passion, and
that Seraphin really loved me, do you think that I would not skilfully
and prudently take advantage of this passion? Cannot a woman exert a
decisive and directing influence over the husband who loves her
tenderly? I have no fears because I do not view love with the eyes of a
trader. I hope and trust with the adjurations of love to expel from
Seraphin all superstitious spirits."

"How sly! Surely nothing can surpass a daughter of Eve in the matter of
seductive arts!" exclaimed he, laughing. "Hem--yes, indeed, after what
I have seen to-day, it is plain that the Adam Seraphin will taste of
the forbidden fruit of ripened knowledge, persuaded by this tenderly
beloved Eve. Look at him: there he wanders in the shade of the garden,
sighing to the rose-bushes, dreaming, of your majesty, and little
suspecting that he is threatened with conversion and redemption from
the kingdom of darkness."




                              CHAPTER IV.

                              HANS SHUND.


Hans Shund returned home from business in high feather. Something
unusual must have happened him, for his behavior was exceptional.
Standing before his desk, he mechanically drew various papers from his
pockets, and laid them in different drawers and pigeon-holes. The
mechanical manner of his behavior was what was exceptional, for usually
Hans Shund bestowed particular attention upon certain papers; his
soul's life was in those papers. Moreover, on the present occasion, he
kept shaking his head as if astonishment would not suffer him to remain
quiet. Yet habitually Hans Shund never shook his head, for that
proceeding betrays interior emotion, and Shund's neck was as hardened
and stiff as his usurer's soul. The other exceptional feature of his
behavior was a continuous growing, which at length waxed into a genuine
soliloquy. But Hans Shund was never known to talk to himself, for
talking to one's self indicates a kindly disposition, whilst Shund had
no disposition whatever, as they maintain who knew him; or, if he had
ever had one, it had smouldered into a hard, impenetrable crust of
slag.

"Strange--remarkably strange!" said he. "Hem! what can it mean? How am
I to account for it? Has the usurer undergone a transformation during
the night?" And a hideous grin distorted his face. "Am I metamorphosed,
am I enchanted, or am I myself an enchanter? Unaccountable, marvellous,
unheard of!"

The papers had been locked up in the desk. A secret power urged him up
and down the room, and finally into the adjoining sitting-room, where
Mrs. Shund, a pale, careworn lady, sat near a sewing-stand, intent on
her lonely occupation.

"Wife, queer things have befallen me. Only think, all the city notables
have raised their hats to your humble servant, and have saluted me in a
friendly, almost an obsequious manner. And this has happened to me
to-day--to me, the hated and despised usurer! Isn't that quite amazing?
Even the city regent, Schwefel's son, took off his hat, and bowed as if
I were some live grandee. How do you explain that prodigy?"

The careworn woman kept on sewing without raising her head.

"Why don't you answer me, wife? Don't you find that most astonishing?"

"I am incapable of being astonished, since grief and care have so
filled my heart that no room is left in it for feelings of any other
kind."

"Well, well! what is up again?" asked he, with curiosity.

She drew a letter written in a female hand from one of the drawers of
the sewing-stand.

"Read this, villain!"

Hastily snatching the letter, he began to read.

"Hem," growled he indifferently. "The drab complains of being
neglected, of not getting any money from me. That should not be a cause
of rage for you, I should think. The drab is brazen enough to write to
you to reveal my weaknesses, all with the amicable intention of getting
up a thundergust in our matrimonial heaven. Do learn sense, wife, and
stop noticing my secret enjoyments."

"Fie, villain. Fie upon you, shameless wretch!" cried she, trembling in
every limb.

"Listen to me, wife! Above all things, let us not have a scene, an
unnecessary row," interrupted he. "You know how fruitless are your
censures. Don't pester me with your stale lectures on morals."

"Nearly every month I get a letter of that sort written in the most
disreputable purlieus of the town, and addressed to my husband. It is
revolting! Am I to keep silent, shameless man--_I_ your wedded wife? Am
I to be silent in presence of such infamous deeds?"

"Rather too pathetic, wife! Save your breath. Don't grieve at the
liberties which I take. Try and accustom yourself to pay as little
attention to my conduct as I bestow upon yours. When years ago I
entered the contract with you vulgarly denominated marriage, I did it
with the understanding that I was uniting myself to a subject that was
willing to share with me a life free from restraints; I mean, a life
free from the odor of so-called hereditary moral considerations and of
religious restrictions. Accustom yourself to this view of the matter,
rise to my level, enjoy an emancipated existence."

He spoke and left the room. In his office he read the letter over.

"This creature is insatiable!" murmured he to himself. "I shall have to
turn her off and enter into less expensive connections. I am talking
with myself to-day--queer, very queer!"

A heavy knock was heard at the door.

"Come in!"

A man and woman scantily clad entered the room. The sight of the
wretched couple brought a fierce passion into the usurer's countenance.
He seemed suddenly transformed into a tiger, bloodthirstily crouching
to seize his prey.

"What is the matter. Holt?"

"Mr. Shund," began the man in a dejected tone, "the officer of the law
has served the writ upon us: it is to take effect in ten days."

"That is, unless you make payment," interrupted Shund.

"We are not able to pay just now, Mr. Shund, it is impossible. I wished
therefore to entreat you very earnestly to have patience with us poor
people."

The woman seconded her husband's petition by weeping bitterly, wringing
her hands piteously. The usurer shook his head relentlessly.

"Patience, patience, you say. For eight years I have been using
patience with you; my patience is exhausted now. There must be limits
to everything. There is a limit to patience also. I insist upon your
paying."

"Consider, Mr. Shund, I am the father of eight children. If you insist
on payment now and permit the law to take its course, you will ruin a
family of ten persons. Surely your conscience will not permit you to do
this?"

"Conscience! What do you mean? Do not trouble me with your nonsense.
For me, conscience means to have; for you, it means you must.
Therefore, pay."

"Mr. Shund, you know it is yourself that have reduced us to this
wretched condition!"

"You don't say I did! How so?"

"May I remind you, Mr. Shund, may I remind you of all the circumstances
by which this was brought about? How it happened that from a man of
means I have been brought to poverty?"

"Go on, dearest Holt--go on; it will be interesting to me!" The usurer
settled himself comfortably to hear the summary of his successful
villanies from the mouth of the unfortunate man with the same
satisfaction with which a tiger regales itself on the tortures of its
victim.

"Nine years ago, Mr. Shund, I was not in debt, as you know. I labored
and supported my family honestly, without any extraordinary exertion. A
field was for sale next to my field at the Rothenbush. You came at the
time--it is now upwards of eight years, and said in a friendly way,
'Holt, my good man, buy that field. It lies next to yours, and you
ought not to let the chance slip.' I wanted the field, but had no
money. This I told you. You encouraged me, saying, 'Holt, my good man,
I will let you have the money--on interest, of course; for I am a man
doing business, and I make my living off my money. I will never push
you for the amount. You may pay it whenever and in what way you wish.
Suit yourself.' You gave me this encouragement at the time. You loaned
me nine hundred and fifty florins--in the note, however, you wrote one
thousand and fifty, and, besides, at five per cent. For three years I
paid interest on one thousand and fifty, although you had loaned me
only nine hundred and fifty. All of a sudden--I was just in trouble at
the time, for one of my draught-cattle had been crippled, and the
harvest had turned out poorly, you came and demanded your money. I had
none. 'I am sorry,' said you, 'I need my money, and could put it out at
much higher interest.' I begged and begged. You threatened to sue me.
Finally, after much begging, you proposed that I should sell you the
field, for which three years previous I had paid nine hundred and fifty
florins, for seven hundred florins, alleging that land was no longer as
valuable as it had been. You were willing to rent me the field at a
high rate. And to enable me to get along, you offered to lend me
another thousand, but drew up a note for eleven hundred florins at ten
per cent., because, as you pretended, money was now bringing ten per
cent. since the law regulating interest had been abrogated. For a long
while I objected to the proposal, but found myself forced at last to
yield because you threatened to attach my effects. From this time I
began to go downhill, I could no longer meet expenses, my family was
large, and I had to work for you to pay up the interest and rent. But
for some time back I had been unable to do as I wished. I could not
even sell any of my own property; for you were holding me fast,
and I was obliged to mortgage everything to you for a merely nominal
price. My cottage, my barn, my garden, and the field in front of my
house--worth at least two thousand florins--I had to give you a
mortgage upon for one thousand. The rest of my immovable property,
fields and meadows, you took. Nothing was left to me but the little hut
and what adjoined it. With respects, Mr. Shund, you had long since
sucked the very marrow from my bones, next you put the rope about my
neck, and now you are about to hang me."

"Hang you? Ha--ha! That's good, Holt! You are in fine humor," cried the
usurer, after hearing with a relish the simple account of his atrocious
deeds. "I have no hankering for your neck. Pay up, Holt, pay up, that
is all I want. Pay me over the trifle of a thousand florins and the
interest, and the house with everything pertaining to it shall be
yours. But if you cannot pay up, it will have to be sold at auction, so
that I may get my money."

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Shund, be merciful," entreated the wife. "We
have saved up the interest with much trouble; every farthing of it you
are to receive. For God's sake, do not drive us from our home, Mr.
Shund, we will gladly toil for you day and night. Take pity, Mr. Shund,
do take pity on my poor children!"

"Stop your whining. Pay up, money alone has any value in my
estimation--pay, all the rest is fudge. Pay up!"

"God knows, Mr. Shund," sobbed the woman, wringing her hands, "I would
give my heart's blood to keep my poor children out of misery--with my
life I would be willing to pay you. Oh! do have some commiseration, do
be merciful! Almighty God will requite you for it."

"Almighty God, nonsense! Don't mention such stuff to me. Stupid palaver
like that might go down with some bigoted fool, but it will not affect
a man of enlightenment. Pay up, and there's an end of it!"

"Is it your determination then, Mr. Shund, to cast us out mercilessly
under the open sky?" inquired the countryman with deep earnestness.

"I only want what belongs to me. Pay over the thousand florins with the
interest, and we shall be quits. That's my position, you may go."

In feeling words the woman once more appealed to Hans Shund. He
remained indifferent to her pleading, and smiled scornfully whenever
she adduced religious considerations to support her petition. Suddenly
Holt took her by the arm and drew her towards the door.

"Say no more, wife, say no more, but come away. You could more easily
soften stones than a man who has no conscience and does not believe in
God."

"There you have spoken the truth," sneered Shund.

"You sneer, Mr. Shund," and the man's eyes glared. "Do you know to whom
you owe it that your head is not broken?"

"What sort of language is that?"

"It is the language of a father driven to despair. I tell you"--and the
countryman raised his clenched fists--"it is to the good God that you
are indebted for your life; for, if I believed as little in an almighty
and just God as you, with this pair of strong hands I would wring your
neck. Yes, stare at me! With these hands I would strangle Shund, who
has brought want upon my children and misery upon me. Come away, wife,
come away. He is resolved to reduce us to beggary as he has done to so
many others. Do your worst, Mr. Shund, but there above we shall have a
reckoning with each other."

He dragged his wife out of the room, and went away without saluting,
but casting a terrible scowl back upon Hans Shund.

For a long while the usurer sat thoughtfully, impressed by the ominous
scowl and threat, which were not empty ones, for rage and despair swept
like a rack over the man's countenance. Mr. Shund felt distinctly that
but for the God of Christians he would have been murdered by the
infuriated man. He discovered, moreover, that religious belief is to be
recommended as a safeguard against the fury of the mob. On the other
hand, he found this belief repugnant to a usurer's conscience and a
hindrance to the free enjoyment of life. Hans Shund thus sat making
reflections on religion, and endeavoring to drown the echo which Holt's
summons before the supreme tribunal had awakened in a secret recess of
his soul, when hasty steps resounded from the front yard and the door
was suddenly burst open. Hans' agent rushed in breathless, sank upon
the nearest chair, and, opening his mouth widely, gasped for breath.

"What is the matter, Braun?" inquired Shund in surprise. "What has
happened?"

Braun flung his arms about, rolled his eyes wildly, and labored to get
breath, like a person that is being smothered.

"Get your breath, you fool!" growled the usurer. "What business had you
running like a maniac? Something very extraordinary must be the matter,
is it not?"

Braun assented with violent nodding.

"Anything terrible?" asked he further.

More nodding from Braun. The usurer began to feel uneasy. Many a
nefarious deed stuck to his hands, but not one that had not been
committed with all possible caution and secured against any afterclaps
of the law. Yet might he not for once have been off his guard? "What
has been detected? Speak!" urged the conscience-stricken villain
anxiously.

"Mr. Shund, you are to be--in this place--"

"Arrested?" suggested the other, appalled, as the agent's breath failed
him again.

"No--mayor!"

Shund straightened himself, and raised his hands to feel his ears.

"I am surely in possession of my hearing! Are you gone mad, fellow?"

"Mr. Shund, you are to be mayor and member of the legislature. It is a
settled fact!"

"Indeed, 'tis quite a settled fact that you have lost your wits. It is
a pity, poor devil! You once were useful, now you are insane; quite a
loss for me! Where am I to get another bloodhound as good as you? Your
scent was keen, you drove many a nice bit of game into my nets. Hem--so
many instances of insanity in these enlightened times of ours are
really something peculiar. Braun, dearest Braun, have you really lost
your mind entirely? Completely deranged?"

"I am not insane, Mr. Shund. I have been assured from various sources
that you are to be elected mayor and delegate to the legislative
assembly."

"Well, then, various persons have been running a rig upon you."

"Running a rig upon me, Mr. Shund? Bamboozle me--me who understand and
have practised bamboozling others for so long?"

"Still, I maintain that people have been playing off a hoax on you--and
what an outrageous hoax it is, too!

"I believe a hoax? Just listen to me. I have never been more
clearheaded than I am to-day. Acquaintances and strangers in different
quarters of the town have assured me that it is a fixed fact that you
are to be mayor of this city and member of the legislative assembly.
Now, were it a hoax, would you not have to presuppose that both
acquaintances and strangers conspired to make a fool of me? Yet such a
supposition is most improbable."

"Your reasoning is correct, Braun. Still, such a conspiracy must really
have been gotten up. _I_ mayor of this city? _I_? Reflect for an
instant, Braun. You know what an enviable reputation I bear throughout
the city. Many persons would go a hundred paces out of their direction
to avoid me, specially they who owe or have owed me anything. Moreover,
who appoints the mayor? The men who give the keynote, the leaders of
the town. Now, these men would consider themselves defiled by the
slightest contact with the outlawed usurer--which, of course, is very
unjust and inconsistent on the part of those gentlemen--for my views
are the same as theirs."

"Spite of all that, I put faith in the report, Mr. Shund. Schwefel's
bookkeeper also, when I met him, smiled significantly, and even raised
his hat."

"Hold on, Braun, hold! The deuce--it just now occurs to me--you might
not be so much mistaken after all. Strange things have happened to me
also. Gentlemen who are intimate with our city magnates have saluted me
and nodded to me quite confidentially; I was unable to solve this
riddle, now it's clear. Braun, you are right, your information is
perfectly true." And Mr. Shund rubbed his hands.

"Don't forget, Mr. Shund, that I first brought you the astounding
intelligence, the joyful tidings, the information on which the very
best sort of speculations may be based."

"You shall be recompensed, Braun! Go over to the sign of the Bear, and
drink a bottle of the best, and I will pay for it."

"At a thaler a bottle?"

"That quality isn't good for the health, my dear fellow! You may drink
a bottle at forty-eight kreutzers on my credit. But no--I don't wish to
occasion you an injury, nor do I wish to see you disgraced. You shall
not acquire the name of a toper in my employ. You may therefore call
for a pint glass at twelve kreutzers a glass. Go, now, and leave me to
myself."

When the agent was gone, Hans Shund rushed about the room as if out of
his mind.

"Don't tell me that miracles no longer occur!" cried he. "_I_, the
discharged treasurer--_I_, the thief, usurer, and profligate, at the
mere sight of whom every young miss and respectable lady turn up their
noses a thousand paces off--_I_ am chosen to be mayor and assemblyman!
How has this come to pass? Where lie the secret springs of this
astonishing event?" And he laid his finger against his nose in a brown
study. "Here it is--yes, here! The thinkers of progress have at length
discovered that a man who from small beginnings has risen to an
independent fortune, whose shrewdness and energy have amassed enormous
sums, ought to be placed at the head of the city administration in
order to convert the tide of public debt into a tide of prosperity.
Yes, herein lies the secret. Nor are the gentlemen entirely mistaken.
There are ways and means of making plus out of minus, of converting
stones into money. But the gentlemen have taken the liberty of
disposing of me without my previous knowledge and consent. I have not
even been asked. Quite natural, of course. Who asks a dog for
permission to stroke him? This is, I own, an unpleasant aftertaste.
Hem, suppose I were too proud to accept, suppose I wanted to bestow my
abilities and energies on my own personal interests. Come, now, old
Hans, don't be sensitive! Pride, self-respect, character, sense of
honor, and such things are valuable only when they bring emolument.
Now, the mayor of a great city has it in his power to direct many a
measure eminently to his own interest."

Another knock was heard at the door, and the usurer, taken by surprise,
saw before him the leader Erdblatt.

"Have you been informed of a fact that is very flattering to you?"
began the tobacco manufacturer.

"Not the slightest intimation of a fact of that nature has reached me,"
answered Shund with reserve.

"Then I am very happy to be the first to give you the news," assured
Erdblatt. "It has been decided to promote you at the next election to
the office of mayor and of delegate to the legislative assembly."

A malignant smile flitted athwart Shund's face. He shook his sandy head
in feigned astonishment, and fixed upon the other a look that was the
next thing to a sneer.

"There are almost as many marvels in your announcement as words. You
speak of a decision and of a fact which, however, without my humble
co-operation, are hardly practicable. I thought all along that the
disposition of my person belonged to myself. How could anything be
resolved upon or become a fact in which I myself happen to have the
casting vote?"

"Your cordial correspondence with the flattering intention of your
fellow-citizens was presumed upon; moreover, you were to be agreeably
surprised," explained the progressionist leader.

"That, sir, was a very violent presumption! I am a free citizen, and am
at liberty to dispose of my time and faculties as I please. In the
capacity of mayor, I should find myself trammelled and no longer
independent on account of the office. Moreover, a weighty
responsibility would then rest upon my shoulders, especially in the
present deplorable circumstances of the administration. Could I prevail
on my myself to accept the proffered situation, it would become my duty
to attempt a thorough reform in the thoughtless and extravagant
management of city affairs. You certainly cannot fail to perceive that
a reformer in this department would be the aim of dangerous
machinations. And lastly, sir, why is it that I individually have been
selected for appointments which are universally regarded as honorable
distinctions in public life? I repeat, why are they to be conferred,
upon me in particular who cannot flatter myself with enjoying very high
favor among the people of this city?" And there glistened something
like revengeful triumph in Shund's feline, eyes. "When you will have
given a satisfactory solution to these reflections and questions, it
may become possible for me to think of assenting to your proposal."

Erdblatt had not anticipated a reception of this nature, and for a
moment he sat nonplussed.

"I ask your pardon, Mr. Shund, you have taken the words fact and
decision in too positive a sense. What is a decided fact is that the
leaders of progress assign the honorable positions mentioned to you. Of
course it rests with you to accept or decline them. The motive of our
decision was, if you will pardon my candor, your distinguished talent
for economizing. It is plain to us that a man of your abilities and
thorough knowledge of local circumstances could by prudent management
and, by eliminating unnecessary expenditure, do much towards relieving
the deplorable condition of the city budget. We thought, moreover, that
your well-known philanthropy would not refuse the sacrifices of
personal exertion and unremitting activity for the public good.
Finally, as regards the disrespect to which you have alluded, I assure
you I knew nothing of it. The stupid and mad rabble may perhaps have
cast stones at you, but can or will you hold respectable men
responsible for their deeds? Progress has ever proudly counted you in
its ranks. We have always found you living according to the principles
of progress, despising the impotent yelping of a religiously besotted
mob. Be pleased to consider the tendered honors as amends for the
insults of intolerant fanatics in this city."

"Your explanation, sir, is satisfactory. I shall accept. I am
particularly pleased to know that my conduct and principles are in
perfect accord with the spirit of progress. I am touched by the
flattering recognition of my greatly misconstrued position."

The leader bowed graciously.

"There now remains for me the pleasant duty," said he, "of requesting
you to honor with your presence a meeting of influential men who are to
assemble this evening in Mr. Schwefel's drawing-room. Particulars are
to be discussed there. The ultramontanes and democrats are turbulent
beyond all anticipation. We shall have to proceed with the greatest
caution about the delegate elections."

"I shall be there without fail, sir! Now that I have made up my mind to
devote my experience to the interests of city and state, I cheerfully
enter into every measure which it lies in my power to further."

"As you are out for the first time as candidate for the assembly," said
Erdblatt, "a declaration of your political creed addressed to a meeting
of the constituents would not fail of a good effect."

"Agreed, sir! I shall take pleasure in making known my views in a
public speech."

Erdblatt rose, and Mr. Hans Shund was condescending enough to reach the
mighty chieftain his hand as the latter took his leave.




                               CHAPTER V.

                            ELECTIONEERING.


The four millions of the balcony are at present standing before two
suits of male apparel of the kind worn by the working class,
contemplating them with an interest one would scarcely expect from
millionaires in materials of so ordinary a quality. Spread out on the
elegant and costly table cover are two blouses of striped gray at
fifteen kreutzers a yard. There are, besides, two pairs of trowsers of
a texture well adapted to the temperature of the month of July. There
are also two neckties, sold at fairs for six kreutzers apiece. And,
lastly, two cheap caps with long broad peaks. These suits were intended
to serve as disguises for Seraphin and Carl on this evening, for the
banker did not consider it becoming gentlemen to visit electioneering
meetings, dressed in a costume in which they might be recognized. As
Greifmann's face was familiar to every street-boy, he had provided
himself with a false beard of sandy hue to complete his _incognito_.
For Seraphin this last adjunct was unnecessary, for he was a stranger,
was thus left free to exhibit his innocent countenance unmasked for the
gratification of curious starers.

"This will be a pleasant change from the monotony of a banking house
existence," said the banker gleefully. "I enjoy this masquerade: it
enables me to mingle without constraint among the unconstrained. You
are going to see marvellous things to-night, friend Seraphin. If your
organs of hearing are not very sound, I advise you to provide yourself
with some cotton, so that the drums of your ears may not be endangered
from the noise of the election skirmish."

"Your caution is far from inspiring confidence," said Louise with some
humor. "I charge it upon your soul that you bring back Mr. Gerlach safe
and sound, for I too am responsible for our guest."

"And I, it seems, am less near to you than the guest, for you feel no
anxiety about me," said the brother archly.

"Eight o'clock--it is our time."

He pulled the bell. A servant carried off the suits to the gentlemen's
rooms.

"May I beseech the men in blouses for the honor of a visit before they
go?"

"You shall have an opportunity to admire us," said Carl. The
transformation of the young men was more rapidly effected than the
self-satisfied mustering of Louise before the large mirror which
reflected her elegant form entire. She laughingly welcomed her brother
in his sandy beard, and fixed a look of surprise upon Seraphin, whose
innocent person appeared to great advantage in the simple costume.

"Impossible to recognize you," decided the young lady. "You, brother
Redbeard, look for all the world like a cattle dealer."

"The gracious lady has hit it exactly," said the banker with an assumed
voice. "I am a horse jockey, bent on euchreing this young gentleman out
of a splendid pair of horses."

"Friend Seraphin is most lovely," said she in an undertone. "How well
the country costume becomes him!" And her sparkling eyes darted
expressive glances at the subject of her compliments.

For the first time she had called him friend, and the word friend made
him more happy than titles and honors that a prince might have
bestowed. He felt his soul kindle at the sight of the lovely being
whose delicate and bewitching coquetry the inexperienced youth failed
to detect, but the influence of which he was surely undergoing. His
cheeks glowed still more highly, and he became uneasy and embarrassed.

"Your indulgent criticism is encouraging, Miss Louise," replied he.

"I have merely told the truth," replied she.

"But our hands--what are we to do with our hands?" interposed Carl.
"Soft white hands like these do not belong to drovers. First of all,
away with diamonds and rubies. Gold rings and precious stones are not
in keeping with blouses. Nor will it do, in hot weather like this, to
bring gloves to our aid--that's too bad! What _are_ we to do?"

"Nobody will notice our hands," thought Seraphin.

"My good fellow, you do not understand the situation. We are on the eve
of the election. Everybody is out electioneering. Whoever to-day visits
a public place must expect to be hailed by a thousand eyes, stared at,
criticised, estimated, appraised, and weighed. The deuce take these
hands! Good advice would really be worth something in this instance."

"To a powerful imagination like your own," added Louise playfully. She
disappeared for a moment and then returned with a washbowl. Pouring the
contents of her inkstand into the water, she laughingly pointed them to
the dark mass.

"Dip your precious hands in here, and you will make them correspond
with your blouses in color and appearance."

"How ingenious she is!" cried Carl, following her direction.

"Most assuredly nothing comes up to the ingenuity of women. We are
beautifully tattooed, our hands are horrible! We must give the stuff
time to dry. Had I only thought of it sooner, Louise, you should have
accompanied us disguised as a drover's daughter, and have drunk a
bumper of wine with us. The adventure might have proved useful to you,
and served as an addition to the sum of your experiences in life."

"I will content myself with looking on from a distance," answered she
gaily. "The extraordinary progressionist movement that is going on
to-day might make it a difficult task even for a drover's daughter to
keep her footing."

The two millionaires sallied forth, Carl making tremendous strides.
Seraphin followed mechanically, the potent charm of her parting glances
hovering around him.

"We shall first steer for the sign of the 'Green Hat,'" said Greifmann.
"There you will hear a full orchestra of progressionist music,
especially trumpets and drums, playing flourishes on Hans Shund. 'The
Green Hat' is the largest beer cellar in the town, and the proprietor
ranks among the leaders next after housebuilder Sand. All the
representatives of the city _regime_ gather to-day at the establishment
of Mr. Belladonna--that's the name of the gentleman of the 'Green Hat.'
Besides the leaders, there will be upward of a thousand citizens, big
and small, to hold a preliminary celebration of election day. There
will also be 'wild men' on hand," proceeded Carl, explaining. "These
are citizens who in a manner float about like atoms in the bright
atmosphere of the times without being incorporated in any brilliant
body of progress. The main object of the leaders this evening is to
secure these so-called 'wild men' in favor of their ticket for the city
council. Glib-tongued agents will be employed to spread their nets to
catch the floating atoms--to tame these savages by means of smart
witticisms. When, at length, a prize is captured and the tide of
favorable votes runs high, it is towed into the safe haven of agreement
with the majority. Resistance would turn out a serious matter for a
mechanic, trader, shopkeeper, or any man whose position condemns him to
obtain his livelihood from others. Opposition to progress dooms every
man that is in a dependent condition to certain ruin. For these reasons
I have no misgivings about being able to convince you that elections
are a folly wherever the banner of progress waves triumphant."

"The conviction with which you threaten me would be anything but
gratifying, for I abhor every form of terrorism," rejoined Seraphin.

"Very well, my good fellow! But we must accustom ourselves to take
things as they are and not as they ought to be. Therefore, my youthful
Telemachus, you are under everlasting obligations to me, your
experienced Mentor, for procuring you an opportunity of becoming
acquainted with the world, and constraining you to think less well of
men than your generous heart would incline you to do."

They had reached the outskirts of the city. A distant roaring,
resembling the sound of shallow waters falling, struck upon the ears of
the maskers. The noise grew more distinct as they advanced, and finally
swelled into the brawling and hum of many voices. Passing through a
wide gate-way, the millionaires entered a square ornamented with
maple-trees. Under the trees, stretching away into the distance, were
long rows of tables lit up by gaslights, and densely crowded with men
drinking beer and talking noisily. The middle of the square was
occupied by a rotunda elevated on columns, with a zinc roof, and
bestuck in the barbarous taste of the age with a profusion of tin
figures and plaster-of-paris ornaments. Beneath the rotunda, around a
circular table, sat the leaders and chieftains of progress, conspicuous
to all, and with a flood of light from numerous large gas-burners
streaming upon them. Between Sand and Schwefel was throned Hans Shund,
extravagantly dressed, and proving by his manner that he was quite at
his ease. Nothing in his deportment indicated that he had so suddenly
risen from general contempt to universal homage. Mr. Shund frequently
monopolized the conversation, and, when this was the case, the company
listened to his sententious words with breathless attention and many
marks of approbation.

Mentor Greifmann conducted his ward to a retired corner, into which the
rays of light, intercepted by low branches, penetrated but faintly, and
from which a good view of the whole scene could be enjoyed.

"Do you observe Hans there under the baldachin surrounded by his
vassals?" rouned Carl into his companion's ear. "Even you will be made
to feel that progress can lay claim to a touching spirit of magnanimity
and forgiveness. It is disposed to raise the degraded from the dust.
The man who only yesterday was engaged in shoving a car, sweeping
streets, or even worse, to-day may preside over the great council,
provided only he has the luck to secure the good graces of the princes
of progress. Hans Shund, thief, usurer, and nightwalker, is a most
striking illustration of my assertion."

"What particularly disgusts and incenses me," replied the double
millionaire gravely, "is that, under the _regime_ of progress, they who
are degraded, immoral, and criminal, may rise to power without any
reformation of conduct and principles."

"What you say is so much philosophy, my dear fellow, and philosophy is
an antique, obsolete kind of thing that has no weight in times when
continents are being cut asunder and threads of iron laid around the
globe. Moreover, such has ever been the state of things. In the dark
ages, also, criminals attained to power. Just think of those bloody
monarchs who trifled with human heads, and whose ministers, for the
sake of a patch of territory, stirred up horrible wars. Compared with
such monsters, Hans Shund is spotless innocence."

"Quite right, sir," rejoined the landholder, with a smile. "Those
bloody kings and their satanic ministers were monsters--but only--and I
beg you to mark this well--only when judged by principles which modern
progress sneers at as stupid morality and senseless dogma. I even find
that those princely monsters and their conscienceless ministers shared
the species of enlightenment that prides itself on repudiating all
positive religion and moral obligations."

"Thunder and lightning, Seraphin! were not you sitting bodily before
me, I should believe I was actually listening to a Jesuit. But be
quiet! It will not do to attract notice. Ah! splendid. There you see
some of the 'wild men,'" continued he, pointing to a table opposite.
"The fellow with the bald head and fox's face is an agent, a salaried
bellwether, a polished electioneer. He has the 'wild men' already
half-tamed. Watch how cleverly he will decoy them into the
progressionist camp. Let us listen to what he has to say; it will amuse
you, and add to your knowledge of the developments of progress."

"We want men for the city council," spoke he of the bald head, "that
are accurately and thoroughly informed upon the condition and
circumstances of the city. Of what use would blockheads be but to fuss
and grope about blindly? What need have we of fellows whose stupidity
would compromise the public welfare? The men we want in our city
council must understand what measures the social, commercial, and
industrial interests of a city of thirty thousand inhabitants require
in order that the greatest good of the largest portion of the community
may be secured. Nor is this enough," proceeded he with increasing
enthusiasm. "Besides knowledge, experience, and judgment, they must
also be gifted with the necessary amount of energy to carry out
whatever orders the council has thought fit to pass. They must be
resolute enough to break down every obstacle that stands in the way of
the public good. Now, who are the men to render these services? None
but independent men who by their position need have no regard to others
placed above them--free-spirited and sensible men, who have a heart for
the people. Now, gentlemen, have you any objections to urge against my
views?"

"None, Mr. Spitzkopf! Your views are perfectly sound," lauded a
semi-barbarian. "We have read exactly what you have been telling us in
the evening paper."

"Of course, of course!" cried Mr. Spitzkopf. "My views are so evidently
correct that a thinking man cannot help stumbling upon them. None but
the slaves of priests, the wily brood of Jesuits, refuse to accept
these views," thundered the orator with the bald head. "And why do they
refuse to accept them? Because they are hostile to enlightenment,
opposed to the common good, opposed to the prosperity of mankind, in a
word, because they are the bitter enemies of progress. But take my word
for it, gentlemen, our city contains but a small number of these
creatures of darkness, and those few are spotted," emphasized he
threateningly. "Therefore, gentlemen," proceeded he insinuatingly, "I
am convinced, and every man of intelligence shares my conviction, that
Mr. Shund is eminently fitted for the city council--eminently! He would
be a splendid acquisition in behalf of the public interests! He
understands our local concerns thoroughly, possesses the experience of
many years, is conversant with business, knows what industrial pursuits
and social life require, and, what is better still, he maintains an
independent standing to which he unites a rare degree of activity. Were
it possible to prevail on Mr. Shund to take upon himself the cares of
the mayoralty, the deficit of the city treasury would soon be wiped
out. We would all have reason to consider ourselves fortunate in seeing
the interests of our city confided to such a man."

The "wild men" looked perplexed.

"Right enough, Mr. Spitzkopf," explained a timid coppersmith. "Shund is
a clever, well-informed man. Nobody denies this. But do you know that
it is a question whether, besides his clever head, he also possesses a
conscience in behalf of the commonwealth?"

"The most enlarged sort of a conscience, gentlemen--the warmest kind of
a heart!" exclaimed the bald man in a convincing tone. "Don't listen to
stories that circulate concerning Shund. There is not a word of truth
in them. They are sheer misconstructions--inventions of the priests and
of their helots."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Spitzkopf, they are not all inventions,"
opposed the coppersmith. "In the street where I live, Shund keeps up a
certain connection that would not be proper for any decent person, not
to say for a married man."

"And does that scandalize you?" exclaimed the bald-headed agent
merrily. "Mr. Shund is a jovial fellow, he enjoys life, and is rich.
Mr. Shund will not permit religious rigorism to put restraints upon his
enjoyments. His liberal and independent spirit scorns to lead a
miserable existence under the rod of priestly bigotry. And, mark ye,
gentlemen, this is just what recommends him to all who are not
priest-ridden or leagued with the hirelings of Rome," concluded the
electioneer, casting a sharp look upon the coppersmith.

"But I am a Lutheran, Mr. Spitzkopf," protested the coppersmith.

"There are hypocrites among the Lutherans who are even worse than the
Romish Jesuits," retorted the man with the bald head. "Consider,
gentlemen, that the leading men of our city have, in consideration of
his abilities, concluded to place Mr. Shund in the position which he
ought to occupy. Are you going, on to-morrow, to vote against the
decision of the leading men? Are you actually going to make yourselves
guilty of such an absurdity? You may, of course, if you wish, for every
citizen is free to do as he pleases. But the men of influence are also
at liberty to do as they please. I will explain my meaning more fully.
You, gentlemen, are, all of you, mechanics--shoemakers, tailors,
blacksmiths, carpenters, etc. From whom do you get your living? Do you
get it from the handful of hypocrites and men of darkness? No; you get
your living from the liberals, for they are the moneyed men, the men of
power and authority. It is they who scatter money among the people. You
obtain employment, you get bread and meat, from the liberals. And now
to whom, do you think, will the liberals give employment? They will
give it to such as hold their views, and not--mark my word--to such as
are opposed to them. The man, therefore, that is prepared recklessly to
ruin his business has only to vote against Mr. Shund."

"That will do the business, that will fetch them," said Greifmann.
"Just look how dumfounded the poor savages appear!"

"It is brutal terrorism!" protested Seraphin indignantly.

"But don't misunderstand me. Mr. Spitzkopf! I am neither a hypocritical
devotee nor a Jesuit!" exclaimed the coppersmith deprecatingly. "If
Shund is good enough for them," pointing to the leaders under the
rotunda, "he is good enough for me."

"For me, too!" exclaimed a tailor.

"There isn't a worthier man than Shund," declared a shopkeeper.

"And not a cleverer," said a carpenter.

"And none more demoralized," lauded a joiner, unconscious of the import
of his encomium.

"That's so, and therefore I am satisfied with him," assured a
shoemaker.

"So am I--so am I," chorussed the others eagerly.

"That is sensible, gentlemen," approved the bald man. "Just keep in
harmony with liberalism and progress, and you will never be the worse
for it, gentlemen. Above all, beware of reaction--do not fall back into
the immoral morasses of the middle ages. Let us guard the light and
liberty of our beautiful age. Vote for these men," and he produced a
package of printed tickets, "and you will enjoy the delightful
consciousness of having disposed of your vote in the interests of the
common good."

Spitzkopf distributed the tickets on which were the names of the
councilmen elect. At the head of the list appeared in large characters
the name of Mr. Hans Shund.

"The curtain falls, the farce is ended," said Greifmann. "What you have
here heard and seen has been repeated at every table where 'wild men'
chanced to make their appearance. Everywhere the same arguments, the
same grounds of conviction."

Seraphin had become quite grave, and cast his eyes to the ground in
silence.

"By Jove, the rogue is going to try his hand on us!" said Carl, nudging
the thoughtful young man. "The bald-headed fellow has spied us, and is
getting ready to bag a couple of what he takes to be 'wild men.' Come,
let us be off."

They left the beer cellar and took the direction of the city.

"Now let us descend a little lower, to what I might call the amphibia
of society," said Greifmann. "We are going to visit a place where
masons, sawyers, cobblers, laborers, and other small fry are in the
habit of slaking their thirst. You will there find going on the same
sort of electioneering, or, as you call it, the same sort of terrorism,
only in a rougher style. There beer-jugs occasionally go flying about,
and bloody heads and rough-and-tumble, fights may be witnessed."

"I have no stomach for fisticuffs and whizzing beer-mugs," said
Gerlach.

"Never mind, come along. I have undertaken to initiate you into the
mysteries of elections, and you are to get a correct idea of the life
action of a cultivated state."

They entered an obscure alley where a fetid, sultry atmosphere assailed
them. Greifmann stopped before a lofty house, and pointed to a
transparency on which a brimming beer-tankard was represented. A wild
tumult was audible through the windows, through which the cry of
"Shund!" rose at times like the swell of a great wave from the midst of
corrupted waters. As they were passing the doorway a dense fog of
tobacco smoke mingled with divers filthy odors assailed their nostrils.
Seraphin, who was accustomed to inhaling the pure atmosphere of the
country, showed an inclination to retreat, and had already half-way
faced about when his companion seized and held him. "Courage, my
friend! wade into the slough boldly," cried he into the struggling
youth's ear. "Hereafter, when you will be riding through woodland and
meadows, the recollection of this subterranean den will enable you to
appreciate the pure atmosphere of the country twice as well. Look at
those sodden faces and swollen heads. Those fellows are literally
wallowing and seething in beer, and they feel as comfortable as ten
thousand cannibals. It is really a joy to be among men who are
natural."

The millionaires, having with no little difficulty succeeded in finding
seats, were accosted by a female waiter.

"Do the gentlemen wish to have election beer?"

"No," replied Gerlach.

His abrupt tone in declining excited the surprise of the fellows who
sat next to them. Several of them stared at the landholder.

"So you don't want any election beer?" cried a fellow who was pretty
well fired.

"Why not? May be it isn't good enough for you?"

"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" replied the banker hastily. "You see, Mr. Shund"--

"That's good! You call me Shund," interrupted the fellow with a coarse
laugh. "My name isn't Shund--my name is Koenig--yes, Koenig--with all
due respect to you."

"Well, Mr. Koenig--you see, Mr. Koenig, we decline drinking election
beer because we are not entitled to it--we do not belong to this
place."

"Ah, yes--well, that's honest!" lauded Koenig. "Being that you are a
couple of honest fellows, you must partake of some of the good things
of our feast. I say, Kate," cried he to the female waiter, "bring these
gentlemen some of the election sausages."

Greifmann, perceiving that Seraphin was about putting in a protest,
nudged him.

"What feast are you celebrating to-day?" inquired the banker.

"That I will explain to you. We are to have an election here to-morrow;
these men on the ticket, you see, are to be elected." And he drew forth
one of Spitzkopf's tickets. "Every one of us has received a ticket like
this, and we are all going to vote according to the ticket--of course,
you know, we don't do it for nothing. To-day and to-morrow, what we eat
and drink is free of charge. And if Satan's own grandmother were on the
ticket, I would vote for her."

"The first one on the list is Mr. Hans Shund. What sort of a man is
he?" asked Seraphin. "No doubt he is the most honorable and most
respectable man in the place!"

"Ha! ha! that's funny! The most honorable man in the place! Really you
make me laugh. Never mind, however, I don't mean to be impolite. You
are a stranger hereabout, and cannot, of course, be expected to know
anything of it. Shund, you see, was formerly--that, is a couple of days
ago--Shund was a man of whom nobody knew any good. For my part, I
wouldn't just like to be sticking in Shund's hide. Well, that's the way
things are: you know it won't do to babble it all just as it is. But
you understand me. To make a long story short, since day before
yesterday Shund is the honestest man in the world. Our men of money
have made him that, you know," giving a sly wink. "What the men of
money do, is well done, of course, for the proverb says, 'Whose bread I
eat, his song I sing.'"

"Shut your mouth, Koenig! What stuff is that you are talking there?"
said another fellow roughly. "Hans Shund is a free-spirited, clever,
first-class, distinguished man. Taken altogether, he is a liberal man.
For this reason he will be elected councilman to-morrow, then mayor of
the city, and finally member of the assembly."

"That's so, that's so, my partner is right," confirmed Koenig. "But
listen, Flachsen, you will agree that formerly--you know, formerly--he
was an arrant scoundrel."

"Why was he? Why?" inquired Flachsen.

"Why? Ha, ha! I say, Flachsen, go to Shund's wife, she can tell you
best. Go to those whom he has reduced to beggary, for instance, to Holt
over there. They all can tell you what Shund is, or rather what he has
been. But don't get mad, brother Flachsen! Spite of all that, I shall
vote for Shund. That's settled." And he poured the contents of his
beer-pot down his throat.

"As you gentlemen are strangers, I will undertake to explain this
business for you," said Flachsen, who evidently was an agent for the
lower classes, and who did his best to put on an appearance of learning
by affecting high-sounding words of foreign origin.

"Shund is quite a rational man, learned and full of intelligence. But
the priests have calumniated him horribly because he will not howl with
them. For this reason we intend to elect him, not for the sake of the
free beer. When Shund will have been elected, a system of economy will
be inaugurated, taxes will be removed, and the encyclical letter with
which the Pope has tried to stultify the people, together with the
syllabus, will be sent to the dogs. And in the legislative assembly the
liberal-minded Shund will manage to have the priests excluded from the
schools, and we will have none but secular schools. In short, the
dismal rule of the priesthood that would like to keep the people in
leading-strings will be put an end to, and liberal views will control
our affairs. As for Shund's doings outside of legitimate wedlock, that
is one of the boons of liberty--it is a right of humanity; and when
Koenig lets loose against Shund's money speculations, he is only
talking so much bigoted nonsense."

Flachsen's apologetic discourse was interrupted by a row that took
place at the next table. There sat a victim of Shund's usury, the
land-cultivator Holt. He drank no beer, but wine, to dispel gloomy
thoughts and the temptations of desperation. It had cost him no
ordinary struggle to listen quietly to eulogies passed on Shund. He had
maintained silence, and had at times smiled a very peculiar smile. His
bruised heart must have suffered a fearful contraction as he heard men
sounding the praises of a wretch whom he knew to be wicked and devoid
of conscience. For a long time he succeeded in restraining himself. But
the wine he had drunk at last fanned his smouldering passion into a hot
flame of rage, and, clenching his fist, he struck the table violently.

"The fellow whom you extol is a scoundrel!" cried he.

"Who is a scoundrel?" roared several voices.

"Your man, your councilman, your mayor, is a scoundrel! Shund is a
scoundrel!" cried the ruined countryman passionately.

"And you, Holt, are a fool!"

"You are drunk, Holt!"

"Holt is an ass," maintained Flachsen. "He cannot read, otherwise he
would have seen in the _Evening Gazette_ that Shund is a man of honor,
a friend of the people, a progressive man, a liberal man, a brilliant
genius, a despiser of religion, a death-dealer to superstition,
a--a--I don't remember what all besides. Had you read all that in the
evening paper, you fool, you wouldn't presume to open your foul mouth
against a man of honor like Hans Shund. Yes, stare; if you had read the
evening paper, you would have seen the enumeration of the great
qualities and deeds of Hans Shund in black and white."

"The evening paper, indeed!" cried Holt contemptuously. "Does the
evening paper also mention how Shund brought about the ruin of the
father of a family of eight children?"

"What's that you say, you dog?" yelled a furious fellow. "That's a lie
against Shund!"

"Easy, Graeulich, easy," replied Holt to the last speaker, who was
about to set upon him. "It is not a lie, for I am the man whom Shund
has strangled with his usurer's clutches. He has reduced me to
beggary--me and my wife and my children."

Graeulich lowered his fists, for Holt spoke so convincingly, and the
anguish in his face appealed so touchingly, that the man's fury was in
an instant changed to sympathy. Holt had stood up. He related at length
the wily and unscrupulous proceedings through which he had been brought
to ruin. The company listened to his story, many nodded in token of
sympathy, for everybody was acquainted with the ways of the hero of the
day.

"That's the way Shund has made a beggar of me," concluded Holt. "And I
am not the only one, you know it well. If, then, I call Shund a usurer,
a scoundrel, a villain, you cannot help agreeing with me."

Flachsen noticed with alarm that the feeling of the company was
becoming hostile to his cause. He approached the table, where he was
met by perplexed looks from his aids.

"Don't you perceive," cried he, "that Holt is a hireling of the
priests? Will you permit yourselves to be imposed upon by this salaried
slave? Hear me, you scapegrace, you rascal, you ass, listen to what I
have to tell you! Hans Shund is the lion of the day--the greatest man
of this century! Hans Shund is greater than Bismarck, sharper than
Napoleon. Out of nothing God made the universe: from nothing Hans Shund
has got to be a rich man. Shund has a mouthpiece that moves like a
mill-wheel on which entire streams fall. In the assembly Shund will
talk down all opposition. He will talk even better than that fellow
Voelk, over in Bavaria, who is merely a lawyer, but talks upon
everything, even things he knows nothing about. And do you, lousy
beggar, presume to malign a man of this kind? If you open that filthy
mouth of yours once more, I will stop it for you with paving-stones."

"Hold, Flachsen, hold! _I_ am not the man that is paid; you are the one
that is paid," retorted the countryman indignantly. "My mouth has not
been honey-fed like yours. Nor do I drink your election beer or eat
your election sausages. But with my last breath I will maintain that
Shund is a scoundrel, a usurer, a villain."

"Out with the fellow!" cried Flachsen. "He has insulted us all, for we
have all been drinking election beer. Out with the helot of the
priests!"

The progressionist mob fell upon the unhappy man, throttled him, beat
him, and drove him into the street.

"Let us leave this den of cutthroats," said Gerlach, rising.

Outside they found Holt leaning against a wall, wiping the blood from
his face. Seraphin approached him. "Are you badly hurt, my good man?"
asked he kindly. The wounded man, looking up, saw a noble countenance
before him, and, whilst he continued to gaze hard at Seraphin's fine
features, tears began to roll from his eyes.

"O God! O God!" sighed he, and then relapsed into silence. But in the
tone of his words could be noticed the terrible agony he was suffering.

"Is the wound deep--is it dangerous?" asked the young man.

"No, sir, no! The wound on my forehead is nothing--signifies nothing;
but in here," pointing to his breast--"in here are care, anxiety,
despair. I am thankful, sir, for your sympathy; it is soothing. But you
may go your way; the blows signify nothing."




                               CHAPTER V.


Gerlach whispered something to the banker. Holt pressed his
pocket-handkerchief to the wound.

"Please yourself!" said the banker loudly, in a business tone. Seraphin
again approached the beaten man.

"Will you please, my good man, to accompany us?"

"What for, sir?"

"Because I would like to do something towards healing up your wound; I
mean the wound in there."

Holt stood motionless before the stranger, and looked at him.

"I thank you, sir; there is no remedy for me; I am doomed!"

"Still, I will assist you. Follow me."

"Who are you, sir, if I may ask the question?"

"I am a man whom Providence seems to have chosen to rescue the prey
from the jaws of a usurer. Come along with us, and fear nothing."

"Very well, I will go in the name of God! I do not precisely know your
object, and you are a stranger to me. But your countenance looks
innocent and kind, therefore I will go with you."

They passed through alleys and streets.

"Do you often visit that tavern?" inquired Seraphin.

"Not six times in a year," answered Holt. "Sometimes of a Sunday I
drink half a glass of wine, that's all. I am poor, and have to be
saving. I would not have gone to the tavern to-day but that I wanted to
get rid of my feelings of misery."

"I overheard your story," rejoined Seraphin. "Shund's treatment of you
was inhuman. He behaved towards you like a trickish devil."

"That he did! And I am ruined together with my family," replied the
poor man dejectedly.

"Take my advice, and never abuse Shund. You know how respectable he has
suddenly got to be, how many influential friends he has. You can easily
perceive that one cannot say anything unfavorable of such a man without
great risk, no matter were it true ten times over."

"I am not given to disputing," replied Holt. "But it stirred the bile
within me to hear him extolled, and it broke out. Oh! I have learned to
suffer in silence. I haven't time to think of other matters. After God,
my business and my family were my only care. I attended to my
occupation faithfully and quietly as long as I had any to attend to,
but now I haven't any to take care of. O God! it is hard. It will bring
me to the grave."

"You are a land cultivator?"

"Yes, sir."

"Shund intends to have you sold out?"

"Yes; immediately after the election he intends to complete my ruin."

"How much money would you need in order with industry to get along?"

"A great deal of money, a great deal--at least a thousand florins. I
have given him a mortgage for a thousand florins on my house and what
was left to me. A thousand florins would suffice to help me out of
trouble. I might save my little cottage, my two cows, and a field. I
might then plough and sow for other people. I could get along and
subsist honestly. But as I told you, nothing less than a thousand
florins would do; and where am I to get so much money? You see there is
no hope for me, no help for me. I am doomed!"

"The mortgaged property is considerable," said Gerlach. "A house, even
though a small one, moreover, a field, a barn, a garden, all these
together are surely worth a much higher price. Could you not borrow a
thousand florins on it and pay off the usurer?"

"No, sir. Nobody would be willing to lend me that amount of money upon
property mortgaged to a man like Shund. Besides, my little property is
out of town, and who wants to go there? I, for my part, of course, like
no spot as much, for it is the house my father built, and I was born
and brought up there."

The man lapsed into silence, and walked at Seraphin's side like one
weighed down by a heavy load. The delicate sympathy of the young man
enabled him to guess what was passing in the breast of the man under
the load. He knew that Holt was recalling his childhood passed under
the paternal roof; that little spot of home was hallowed for him by
events connected with his mother, his father, his brothers and sisters,
or with other objects more trifling, which, however, remained fresh and
bright in memory, like balmy days of spring.

From this consecrated spot he was to be exiled, driven out with wife
and children, through the inhumanity and despicable cunning of an
usurer. The man heaved a deep sigh, and Gerlach, watching him sidewise,
noticed his lips were compressed, and that large tears rolled down his
weather-browned cheeks. The tender heart of the young man was deeply
affected at this sight, and the millionaire for once rejoiced in the
consciousness of possessing the might of money.

They halted before the Palais Greifmann. Holt noticed with surprise how
the man in blouse drew from his waistcoat pocket a small instrument
resembling a toothpick, and with it opened a door near the carriage
gate. Had not every shadow of suspicion been driven from Holt's mind by
Seraphin's appearance, he would surely have believed that he had fallen
into the company of burglars, who entrapped him to aid in breaking into
this palace.

Reluctantly, after repeated encouragement from Gerlach, he crossed the
threshold of the stately mansion. He had not quite passed the door when
he took off his cap, stared at the costly furniture of the hall through
which they were passing, and was reminded of St. Peter's thought as the
angel was rescuing him from the clutches of Herod. Holt imagined he saw
a vision. The man who had unlocked the door disappeared. Seraphin
entered an apartment followed by Shund's victim.

"Do you know where you are?" inquired the millionaire.

"Yes, sir, in the house of Mr. Greifmann the banker."

"And you are somewhat surprised, are you not?"

"I am so much astonished, sir, that I have several times pinched my
arms and legs, for it all seems to me like a dream."

Seraphin smiled and laid aside his cap. Holt scanned the noble features
of the young man more minutely, his handsome face, his stately bearing,
and concluded the man in the blouse must be some distinguished
gentleman.

"Take courage," said the noble looking young man in a kindly tone. "You
shall be assisted. I am convinced that you are an honest, industrious
man, brought to the verge of ruin through no fault of your own. Nor do
I blame you for inadvertently falling into the nets of the usurer, for
I believe your honest nature never suspected that there could exist so
fiendish a monster as the one that lives in the soul of an usurer."

"You may rely upon it, sir. If I had had the slightest suspicion of
such a thing, Shund never would have got me into his clutches."

"I am convinced of it. You are partially the victim of your own good
nature, and partially the prey of the wild beast Shund. Now listen to
me: Suppose somebody were to give you a thousand florins, and to say:
'Holt, take this money, 'tis yours. Be industrious, get along, be a
prudent housekeeper, serve God to the end of your days, and in future
beware of usurers'--suppose somebody were to address you in this way,
what would you do?"

"Supposing the case, sir, although it is not possible, but supposing
the case, what would I do? I would do precisely what that person would
have told me, and a great deal more. I would work day and night. Every
day, at evening prayer, I would get on my knees with my wife and
children, and invoke God's protection on that person. I would do that,
sir; but, as I said, the case is impossible."

"Nevertheless, suppose it did happen," explained Seraphin in a
preliminary way. "Give me your hand that you will fulfil the promise
you have just given."

For a moment Seraphin's hand lay in a callous, iron palm, which pressed
his soft fingers in an uncomfortable but well-meant grasp.

"Well, now follow me," said Gerlach.

He led the way; Holt followed with an unsteady step like a drunken man.
They presented themselves before the banker's counter. The latter was
standing behind the trellis of his desk, and on a table lay ten rolls
of money.

"You have just now by word and hand confirmed a promise," said Gerlach,
turning to the countryman, "which cannot be appreciated in money, for
that promise comprises almost all the duties of the father of a family.
But to make the fulfilment of the promise possible, a thousand florins
are needed. Here lies the money. Accept it from me as a gift, and be
happy."

Holt did not stir. He looked from the money at Gerlach, was motionless
and rigid, until, at last, the paralyzing surprise began to resolve
itself into a spasmodic quivering of the lips, and then into a mighty
flood of tears. Seizing Seraphin's hands, he kissed them with an
emotion that convulsed his whole being.

"That will do now," said the millionaire, "take the money, and go
home."

"My God! I cannot find utterance," said Holt, stammering forth the
words with difficulty. "Good heaven! is it possible? Is it true? I am
still thinking 'tis only a dream."

"Downright reality, my man!" said the banker. "Stop crying; save your
tears for a more fitting occasion. Put the rolls in your pocket, and go
home."

Greifmann's coldness was effective in sobering down the man intoxicated
with joy.

"May I ask, sir, what your name is, that I may at least know to whom I
owe my rescue?"

"Seraphin is my name."

"Your name sounds like an angel's, and you are an angel to me. I am not
acquainted with you, but God knows you, and he will requite you
according to your deeds."

Gerlach nodded gravely. The banker was impatient and murmured
discontentedly. Holt carefully pocketed the rolls of money, made an
inclination of gratitude to Gerlach, and went out. He passed slowly
through the hall. The porter opened the door. Holt stood still before
him.

"I ask your pardon, but do you know Mr. Seraphin?" asked he.

"Why shouldn't I know a gentleman that has been our guest for the last
two weeks?"

"You must pardon my presumption, Mr. Porter. Will Mr. Seraphin remain
here much longer?"

"He will remain another week for certain."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Holt, passing into the street and
hurrying away.

"Your intended has a queer way of applying his money," said the banker
to his sister the next morning. And he reported to her the story of
Seraphin's munificence. "I do not exactly like this sort of kindness,
for it oversteps all bounds, and undoubtedly results from religious
enthusiasm."

"That, too, can be cured," replied Louise confidently. "I will make him
understand that eternity restores nothing, that consequently it is
safer and more prudent to exact interest from the present."

"'Tis true, the situation of that fellow Holt was a pitiable one, and
Hans Shund's treatment of him was a masterpiece of speculation. He had
stripped the fellow completely. The stupid Holt had for years been
laboring for the cunning Shund, who continued drawing his meshes more
and more tightly about him. Like a huge spider, he leisurely sucked out
the life of the fly he had entrapped."

"Your hostler says there was light in Seraphin's room long after
midnight. I wonder what hindered him from sleeping?"

"That is not hard to divine. In all probability he was composing a
sentimental ditty to his much adored," answered Carl teasingly.
"Midnight is said to be a propitious time for occupations of that
sort."

"Do be quiet, you tease! But I too was thinking that he must have been
engaged in writing. May be he was making a memorandum of yesterday's
experience in his journal."

"May be he was. At all events, the impressions made on him were very
strong."

"But I do not like your venture; it may turn out disastrous,"

"How can it, my most learned sister?"

"You know Seraphin's position," explained she. "He has been reared in
the rigor of sectarian credulity. The spirit of modern civilization
being thus abruptly placed before his one-sided judgment without
previous preparation may alarm, nay, may even disgust him. And when
once he will have perceived that the brother is a partisan of the
horrible monster, is it probable that he will feel favorably disposed
towards the sister whose views harmonize with those of her brother?"

"I have done nothing to justify him in setting me down for a partisan.
I maintain strict neutrality. My purpose is to accustom the weakling to
the atmosphere of enlightenment which is fatal to all religious
phantasms. Have no fear of his growing cold towards you," proceeded he
in his customary tone of irony. "Your ever victorious power holds
him spell-bound in the magic circle of your enchantment. Besides,
Louise," continued he frowning, "I do not think I could tolerate a
brother-in-law steeped over head and ears in prejudices. You yourself
might find it highly uncomfortable to live with a husband of this
kind."

"Uncomfortable! No, I would not. I would find it exciting, for it would
become my task to train and cultivate an abnormal specimen of the male
gender."

"Very praiseworthy, sister! And if I now endeavor by means of living
illustrations to familiarize your intended with the nature of modern
intellectual enlightenment, I am merely preparing the way for your
future labors."




                              CHAPTER VI.

                          MASTERS AND SLAVES.


Under the much despised discipline of religious requirements, the child
Seraphin had grown up to boyhood spotless in morals, and then had
developed himself into a young man of great firmness of character,
whose faith was as unshaken as the correctness of his behavior was
constant.

The bloom of his cheeks, the innocent brightness of his eye, the
suavity of his disposition, were the natural results of the training
which his heart had received. No foul passion had ever disturbed the
serenity of his soul. When under the smiling sky of a spring morning he
took his ride over the extensive possessions of his father, his
interior accorded perfectly with the peace and loveliness of the sights
and sounds of blooming nature around him. On earth, however, no spring,
be it ever so beautiful, is entirely safe from storms. Evil spirits lie
in waiting in the air, dark powers threaten destruction to all blossoms
and all incipient life. And the more inevitable is the dread might of
those lurking spirits, that in every blossom of living plant lies
concealed a germ of ruin, sleeps a treacherous passion--even in the
heart of the innocent Seraphin.

The strategic arts of the beautiful young lady received no small degree
of additional power from the genuine effort made by her to please the
stately double millionaire. In a short time she was to such an extent
successful that one day Carl rallied her in the following humorous
strain: "Your intended is sitting in the arbor singing a most dismal
song! You will have to allow him a little more line, Louise, else you
run the risk of unsettling his brain. Moreover, I cannot be expected to
instruct a man in the mysteries of progress, if he sees, feels, and
thinks nothing but Louise."

The banker had not uttered an exaggeration. It sometimes happens that a
first love bursts forth with an impetuosity so uncontrollable, that,
for a time, every other domain of the intellectual and moral nature of
a young man is, as it were, submerged under a mighty flood. This
temporary inundation of passion cannot, of course, maintain its high
tide in presence of calm experience, and the sunshine of more ripened
knowledge soon dries up its waters. But Seraphin possessed only the
scanty experience of a young man, and his knowledge of the world was
also very limited. Hence, in his case, the stream rose alarmingly high,
but it did not reach an overflow, for the hand of a pious mother had
thrown up in the heart of the child a living dike strong enough to
resist the greatest violence of the swell. The height and solidity of
the dike increased with the growth of the child; it was a bulwark of
defence for the man, who stood secure against humiliating defeats
behind the adamantine wall of religious principles--yet only so long as
life sought protection behind this bulwark. Faith uttered a serious
warning against an unconditional surrender of himself to the object of
his attachment. For he could not put to rest some misgivings raised in
his mind by the strange and, to him, inexplicable attitude which Louise
assumed upon the highest questions of human existence. The uninitiated
youth had no suspicion of the existence of that most disgusting product
of modern enlightenment, the _emancipated_ female. Had he discovered in
Louise the emancipated woman in all the ugliness of her real nature, he
would have conceived unutterable loathing for such a monstrosity. And
yet he could not but feel that between himself and Louise there yawned
an abyss, there existed an essential repulsion, which, at times, gave
rise within him to considerable uneasiness.

To obtain a solution of the enigma of this antipathy, the young
gentleman concluded to trust entirely to the results of his
observations, which, however, were far from being definitive; for his
reason was imposed upon by his feelings, and, from day to day, the
charms of the beautiful woman were steadily progressing in throwing a
seductive spell over his judgment. The banker's daughter possessed a
high degree of culture; she was a perfect mistress of the tactics
employed on the field of coquetry; her tact was exquisite; and she
understood thoroughly how to take advantage of a kindly disposition and
of the tenderness inspired by passion. How was the eye of Seraphin,
strengthened neither by knowledge nor by experience, to detect the true
worth of what lay hidden beneath this fascinating delusion?

Here again his religious training came to the rescue of the
inexperienced youth, by furnishing him with standards safe and
unfalsified, by which to weigh and come to a conclusion.

Louise's indifference to practices of piety annoyed him. She never
attended divine service, not even on Sundays. He never saw her with a
prayer-book, nor was a single picture illustrative of a moral subject
to be found hung up in her apartment. Her conversation, at all times,
ran upon commonplaces of everyday concern, such as the toilet, theatre,
society. He noticed that whenever he ventured to launch matter of a
more serious import upon the current of conversation, it immediately
became constrained and soon ceased to flow. Louise appeared to his
heart at the same time so fascinating and yet so peculiar, so seductive
and yet so repulsive, that the contradictions of her being caused him
to feel quite unhappy.

He was again sitting in his room thinking about her. In the interview
he had just had with her, the young lady had exerted such admirable
powers of womanly charms that the poor young man had had a great deal
of trouble to maintain his self-possession. Her ringing, mischievous
laugh was still sounding in his ears, and the brightness of her
sparkling, eyes was still lighting up his memory. And the unsuspecting
youth had no Solomon at his side to repeat to him: "My son, can a man
hide fire in his bosom, and his garments not burn? Or can he walk upon
hot coals, and his feet not be burnt?... She entangleth him with many
words, and she draweth him away with the flattery of her lips.
Immediately he followeth her as an ox led to be a victim, and as a lamb
playing the wanton, and not knowing that he is drawn like a fool to
bonds, till the arrow pierce his liver. As if a bird should make haste
to the snare, and knoweth not that his life is in danger. Now,
therefore, my son, hear me, and attend to the words of my mouth. Let
not thy mind be drawn away in her ways: neither be thou deceived with
her paths. For she hath cast down many wounded, and the strongest have
been slain by her. Her house is the way to hell, reaching even to the
inner chambers of death."[1]

For Seraphin, however, no Solomon was at hand who might give him
counsel. Sustained by his virtue and by his faith alone, he struggled
against the temptress, not precisely of the kind referred to by
Solomon, but still a dangerous one from the ranks of progress.

Greifmann had notified him that the general assembly election was to be
held that day, that Mayor Hans Shund would certainly be returned as a
delegate, and that he intended to call for Gerlach, and go out to watch
the progress of the election.

Seraphin felt rather indifferent respecting the election; but he would
have considered himself under weighty obligation to the brother for an
explanation of the peculiar behavior of the sister at which he was so
greatly perplexed.

Carl himself he had for a while regarded as an enigma. Now, however, he
believed that he had reached a correct conclusion concerning the
brother. It appeared to him that the principal characteristic of Carl's
disposition was to treat every subject, except what strictly pertained
to business, in a spirit of levity. To the faults of others Carl was
always ready to accord a praiseworthy degree of indulgence, he never
uttered harsh words in a tone of bitterness, and when he pronounced
censure, his reproof was invariably clothed in some form of pleasantry.
In general, he behaved like a man not having time to occupy himself
seriously with any subject that did not lie within the particular
sphere of his occupation. Even their wager he managed like a matter of
business, although the landowner could not but take umbrage at the
banker's ready and natural way of dealing with men whose want of
principle he himself abominated. Greifmann seemed good-natured, minute,
and cautious in business, and in all other things exceedingly liberal
and full of levity. Such was the judgment arrived at by Seraphin,
inexperienced and little inclined to fault-finding as he was,
respecting a gentleman who stood at the summit of modern culture, who
had skill in elegantly cloaking great faults and foibles, and whose
sole religion consisted in the accumulation of papers and coins of
arbitrary value.

Gerlach's servant entered, and disturbed his meditation.

"There is a man here with a family who begs hard to be allowed to speak
with you."

"A man with a family!" repeated the millionaire, astonished. "I know
nobody round here, and have no desire to form acquaintances."

"The man will not be denied. He says his name is Holt, and that he has
something to say to you."

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Seraphin, with a smile that revealed a pleasant
surprise. "Send the man and those who are with him in to me."

Closing a diary, in which he was recording circumstantially the
experiences of his present visit, he awaited the visitors. A loud knock
from a weighty fist reminded him of a pair of callous hands, then Holt,
followed by his wife and children, presented himself before his
benefactor. They all made a small courtesy, even the flaxen-headed
little children, and the bright, healthy babe in the arms of the mother
met his gaze with the smile of an angel. The dark spirits that were
hovering around him, torturing and tempting, instantly vanished, and he
became serene and unconstrained whilst conversing with these simple
people.

"You must excuse us, Mr. Seraphin," began Holt. "This is my wife, and
these are seven of my children. There is one more; her name is
Mechtild. She had to stay at home and mind the house. She will pay you
an extra visit, and present her thanks. We have called that you might
become acquainted with the family whom you have rescued, and that we
might thank you with all our hearts."

After this speech, the father gave a signal, whereupon the little ones
gathered around the amiable young man, made their courtesies, and
kissed his hands.

"May God bless you, Mr. Seraphin!" first spoke a half-grown girl.

"We greet you, dear Seraphin!" said another, five years old.

"We pray for you every day, Mr. Seraphin," said the next in succession.

"We are thankful to you from our hearts, Mr. Seraphin," spoke a small
lad, in a tone of deep earnestness.

And thus did every child deliver its little address. It was touching to
witness the noble dignity of the children, which may, at times, be
found beautifully investing their innocence. Gerlach was moved. He
looked down upon the little ones around him with an expression of
affectionate thankfulness. Holt's lips also quivered, and bright tears
of happiness streamed from the eyes of the mother.

"I am obliged to you, my little friends, for your greetings and for
your prayers," spoke the millionaire. "You are well brought up.
Continue always to be good children, such as you now are; have the fear
of God, and honor your parents."

"Mr. Seraphin," said Holt, drawing a paper from his pocket, "here is
the note that I have redeemed with the money you gave me. I wanted to
show it to you, so that you might know for certain that the money had
been applied to the proper purpose."

Gerlach affected to take an interest in the paper, and read over the
receipt.

"But there is one thing, Mr. Seraphin," continued Holt, "that grieves
me. And that is, that there is not anything better than mere words with
which I can testify my gratitude to you. I would like ever so much to
do something for you--to do something for you worth speaking of. Do you
know, Mr. Seraphin, I would be willing to shed the last drop of my
blood for you?"

"Never mind that, Holt! It is ample recompense for me to know that I
have helped a worthy man out of trouble. You can now, Mrs. Holt, set to
work with renewed courage. But," added he archly, "you will have to
watch your husband that he may not again fall into the clutches of
beasts of prey like Shund."

"He has had to pay dearly for his experience, Mr. Seraphin. I used
often to say to him: 'Michael, don't trust Shund. Shund talks too much,
he is too sweet altogether, he has some wicked design upon us--don't
trust him.' But, you see, Mr. Seraphin, my husband thinks that all
people are as upright as he is himself, and he believed that Shund
really meant to deal fairly as he pretended. But Michael's wits are
sharpened now, and he will not in future be so ready to believe every
man upon his word. Nor will he, hereafter, borrow one single penny, and
he will never again undertake to buy anything unless he has the money
in hand to pay for it."

"In what street do you live?" inquired Gerlach.

"Near the turnpike road, Mr. Seraphin. Do you see that knoll?" He
pointed through the window in a direction unobstructed by the trees of
the garden. "Do you see that dense shade-tree, and yon whitewashed wall
behind the tree? That is our walnut-tree--my grandfather planted it.
And the white wall is the wall of our house."

"I have passed there twice--the road leads to the beech grove," said
the millionaire. "I remarked the little cottage, and was much pleased
with its air of neatness. It struck me, too, that the barn is larger
than the dwelling, which is a creditable sign for a farmer. Near the
front entrance there is a carefully cultivated flower garden, in which
I particularly admired the roses, and further off from the road lies an
apple orchard."

"All that belongs to us. That is what you have rescued and made a
present of to us," replied the land cultivator joyfully. "Everybody
stops to view the roses; they belong to our daughter Mechtild."

"The soil is good and deep, and must bring splendid crops of wheat. I,
too, am a farmer, and understand something about such matters. But it
appeared to me as though the soil were of a cold nature. You should use
lime upon it pretty freely."

In this manner he spent some time conversing with these good and simple
people. Before dismissing them, he made a present to every one of the
children of a shining dollar, having previously overcome Holt's protest
against this new instance generosity.

Old and young then courtesied once more, and Gerlach was left to
himself in a mood differing greatly from that in which the visitors had
found him.

He had been conversing with good and happy people, and revelled in the
consciousness of having been the originator of their happiness.

Suddenly Greifmann's appearance in the room put to flight the bright
spirits that hovered about him, and the sunshine that had been lighting
up the apartment was obscured by dark shadows as of a heavy mass of
clouds.

"What sort of a horde was that?" asked he.

"They were Holt and his family. The gratitude of these simple people
was touching. The innocent little ones gave me an ovation of which a
prince might be envious, for the courts of princes are never graced by
a naturalness at once so sincere and so beautiful. It is an intense
happiness for me to have assured the livelihood of ten human beings
with so paltry a gift."

"A mere matter of taste, my most sympathetic friend!" rejoined the
banker with indifference. "You are not made of the proper stuff to be a
business man. Your feelings would easily tempt you into very
unbusinesslike transactions. But you must come with me! The hubbub of
the election is astir through all the streets and thoroughfares. I am
going out to discharge my duties as a citizen, and I want you to
accompany me."

"I have no inclination to see any of this disgusting turmoil," replied
Gerlach.

"Inclination or disinclination is out of the question when interest
demands it," insisted the banker. "You must profit by the opportunity
which you now have of enriching your knowledge of men and things, or
rather of correcting it; for heretofore your manner of viewing things
has been mere ideal enthusiasm. Come with me, my good fellow!"

Seraphin followed with interior reluctance. Greifmann went on to impart
to him the following information:

"During the past night, there have sprung up, as if out of the earth, a
most formidable host, ready to do battle against the uniformly
victorious army of progress--men thoroughly armed and accoutred, real
crusaders. A bloody struggle is imminent. Try and make of your heart a
sort of monitor covered with plates of iron, so that you may not be
overpowered by the horrifying spectacle of the election affray. I am
not joking at all! True as gospel, what I tell you! If you do not want
to be stifled by indignation at sight of the fiercest kind of
terrorism, of the most revolting tyranny, you will have to lay aside,
at least for to-day, every feeling of humanity."

Gerlach perceived a degree of seriousness in the bubbling current of
Greifmann's levity.

"Who is the enemy that presumes to stand in the way of progress?"
enquired he.

"The ultramontanes! Listen to what I have to tell you. This morning
Schwefel came in to get a check cashed. With surprise I observed that
the manufacturer's soul was not in business? 'How are things going?'
asked I when we had got through.

"'I feel like a man,' exclaimed he, 'that has just seen a horrible
monster! Would you believe it, those accursed ultramontanes have been
secretly meddling in the election. They have mustered a number of
votes, and have even gone so far as to have a yellow ticket printed.
Their yellow placards were to be seen this morning stuck up at every
street corner--of course they were immediately torn down.'

"'And are you provoked at that, Mr. Schwefel! You certainly are not
going to deny the poor ultramontanes the liberty of existing, or, at
least, the liberty of voting for whom they please?'

"'Yes, I am, I am! That must not be tolerated,' cried he wildly. 'The
black brood are hatching dark schemes, they are conspiring against
civilization, and would fain wrest from us the trophies won by
progress. It is high time to apply the axe to the root of the
upas-tree. Our duty is to disinfect thoroughly, to banish the
absurdities of religious dogma from our schools. The black spawn will
have to be rendered harmless: we must kill them politically.'

"'Very well,' said I. 'Just make <DW64>s of them. Now that in America
the slaves are emancipated, Europe would perhaps do well to take her
turn at the slave-trade.' But the fellow would not take my joke. He
made threatening gesticulations, his eyes gleamed like hot coals, and
he muttered words of a belligerent import.

"'The ultramontane rabble are to hold a meeting at the "Key of
Heaven,"' reported he. 'There the stupid victims of credulity are to be
harangued by several of their best talkers. The black tide is
afterwards to diffuse itself through the various wards where the voting
is to take place. But let the priest-ridden slaves come, they will have
other memoranda to carry home with them beside their yellow rags of
tickets.'

"You perceive, friend Seraphin, that the progress men mean mischief. We
may expect to witness scenes of violence."

"That is unjustifiable brutality on the part of the progressionists,"
declared Gerlach indignantly. "Are not the ultramontanes entitled to
vote and to receive votes? Are they not free citizens? Do they not
enjoy the same privileges as others? It is a disgrace and an outrage
thus to tyrannize over men who are their brothers, sons of Germania,
their common mother."

"Granted! Violence is disgraceful. The intention of progress, however,
is not quite as bad as you think it. Being convinced of its own
infallibility, it cannot help feeling indignant at the unbelief of
ultramontanism, which continues deaf to the saving truths of the
progressionist gospel. Hence a holy zeal for making converts urges
progress so irresistibly that it would fain force wanderers into the
path of salvation by violence. This is simply human, and should not be
regarded as unpardonable. In the self-same spirit did my namesake
Charles the Great butcher the Saxons because the besotted heathens
presumed to entertain convictions differing from his own. And those who
were not butchered had to see their sacred groves cut down, their
altars demolished, their time-honored laws changed, and had to resign
themselves to following the ways which he thought fit to have opened
through the land of the Saxons. You cannot fail to perceive that
Charles the Great was a member of the school progress."

"But your comparison is defective," opposed the millionaire. "Charles
subdued a wild and bloodthirsty horde who made it a practice to set
upon and butcher peaceful neighbors. Charles was the protector of the
realm, and the Saxons were forced to bend under the weight of his
powerful arm. If Charles, however, did violence to the consciences of
his vanquished enemies, and converted them to Christianity with the
sword and mace, then Charles himself is not to be excused, for moral
freedom is expressly proclaimed by the spirit of Christianity."

"There is no doubt but that the Saxons were blundering fools for
rousing the lion by making inroads into Charles' domain. The
ultramontanes, are, however, in a similar situation. They have attacked
the giant Progress, and have themselves to blame for the consequences."

"The ultramontanes have attacked nobody," maintained Gerlach. "They are
merely asserting their own rights, and are not putting restrictions on
the rights of other people. But progress will concede neither rights
nor freedom to others. It is a disgusting egotist, an unscrupulous
tyrant, that tries to build up his own brutal authority on the ruins of
the rights of others."

"Still, it would have been far more prudent on the part of the
ultramontanes to keep quiet, seeing that their inferiority of numbers
cannot alter the situation. The indisputable rights of the ascendency
are in our days with the sceptre and crown of progress."

"A brave man never counts the foe," cried Gerlach. "He stands to his
convictions, and behaves manfully in the struggle."

"Well said!" applauded the banker, "And since progress also is forced
by the opposition of principles to man itself for the contest, it will
naturally beat up all its forces in defence of its conviction. Here we
are at the 'Key of Heaven,' where the ultramontanes are holding their
meeting. Let us go in, for the proverb says, _Audiatur et altera
pars_--the other side should also get a hearing."

They drew near to a lengthy old building. Over the doorway was a pair
of crossed keys hewn out of stone, and gilt, informing the stranger
that it was the hostelry of the "Key of Heaven," where, since the days
of hoar antiquity, hospitality was dispensed to pilgrims and
travellers. The principal hall of the house contained a gathering of
about three hundred men. They were attentively listening to the words
of a speaker who was warmly advocating the principles of his party. The
speaker stood behind a desk which was placed upon a platform at the far
end of the hall.

Seraphin cast a glance over the assembly. He received the painful
impression of a hopeless minority. Barely forty votes would the
ultramontanes be able to send to each of the wards. To compensate for
numbers, intelligence and faith were represented in the meeting.
Elegant gentlemen with intellectual countenances sat or stood in the
company of respectable tradesmen, and the long black coats of the
clergy were not few in number. On a table lay two packages of yellow
tickets to be distributed among the members of the assembly. At the
same table sat the chairman, a commissary of police named Parteiling,
whose business it was to watch the proceedings, and several other
gentlemen.

"Compared with the colossal preponderance of progress, our influence is
insignificant, and, compared with the masses of our opponents our
numerical strength is still less encouraging," said the speaker. "If in
connection with this disheartening fact you take into consideration the
pressure which progress has it in its power to exert on the various
relations of life through numerous auxiliary means, if you remember
that our opponents can dismiss from employment all such as dare uphold
views differing from their own, it becomes clear that no ordinary
amount of courage is required to entertain and proclaim convictions
hostile to progress."

Seraphin thought of Spitzkopf's mode of electioneering, and of the
terrible threats made to the "wild men," and concluded the incredible
statement was lamentably correct.

"Viewing things in this light," proceeded the orator, "I congratulate
the present assembly upon its unusual degree of pluck, for courage is
required to go into battle with a clear knowledge of the overwhelming
strength of the enemy. We have rallied round the banner of our
convictions notwithstanding that the numbers of the enemy make victory
hopeless. We are determined to cast our votes in support of religion
and morality in defiance of the scorn, blasphemy, and violence which
the well-known terrorism of progress will not fail to employ in order
to frighten us from the exercise of our privilege as citizens. We must
be prepared, gentlemen, to hear a multitude of sarcastic remarks and
coarse witticisms, both in the streets and at the polls. I adjure you
to maintain the deportment alone worthy of our cause. A gentleman never
replies to the aggressions of rudeness, and should you wish to take the
conduct of our opponents in gay good-humor, just try, gentlemen, to
fancy that you are being treated to some elegant exhibition of the
refinement and liberal culture of the times."

Loud bursts of hilarity now and then relieved the seriousness of the
meeting. Even Greifmann would clap applause and cry, "Bravo!"

"Let us stand united to a man, prepared against all the wiles of
intimidation and corruption, undismayed by the onset of the enemy. The
struggle is grave beyond expression. For you are acquainted with the
aims and purposes of the liberals. Progress would like to sweep away
all the religious heritages that our fathers held sacred. Education is
to be violently wrested from under the influence of the church; the
church herself is to be enslaved and strangled in the thrall of the
liberal state. I am aware that our opponents pretend to respect
religion--but the religion of would-be progress is infidelity. Divine
revelation, of which the church is the faithful guardian, is rejected
with scorn by liberalism. Look at the tone of the press and the style
of the literature of the day. You have only to notice the derision and
fierceness with which the press daily assails the mysteries and dogmas
of religion, the Sovereign Pontiff, the clergy, religious orders, the
ultramontanes, and you cannot long remain in the dark concerning the
aim and object of progress. Christ or Antichrist is the watchword of
the day, gentlemen! Hence the imperative duty for us to be active at
the elections; for the legislature has the presumption to wish to
dictate in matters belonging exclusively to the jurisdiction of the
church. We are threatened with school laws the purpose of which is to
unchristianize our children, to estrange them from the spirit of
religion. No man having the sentiment of religion can remain
indifferent in presence of this danger, for it means nothing less than
the defection from Christianity of the masses of the coming generation.

"Gentlemen, there is a reproach being uttered just now by the
progressionist press, which, far from repelling, I would feel proud to
deserve. A priest should have said, so goes the report, that it is a
mortal sin to elect a progressionist to the chamber of deputies. Some
of the writers of our press have met this reproach by simply denying
that a priest ever expressed himself in those terms. But, gentlemen,
let us take for granted that a priest did actually say that it is a
mortal sin to elect a progressionist to the chamber of deputies, is
there anything opposed to morality in such a declaration?

"By no means, if you remember that it is to be presumed the
progressionist will use his vote in the assembly to oppose religion.
Mortal sin, gentlemen, is any wilful transgression of God's law in
grave matters. Now I put it to you: Does he gravely transgress the law
of God who controverts what God has revealed, who would exclude God and
all holy subjects from the schools, who would rob the church of her
independence, and make of her a mere state machine unfit for the
fulfilment of her high mission? There is not one of you but is ready to
declare: 'Yes, such an one transgresses grievously the law of God.'
This answer at the same time solves the other question, whether it is a
mortal sin to put arms in the hands of an enemy of religion that he may
use them against faith and morality. Would that all men of Christian
sentiment seriously adverted to this connection of things and acted
accordingly, the baneful sway of the pernicious spirit that governs the
age would soon be at an end; for I have confidence in the sound sense
and moral rectitude of the German people. Heathenism is repugnant to
the deeply religious nature of our nation; the German people do not
wish to dethrone God, nor are they ready to bow the knee before the
empty idol of a soulless enlightenment."

Here the speaker was interrupted by a tumult. A band of factorymen,
yelling and laughing, rushed into the hall to disturb the meeting. All
eyes were immediately turned upon the rioters. In every countenance
indignation could be seen kindling at this outrage of the liberals. The
commissary of police alone sat motionless as a statue. The
progressionist rioters elbowed their way into the crowd, and, when the
excitement caused by this strategic movement had subsided, the speaker
resumed his discourse.

"For a number of years back our conduct has been misrepresented and
calumniated. They call us men of no nationality, and pretend that we
get our orders from Rome. This reproach does honor neither to the
intelligence nor to the judgment of our opponents. Whence dates the
division of Germany into discordant factions? When began the present
faint and languishing condition of our fatherland? From the moment when
it separated from Rome. So long as Germany continued united in the bond
of the same holy faith, and the voice of the head of the church was
hearkened to by every member of her population, her sovereigns held the
golden apple, the symbol of universal empire. Our nation was then the
mightiest, the proudest, the most glorious upon earth. The church who
speaks through the Sovereign Pontiff had civilized the fierce sons of
Germany, had conjured the hatred and feuds of hostile tribes, had
united the interests and energies of our people in one holy faith, and
had ennobled and enriched German genius through the spirit of religion.
The church had formed out of the chaos of barbarism the Holy Roman
Empire of the German nation--that gigantic and wonderful organization
the like of which the world will never see again. But the church has
long since been deprived of the leadership in German affairs, and what
in consequence is now the condition of our fatherland? It is divided
into discordant factions, it is an ailing trunk, with many members, but
without a head.

"It is rather amusing that the ultramontanes should be charged with
receiving orders from Rome, for the voice of the Father of Christianity
has not been heard for many years back, in the council of state."

"Hurrah for the Syllabus!" cried Spitzkopf, who was at the head of the
rioters. "Hurrah for the Syllabus!" echoed his gang, yelling and
stamping wildly.

The ultramontanes were aroused, eyes glared fiercely, and fists were
clenched ready to make a summary clearing of the hall. But no scuffle
ensued; the ultramontanes maintained a dignified bearing. The speaker
calmly remained in his place, and when the tumult had ceased he again
went on with his discourse.

"Such only," said he, "take offence at the Syllabus as know nothing
about it. There is not a word in the Syllabus opposed to political
liberty or the most untrammelled self-government of the German people.
But it is opposed to the fiendish terrorism of infidelity. The Syllabus
condemns the diabolical principles by which the foundations of the
Christian state are sapped and a most disastrous tyranny over
conscience is proclaimed."

"Hallo! listen to that," cried one of the liberals, and the yelling was
renewed, louder, longer, and more furious than before.

The chairman rang his bell. The revellers relapsed into silence.

"Ours is not a public meeting, but a mere private gathering," explained
the chairman. "None but men of Christian principles have been invited.
If others have intruded violently, I request them to leave the room,
or, at least, to refrain from conduct unbecoming men of good-breeding."

Spitzkopf laughed aloud, his comrades yelled and stamped.

"Let us go!" said Greifmann to Gerlach in an angry tone.

"Let us stay!" rejoined the latter with excitement. "The affair is
becoming interesting. I want to see how this will end."

The banker noticed Gerlach's suppressed indignation; he observed it in
the fire of his eyes and the expression of unutterable contempt that
had spread over his features, and he began to consider the situation as
alarming. He had not expected this exhibition of brutal impertinence.
In his estimation an infringement of propriety like the one he had just
witnessed was a far more heinous transgression than the grossest
violations in the sphere of morals. He judged of Gerlach's impressions
by this standard of appreciation, and feared the behavior of the
progressionist mob would produce an effect in the young man's mind far
from favorable to the cause which they represented. He execrated the
disturbance of the liberals, and took Seraphin's arm to lead him away.

"Come away, I beg of you! I cannot imagine what interest the rudeness
of that uncultivated horde can have for you."

"Do not scorn them, for they are honestly earning their pay," rejoined
Gerlach.

"What do you mean?"

"Those fellows are whistling, bawling, stamping, and yelling in the
employ of progress. You are trying to give me an insight into the
nature of modern civilization: could there be a better opportunity than
this?"

"There you make a mistake, my dear fellow! Enlightened progress is
never rude."




                              CHAPTER VII.


The tumult continued. As soon as the orator attempted to speak, his
voice was drowned by cries and stamping.

"Commissary!" cried the chairman to that officer, "I demand that you
extend to our assembly the protection of the law."

"I am here simply to watch the proceedings of your meeting," replied
Parteiling with cool indifference. "Everybody is at liberty in meetings
to signify his approval or disapproval by signs. No act forbidden by
the law has been committed by your opponents, in my opinion."

"Bravo! bravo! Three cheers for the commissary!"

All at once the noise was subdued to a whisper of astonishment. A
miracle was taking place under the very eyes of progress. Banker
Greifmann, the moneyed prince and liberal, made his appearance upon the
platform. The rioters saw with amazement how the mighty man before whom
the necks of all such as were in want of money bowed--even the necks of
the puissant leaders--stepped before the president of the assembly, how
he politely bowed and spoke a few words in an undertone. They observed
how the chairman nodded assent, and then how the banker, as if to
excite their wonder to the highest pitch, mounted to the speaker's
desk.

"Gentlemen," began Carl Greifmann, "although I have not the honor of
sharing your political views, I feel myself nevertheless urged to
address a few words to you. In the name of true progress, I ask this
honorable assembly's pardon for the disturbance occasioned a moment ago
by a band of uncultivated rioters, who dare to pretend that they are
acting in the cause and with the sanction of progress. I solemnly
protest against the assumption that their disgraceful and outrageous
conduct is in accordance with the spirit of the party which they
dishonor. Progress holds firmly to its principles, and defends them
manfully in the struggle with its opposers, but it is far from making
itself odious by rudely overstepping the bounds of decency set by
humanity and civilization. In political contests, it may be perfectly
lawful to employ earnest persuasion and even influences that partake of
the rigor of compulsion, but rudeness, impertinence, is never
justifiable in an age of civilization. Commissary Parteiling discovers
no legally prohibited offence in the expression of vulgarity and
lowness--may be. Nevertheless, a high misdemeanor has been perpetrated
against decorum and against the deference which man owes to man. Should
the slightest disturbance be again attempted, I shall use the whole
weight of my influence in prosecuting the guilty parties, and convince
them that even in the spirit of progress they are offenders and can be
reached by punishment."

He spoke, and retired to the other end of the hall, followed by loud
applause from the ultramontanes. Nor were the threats of the mighty man
uttered in vain. Spitzkopf hung his head abashed. The other revellers
were tamed, they listened demurely to the speakers, ceased their
contemptuous hootings, and stood on their good behavior. Greifmann's
proceeding had taken Seraphin also by surprise, and the power which the
banker possessed over the rioters set him to speculating deeply. He saw
plainly that Louise's brother commanded an extraordinary degree of
respect in the camp of the enemies of religion, and the only cause that
could sufficiently account for the fact was a community of principles
of which they were well aware. Hence the opinion he had formed of
Greifmann was utterly erroneous, concluded Gerlach, The banker was
not a mere secluded business man--he was not indifferent about the
great questions of the age. Then there was another circumstance
that perplexed the ruddy-cheeked millionaire to no inconsiderable
degree--Greifmann's unaccountable way of taking things. The tyrannical
mode of electioneering which they had witnessed at the sign of the
"Green Hat" had not at all disgusted Greifmann. Spitzkopf's threats had
not excited his indignation. He had with a smiling countenance looked
on whilst the most brutal species of terrorism was being enacted before
him, he had not expressed a word of contempt at the constraint which
they who held the power inhumanly placed on the political liberty of
their dependents. On the other hand, his indignation was aroused by a
mere breach of good behavior, an offence which in Gerlach's estimation
was as nothing compared with the other instances of progressionist
violence. The banker seemed to him to have strained out a gnat after
having swallowed a whole drove of camels. The youth's suspicions being
excited, he began to study the strainer of gnats and swallower of
camels more closely, and soon the banker turned out in his estimation a
hollow stickler for mere outward decency, devoid of all deeper merit.
He now recollected also Greifmann's dealings with the leaders of
progress, and those transactions only confirmed his present views. What
he had considered as an extraordinary degree of shrewdness in the man
of business, which enabled him to take advantage of the peculiar
convictions and manner of thinking of other men, was now to his mind a
real affinity with their principles, and he could not help being
shocked at the discovery.

He hung his head in a melancholy mood, and his heart protested
earnestly against the inference which was irresistibly forcing itself
upon his mind, that the sister shared her brother's sentiments.

"This doubt must be cleared up, cost what it may," thought he. "My God,
what if Louise also turned out to be a progressionist, a woman without
any faith, an infidel! No, that cannot be! Yet suppose it really were
the case--suppose she actually held principles in common with such vile
beings as Schwefel, Sand, Erdblatt, and Shund? Suppose her moral nature
did not harmonize with the beauty of her person--what then?" He
experienced a spasmodic contraction in his heart at the question, he
hesitated with the answer, but, his better self finally getting the
victory, he said: "Then all is over. The impressions of a dream;
however delightful, must not influence a waking man. My father's
calculation was wrong, and I have wasted my kindness on an undeserving
object."

So completely wrapt up was he in his meditations that he heard not a
word of the speeches, not even the concluding remarks of the president.
Greifmann's approach roused him, and they left the hall together.

"That was ruffianly conduct, of which progress would have for ever to
be ashamed," said the banker indignantly, "They bayed and yelped like a
pack of hounds. At their first volley I was as embarrassed and confused
as a modest girl would be at the impertinence of some young scapegrace.
Fierce rage then hurried me to the platform, and my words have never
done better service, for they vindicated civilization."

"I cannot conceive how a trifle could thus exasperate you."

Greifmann stood still and looked at his companion in astonishment.

"A trifle!" echoed he reproachfully. "Do you call a piece of wanton
impudence, a ruffianly outrage against several hundreds of men entitled
to respect, a trifle?

"I do, compared with other crimes that you have suffered to pass
unheeded and uncensured," answered Gerlach. "You had not an indignant
word for the unutterable meanness of those three leaders, who were
immoral and unprincipled enough to invest a notorious villain with
office and honors. Nor did you show any exasperation at the brutal
terrorism practised by men of power in this town over their weak and
unfortunate dependents."

"Take my advice, and be on your guard against erroneous and
narrow-minded judgments. The leaders merely had a view to their own
ends, but they in no manner sinned against propriety. The raising a man
of Shund's abilities to the office of mayor is an act of prudence--by
no means an offence against humanity."

"Yet it was an outrage to moral sentiment," opposed Seraphin.

"See here, Gerlach, moral sentiment is a very elastic sort of thing.
Sentiment goes for nothing in practical life, and such is the character
of life in our century."

"Well, then, the mere sense of propriety is not worth a whit more."

"I ask your pardon! Propriety belongs to the realm of actualities or of
practical experiences, and not to the shadowland of sentiment.
Propriety is the rule that regulates the intercourse of men, it is
therefore a necessity, nothing else will serve as a substitute for it,
and it must continue to be so regarded as long as a difference is
recognized between rational man and the irrational brute."

"The same may be said with much more reason of morality, for it also is
a rule, it regulates our actions, it determines the ethic worth or
worthlessness of a man. Mere outward decorum does not necessarily argue
any interior excellence. The most abandoned wretch may be distinguished
for easy manners and elegant deportment, yet he is none the less a
criminal. A dog may be trained to many little arts, but for all that it
continues to be a dog.

"It is delightful to see you breaking through that uniform patience of
yours for once and showing a little of the fire of indignation," said
the banker pleasantly. "I shall tell Louise of it, I know she will be
glad to learn that Seraphin too is susceptible of a human passion. But
this by the way. Now watch how I shall meet your arguments. That very
moral sentiment of which you speak has caused and is still causing the
most enormous crimes against humanity, and the laws of morality are as
changeable as the wind. When an Indian who has not been raised from
barbarism by civilization dies, the religious custom of the country
requires that his wife should permit herself to be burned alive on the
funeral pyre of her husband. Moral sentiment teaches the uncivilized
woman that it is a horrible crime to refuse to devote herself to this
cruel death. The pious Jews used to stone every woman to death who was
taken in adultery--in our day, such a deed of blood would be revolting
to moral sentiment, and would claim tears from the eyes of cultivated
people. I could mention many other horrors that were practised more or
less remotely in the past, and were sanctioned by the prevailing moral
sentiment. Here is my last instance: according to laws of morality, the
usurer was at one time a monster, an arch-villain--at present, he is
merely a man of great enterprise. Propriety, on the other hand,
enlightenment, and polish are absolute and unalterable. Whilst rudeness
and impertinence will ever be looked upon as disgusting, good manners
and politeness will be considered as commendable and beautiful."

Seraphin could not but admire the skill with which Greifmann jumbled
together subjects of the most heterogeneous nature. But he could not,
at the same time, divest himself of some alarm at the banker's
declarations, for they betrayed a soul-life of little or absolutely no
moral worth. Money, interest, and respectability constituted the only
trinity in which the banker believed. Morality, binding the conscience
of man, a true and only God, and divine revelation, were in his opinion
so many worn-out and useless notions, which the progress of mankind had
successfully got beyond.

"When those who hold power take advantage of it at elections, they in
no manner offend against propriety," proceeded Carl. "Progress has
convictions as well as ultramontanism. If the latter is active, why
should not the former be so too? If, on the side of progress, the weak
and dependent permit themselves to be cowed and driven, it is merely an
advantage for the powerful, and for the others it is a weakness or
cowardice. For this reason, the mode of electioneering pursued by
Spitzkopf and his comrades amused but nowise shocked me, for they were
not acting against propriety."

Seraphin saw it plainly: for Carl Greifmann there existed no
distinction between good and evil; he recognized only a cold and empty
system of formalities.

The two young men issued from a narrow street upon the market-place.
This was occupied by a large public building. In the open space stood a
group of men, among whom Flachsen appeared conspicuous. He was telling
the others about Greifmann's speech at the meeting of the
ultramontanes. They all manifested great astonishment that the
influential moneyed prince should have appeared in such company, and,
above all, should have made a speech in their behalf.

"He declared it was vulgar, impudent, ruffianly, to disturb a
respectable assembly," reported Flachsen. "He said he knew some of us,
and that he would have us put where the dogs would not bite us if we
attempted to disturb them again. That's what he said; and I actually
rubbed my eyes to be quite sure it was banker Greifmann that was
speaking, and really it was he, the banker Greifmann himself, bodily,
and not a mere apparition."

"I must say the banker was right, for it isn't exactly good manners to
howl, stamp, and whistle to annoy one's neighbors," owned another.

"But we were paid for doing it, and we only carried out the orders
given by certain gentlemen."

"To be sure! Men like us don't know what good breeding is--it's for
gentlemen to understand that," maintained a third. "We do what men of
good breeding hire us to do, and if it isn't proper, it matters nothing
to us--let the gentlemen answer for it."

"Bravo, Stoffel, bravo!" applauded Flachsen. "Yours is the right sort
of servility, Stoffel! You are a real human, servile, and genuine
reactive kind of a fellow--so you are. I agree with you entirely. The
gentlemen do the paying, and it is for them to answer for what happens.
We are merely servants, we are hirelings, and what need a hireling care
whether that which his master commands is right or not? The master is
responsible, not the hireling. What I am telling you belongs to the
exact sciences, and the exact sciences are at the pinnacle of modern
acquisitions. Hence a hireling who without scruple carries out the
orders of his master is up to the highest point of the age--such a
fellow has taken his stand on servility. Hallo! the election has
commenced. Be off, every man of you, to his post. But mind you don't
look too deep into the beer-pots before the election is over. Keep your
heads level, be cautious, do your best for the success of the green
ticket. Once the election is carried, you may swill beer till you can
no longer stand. The gentlemen will foot the bill, and assume all
responsibilities."

They dispersed themselves through the various drinking-shops of the
neighborhood.

Near the door of the building in which the voting was to take place
stood a number of progressionist gentlemen. They all wore heavy beards,
smoked cigars, and peered about restlessly. To those of their party who
chanced to pass they nodded and smiled knowingly, upon doubtful voters
they smiled still more blandly, added some pleasant words, and pressed
the acceptance of the green ticket, but for ultramontane voters they
had only jeers and coarse witticisms. As Greifmann approached they
respectfully raised their hats. The banker drew Gerlach to one side,
and stood to make observations.

"What swarms there are around the drinking-shops," remarked Greifmann.
"It is there that the tickets are filled under the persuasive influence
of beer. The committee provide the tickets which the voters have filled
with the names of the candidates by clerks who sit round the tables at
the beer-shops. It is quite an ingenious arrangement, for beer will
reconcile a voter to the most objectionable kind of a candidate."

A crowd of drunken citizens coming out of the nearest tavern
approached. Linked arm-in-arm, they swayed about and staggered along
with an unsteady pace. Green tickets bearing the names of the
candidates whom progress had chosen to watch over the common weal could
be seen protruding from the pockets of their waistcoats. Gerlach,
seeing the drunken mob and recollecting the solemn and important nature
of the occasion, was seized with loathing and horror at the corruption
of social life revealed in the low means to which the party of progress
had recourse to secure for its ends the votes of these besotted and
ignorant men.

Presently Schwefel stepped up and saluted the young men.

"Do you not belong to the committee in charge of the ballot-box?"
inquired Greifmann.

"No, sir, I wished to remain entirely untrammelled this morning,"
answered the leader with a sly look and tone. "This is going to be an
exciting election, the ultramontanes are astir, and it will be
necessary for me to step in authoritatively now and then to decide a
vote. Moreover, the committee is composed exclusively of men of our
party. Not a single ultramontane holds a seat at the polls."

"In that case there can be no question of failure," said the banker.
"Your office is closed to-day, no doubt?"

"Of course!" assented the manufacturer of straw hats. "This day is
celebrated as a free day by the offices of all respectable houses. Our
clerks are dispersed through the taverns and election districts to use
their pens in filling up tickets."

"I am forced to return to my old assertion: an election is mere folly,
useless jugglery," said the banker, turning to Seraphin. "Holding
elections is no longer a rational way of doing, it is no longer a
business way of proceeding, it is yielding to stupid timidity. Mr.
Schwefel, don't you think elections are mere folly?"

"I confess I have never considered the subject from that point of
view," answered the leader cautiously. "But meanwhile--what do you
understand by that?"

"Be good enough to attend to my reasoning for a moment. Progress is in
a state of complete organization. What progress wills, must be. Another
party having authority and power cannot subsist side by side with
progress. Just see those men staggering and blundering over the square
with green tickets in their hands! To speak without circumlocution,
look at the slaves doing the behests of their masters. What need of
this silly masquerade of an election? Why squander all this money,
waste all this beer and time? Why does not progress settle this
business summarily? Why not simply nominate candidates fit for the
office, and then send them directly to the legislature? This mode would
do away with all this nonsensical ado, and would give the matter a
prompt and business cast, conformable to the spirit of the age."

"This idea is a good one, but we have an election law that would stand
in the way of carrying it out."

"Bosh--election law!" sneered the banker. "Your election law is a mere
scarecrow, an antiquated, meaningless instrument. Do away with the
election law, and follow my suggestion."

"That would occasion a charming row on the part of the ultramontanes,"
observed the leader laughing.

"Was the lion ever known to heed the bleating of a sheep? When did
progress ever pay any attention to a row gotten up by the
ultramontanes?" rejoined Greifmann. "Was not the fuss made in Bavaria
against the progressionist school-law quite a prodigious one? Did not
our own last legislature make heavy assaults on the church? Did not the
entire episcopate protest against permitting Jews, Neo-pagans, and
Freemasons to legislate, on matters of religion? But did progress
suffer itself to be disconcerted by episcopal protests and the
agonizing screams of the ultramontanes? Not at all. It calmly pursued
the even tenor of its way. Be logical, Mr. Schwefel: progress reigns
supreme and decrees with absolute authority--why should it not
summarily relegate this election law among the things that were, but
are no more?"

"You are right, Greifmann!" exclaimed Gerlach, in a feeling of utter
disgust. "What need has the knout of Russian despotism of the sanction
of constitutional forms? Progress is lord, the rest are slaves!"

"You have again misunderstood me, my good fellow. I am considering the
actual state of things. Should ultramontanism at any time gain the
ascendency, then it also will be justified in behaving in the same
manner."

Upon more mature consideration, Gerlach found himself forced to admit
that Greifmann's view, from the standpoint of modern culture, was
entirely correct. Progress independently of God and of all positive
religion could not logically be expected to recognize any moral
obligations, for it had not a moral basis. Everything was determined by
the force of circumstances; the autocracy of party rule made anything
lawful. Laws proceeded not from the divine source of unalterable
justice, but from the whim of a majority--fashioned and framed to suit
peculiar interests and passions.

"We have yet considerable work to do to bring all to thinking as
clearly and rationally as you, Mr. Greifmann," said the leader with a
winning smile.

Schwefel accompanied the millionaires into a lengthy hall, across the
lower end of which stood a table. There sat the commissary of elections
surrounded by the committee, animated gentlemen with great beards, who
were occupied in distributing tickets to voters or receiving tickets
filled up. The extraordinary good-humor prevailing among these
gentlemen was owing to the satisfactory course of the election, for
rarely was any ultramontane paper seen mingling in the flood that
poured in from the ranks of progress. The sides of the hall were hung
with portraits of the sovereigns of the land, quite a goodly row. The
last one of the series was youthful in appearance, and some audacious
hand had scrawled on the broad gilt frame the following ominous words:
"May he be the last in the succession of expensive bread-eaters." Down
the middle of the hall ran a baize-covered table, on which were
numerous inkstands. Scattered over the table lay a profusion of green
bills; the yellow color of the ultramontane bills was nowhere to be
seen. The table was lined by gentlemen who were writing. They were not
writing for themselves, but for others, who merely sighed their names
and then handed the tickets to the commissary. Several corpulent
gentlemen also occupied seats at the table, but they were not engaged
in writing. These gentlemen, apparently unoccupied, wore massive gold
watch-chains and sparkling rings, and they had a commanding and stern
expression of countenance. They were observing all who entered, to see
whether any man would be bold enough to vote the yellow ticket. People
of the humbler sort, mechanics and laborers, were constantly coming in
and going out. Bowing reverently to the portly gentlemen, they seated
themselves and filled out green tickets with the names of the liberal
candidates. Most of them did not even trouble themselves to this
degree, but simply laid their tickets before the penman appointed for
this special service. All went off in the best order. The process of
the election resembled the smooth working of an ingenious piece of
machinery. And there was no tongue there to denounce the infamous
terrorism that had crushed the freedom of the election or had bought
the votes of vile and venal men with beer.

Seraphin stood with Greifmann in the recess of a window looking on.

"Who are the fat men at the table?" inquired he.

"The one with the very black beard is house-builder Sand, the second is
Eisenhart, machine-builder, the third is Erdfloh, a landowner, the
fourth and fifth are tobacco merchants. All those gentlemen are
chieftains of the party of progress."

"They show it," observed Gerlach. "Their looks, in a manner, command
every man that comes in to take the green ticket, and I imagine I can
read on their brows: 'Woe to him who dares vote against us. He shall be
under a ban, and shall have neither employment nor bread.' It is
unmitigated tyranny! I imagine I see in those fat fellows so many
cotton-planters voting their slaves."

"That is a one-sided conclusion, my most esteemed," rejoined the
banker. "In country villages, the position here assumed by the magnates
of progress is filled by the lords of ultramontanism, clerical
gentlemen in cassocks, who keep a sharp eye on the fingers of their
parishioners. This, too, is influencing."

"But not constraining," opposed the millionaire promptly. "The clergy
exert a legitimate influence by convincing, by advancing solid grounds
for their political creed. They never have recourse to compulsory
measures, nor dare they do so, because it would be opposed to the
Gospel which they preach. The autocrats of progress, on the contrary,
do not hesitate about using threats and violence. Should a man refuse
to bow to their dictates, they cruelly deprive him of the means of
subsistence. This is not only inhuman, but it is also an accursed
scheme for making slaves of the people and robbing them of principle."

"Ah! look yonder--there is Holt."

The land cultivator had walked into the hall head erect. He looked
along the table and stood undecided. One of the ministering spirits of
progress soon fluttered about him, offering him a green ticket. Holt
glanced at it, and a contemptuous smile spread over his face. He next
tore it to pieces, which he threw on the floor.

"What are you about?" asked the angel of progress reproachfully.

"I have reduced Shund and his colleagues to fragments," answered Holt
dryly, then approaching the commissary he demanded a yellow ticket.

"Glorious!" applauded Gerlach. "I have half a mind to present this true
German _man_ with another thousand as a reward for his spirit."

The fat men had observed with astonishment the action of the land
cultivator. Their astonishment turned to rage when Holt, leisurely
seating himself at the table, took a pen in his mighty fist and began
filling out the ticket with the names of the ultramontane candidates.
Whilst he wrote, whisperings could be heard all through the hall, and
every eye was directed upon him. After no inconsiderable exertion, the
task of filling out the ticket was successfully accomplished, and Holt
arose, leaving the ticket lying upon the table. In the twinkling of an
eye a hand reached forward to take it up.

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Holt sternly.

"That yellow paper defiles the table," hissed the fellow viciously.

"Hand back that ticket," commanded Holt roughly. "I want it to be
here. The yellow ticket has as good a right on this table as the green
one--do you hear me?"

"Slave of the priests!" sputtered his antagonist.

"If I am a slave of the priests, then you are a slave of that villain
Shund," retorted Holt. "I am not to be browbeaten--by such a fellow as
you particularly--least of all by a vile slave of Shund's." He spoke,
and then reached his ticket to the commissary.

"That is an impudent dog," growled leader Sand. "Who is he?"

"He is a countryman of the name of Holt," answered he to whom the query
was addressed.

"We must spot the boor," said Erdfloh. "His swaggering shall not avail
him anything."

Holt was not the only voter that proved refractory. Mr. Schwefel, also,
had a disagreeable surprise. He was standing near the entrance,
observing with great self-complacency how the workmen in his employ
submissively cast their votes for Shund and his associates. Schwefel
regarded himself as of signal importance in the commonwealth, for he
controlled not less than four hundred votes, and the side which it was
his pleasure to favor could not fail of victory. The head of the great
leader seemed in a manner encircled with the halo of progress: whilst
his retainers passed and saluted him, he experienced something akin to
the pride of a field-marshal reviewing a column of his victorious army.

Just then a spare little man appeared in the door. His yellowish,
sickly complexion gave evidence that he was employed in the
sulphurating of straw. At sight of the commander the sulphur-hued
little man shrank back, but his startled look did not escape the
restless eye of Mr. Schwefel. He beckoned to the laborer.

"Have you selected your ticket, Leicht?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me see the ticket."

The man obeyed reluctantly. Scarcely had Schwefel got a glimpse of the
paper when his brows gathered darkly.

"What means this? Have you selected the yellow ticket and not the green
one?"

Leicht hung his head. He thought of the consequences of this detection,
of his four small children, of want of employment, of hunger and bitter
need--he was almost beside himself.

"If you vote for the priests, you may get your bread from the priests,"
said Schwefel. "The moment you hand that ticket to the commissary, you
may consider yourself discharged from my employ." With this he angrily
turned his back upon the man. Leicht did not reach in his ticket to the
commissary. Staggering out of the hall, he stood bewildered hear the
railing of the steps, and stared vaguely upon the men who were coming
and going. Spitzkopf slipped up to him.

"What were you thinking about, man?" asked he reproachfully. "Mr.
Schwefel is furious--you are ruined. Sheer stupidity, nothing but
stupidity in you to wish to vote in opposition to the pleasure of the
man from whom you get your bread and meat! Not only that, but you have
insulted the whole community, for you have chosen to vote against
progress when all the town is in favor of progress. You will be put on
the spotted list, and the upshot will be that you will not get
employment in any factory in town. Do you want to die of hunger,
man--do you want your children to die of hunger?"

"You are right--I am ruined," said the laborer listlessly. "I couldn't
bring myself to write Shund's name because he reduced my brother-in-law
to beggary--this is what made me select the yellow ticket."

"You are a fool. Were Mr. Schwefel to recommend the devil, your duty
would be to vote for the devil. What need you care who is on the
ticket? You have only to write the names on the ticket--nothing more
than that. Do you think progress would nominate men that are unfit--men
who would not promote the interests of the state, who would not further
the cause of humanity, civilization, and liberty? You are a fool for
not voting for what is best for yourself."

"I am sorry now, but it's too late." sighed Leicht. "I wouldn't have
thought, either, that Mr. Schwefel would get angry because a man wanted
to vote to the best of his judgment."

"There you are prating sillily again. Best of your judgment!--you
mustn't have any judgment. Leave it to others to judge; they have more
brains, more sense, more knowledge than you. Progress does the
thinking: our place is to blindly follow its directions."

"But, Mr. Spitzkopf, mine is only the vote of a poor man; and what
matters such a vote?"

"There is your want of sense again. We are living in a state that
enjoys liberty. We are living in an age of intelligence, of moral
advancement, of civilization and knowledge, in a word, we are living in
an age of progress; and in an age of this sort the vote of a poor man
is worth as much as that of a rich man."

"If only I had it to do over! I would give my right hand to have it to
do over!"

"You can repair the mischief if you want."

"Instruct me how, Mr. Spitzkopf; please tell me how!"

"Very well, I will do my best. As you acted from thoughtlessness and no
bad intention, doubtless Mr. Schwefel will suffer himself to be
propitiated. Go down into the court, and wait till I come. I shall get
you another ticket; you will then vote for progress, and all will be
satisfactory."

"I am a thousand times obliged to you, Mr. Spitzkopf--a thousand times
obliged!"

The agent went back to the hall. Leicht descended to the courtyard,
where he found a ring of timid operators like himself surrounding the
sturdy Holt. They were talking in an undertone. As often as a
progressionist drew near, their conversation was hushed altogether.
Holt's voice alone resounded loudly through the court, and his huge
strong hands were cutting the air in animated gesticulations.

"This is not a free election; it is one of compulsion and violence,"
cried he. "Every factoryman is compelled to vote as his employer
dictates, and should he refuse the employer discharges him from the
work. Is not this most despicable tyranny! And these very tyrants of
progress are perpetually prating about liberty, independence,
civilization! That's a precious sort of liberty indeed!"

"A man belonging to the ultramontane party cannot walk the streets
to-day without being hooted and insulted," said another. "Even up
yonder in the hall, those gentlemen who are considered so cultivated
stick their heads together and laugh scornfully when one of us draws
near."

"That's so--that's so, I have myself seen it," cried Holt. "Those
well-bred gentlemen show their teeth like ferocious dogs whenever they
see a yellow ticket or an ultramontane. I say, Leicht, has anything
happened you? You look wretched!" Leicht drew near and related what had
occurred. The honest Holt's eyes gleamed like coals of fire.

"There's another piece of tyranny for you," cried he. "Leicht, my poor
fellow, I fancy I see in you a slave of Schwefel's. From dawn till late
you are compelled to toil for the curmudgeon, Sundays not excepted.
Your church is the factory, your religion working in straw, and your
God is your sovereign master Schwefel. You are ruining your health amid
the stench of brimstone, and not so much as the liberty of voting as
you think fit is allowed you. It's just as I tell you--you factorymen
are slaves. How strangely things go on in the world! In America slavery
has been abolished; but lo! here in Europe it is blooming as freshly as
trees in the month of May. But mark my word, friends, the fruit is
deadly; and when once it will have ripened, the great God of heaven
will shake it from the trees, and the generation that planted the trees
will have to eat the bitter fruit."

Leicht shunned the society of the ultramontanes and stole away.
Presently Spitzkopf appeared with the ticket.

"Your ticket is filled out. Come and sign your name to it." Schwefel
was again standing near the entrance, and he again beckoned the laborer
to approach. "I am pacified. You may now continue working for me."

Carl and Seraphin returned to the Palais Greifmann. Louise received
them with numerous questions. The banker related what had passed;
Gerlach strode restlessly through the apartment.

"The most curious spectacle must have been yourself," said the young
lady. "Just fancy you on the rostrum at the 'Key of Heaven'! And very
likely the ungrateful ultramontanes would not so much as applaud."

"Beg pardon, they did, miss!" assured Seraphin. "They applauded and
cried bravo."

"Really? Then I am proud of a brother whose maiden speech produced such
marvellous effects. May be we shall read of it in the daily paper.
Everybody will be surprised to hear of the banker Greifmann making a
speech at the 'Key of Heaven.'" Carl perceived the irony and stroked
his forehead.

"But what can you be pondering over, Mr. Seraphin?" cried she to him.
"Since returning from the turmoil of the election, you seem unable to
keep quiet." He seated himself at her side, and was soon under the
spell of her magical attractions.

"My head is dizzy and my brain confused," said he. "On every hand I see
nothing but revolt against moral obligation, sacrilegious disregard of
the most sacred rights of man. The hubbub still resounds in my ears,
and my imagination still sees those fat men at the table with their
slaveholder look--the white slaves doing their masters' bidding--the
completest subjugation in an age of enlightenment--all this presents
itself to me in the most repulsive and lamentable guise."

"You must drive those horrible phantoms from your mind," replied
Louise.

"They are not phantoms, but the most fearful reality."

"They are phantoms, Mr. Seraphin, so far as your feelings exaggerate
the evils. Those factory serfs have no reason to complain. There is
nothing to be done but to put up with a situation that has
spontaneously developed itself. It is useless to grow impatient because
difference of rank between masters and servants is an unavoidable evil
upon earth." A servant entered to call them to dinner.

At her side he gradually became more cheerful. The brightness of her
eyes dispelled his depression, and her delicate arts put a spell upon
his young, inexperienced heart. And when, at the end of the meal, they
were sipping delicious wine, and her beautiful lips lisped the
customary health, the subdued tenderness he had been feeling suddenly
expanded into a strong passion.

"After you will have done justice to your diary," said she at parting,
"we shall take a drive, and then go to the opera."

Instead of going to his room, Seraphin went into the garden. He almost
forgot the occurrences of the day in musing on the inexplicable
behavior of Louise. Again she had not uttered a word of condemnation of
the execrable doings of progress, and it grieved him deeply. A
suspicion flitted across his mind that perhaps Louise was infected with
the frivolous and pernicious spirit of the age, but he immediately
stifled the terrible suggestion as he would have hastened to crush a
viper that he might have seen on the path of the beautiful lady. He
preferred to believe that she suppressed her feelings of disgust out of
regard for his presence, that she wisely avoided pouring oil upon the
flames of his own indignation. Had she not exerted herself to dispel
his sombre reflections? He was thus espousing the side of passion
against the appalling truth that was beginning faintly to dawn upon his
anxious mind.

But soon the spell was to be broken, and duty was to confront him with
the alternative of either giving up Louise, or defying the stern
demands of his conscience.

The brother and sister, thinking their guest engaged with his diary,
walked into the garden. They directed their steps towards the arbor
where Gerlach had seated himself.

He was only roused to consciousness of their proximity by the unusually
loud and excited tone in which Louise spoke. He could not be mistaken;
it was the young lady's voice--but oh! the import of her words. He
looked through an opening in the foliage, and sat thunderstruck.

"You have been attempting to guide Gerlach's overexalted spirit into a
more rational way of thinking, but the very opposite seems to be the
result. Intercourse with the son of a strait-laced mother is infecting
you with sympathy for ultramontanism. Your speech to-day," continued
she caustically, "in yon obscure meeting is the subject of the talk of
the town. I am afraid you have made yourself ridiculous in the minds of
all cultivated people. The respectability of our family has suffered."

"Of our family?" echoed he, perplexed.

"We are compromitted," continued she with excitement. "You have given
our enemies occasion to set us down for members of a party who stupidly
oppose the onward march of civilization."

"Cease your philippic," broke in the brother angrily. "Bitterness is an
unmerited return for my efforts to serve you."

"To serve me?"

"Yes, to serve you. The disturbing of that meeting made a very
unfavorable impression on your intended. He scorned the noisy mob, and
was roused by what, from his point of view, could not pass for anything
better than unpardonable impudence. To me it might have been a matter
of indifference whether your intended was pleased or displeased with
the fearless conduct of progress. But as I knew both you and the family
felt disposed to base the happiness of your life on his couple of
millions, as moreover I feared my silence might be interpreted by the
shortsighted young gentleman for complicity in progressionist ideas, I
was forced to disown the disorderly proceeding. In so doing I have not
derogated one iota from the spirit of the times; on the contrary, I
have bound a heavy wreath about the brow of glorious humanity."

"But you have pardoned yourself too easily," proceeded she, unappeased.
"The very first word uttered by a Greifmann in that benighted assembly
was a stain on the fair fame of our family. We shall be an object of
contempt in every circle. 'The Greifmanns have turned ultramontanes
because Gerlach would have refused the young lady's hand had they not
changed their creed,' is what will be prated in society. A flood of
derision and sarcasm will be let loose upon us. I an ultramontane?"
cried she, growing more fierce; "I caught in the meshes of religious
fanaticism? I accept the Syllabus--believe in the Prophet of Nazareth?
Oh! I could sink into the earth on account of this disgrace! Did I for
an instant doubt that Seraphin may be redeemed from superstition and
fanaticism, I would renounce my union with him--I would spurn the
tempting enjoyments of wealth, so much do I hate silly credulity."

Seraphin glanced at her through the gap in the foliage. Not six paces
from him, with her face turned in his direction, stood the infuriate
beauty. How changed her countenance! The features, habitually so
delicate and bright, now looked absolutely hideous, the brows were
fiercely knit, and hatred poured like streams of fire from her eyes.
Sentiments hitherto skilfully concealed had taken visible shape, ugly
and repulsive to the view of the innocent youth. His noble spirit
revolted at so much hypocrisy and falsehood. What occurred before him
was at once so monstrous and so overwhelming that he did not for an
instant consider that in case they entered the arbor he would be
discovered. He was not discovered, however. Louise and Carl retraced
their steps. For a short while the voice of Louise was still audible,
then silence reigned in the garden.

Seraphin rose from his seat. There was a sad earnestness in his face,
and the vanishing traces of deep pain, which however were soon
superseded by a noble indignation.

"I have beheld the genuine Louise, and I thank God for it. It is as I
feared, Louise is a progressionist, an infidel that considers it
disgraceful to believe in the Redeemer. Out upon such degeneracy! She
hates light, and how hideous this hatred makes her. Not a feature was
left of the charming, smiling, winning Louise. Good God! how horrible
had her real character remained unknown until after we were married!
Chained for life to the bitter enemy of everything that I hold dear and
venerate as holy--think of it! With eyes bandaged, I was but two paces
from an abyss that resembles hell--thank God! the bandage has fallen--I
see the abyss, and shudder.

"'The ultramontane Seraphin'--'the fanatical Gerlach'--'the
shortsighted Gerlach,' whose fortune the young lady covets that she may
pass her life in enjoyment--a heartless girl, in whom there is not a
spark of love for her intended husband--how base!

"'Ultramontane'?--'fanatical'?--yes! 'Shortsighted?' by no means. One
would need the suspicious eyes of progress to see through the hypocrisy
of this lady and her brother--a simple, trusting spirit like mine
cannot penetrate such darkness. At any rate, they shall not find me
weak. The little flame that was beginning to burn within my heart has
been for ever extinguished by her unhallowed lips. She might now
present herself in the garb of an angel, and muster up every seductive
art of womanhood, 'twould not avail; I have had an insight into her
real character, and giving her up costs me not a pang. It is not hollow
appearances that determine the worth of woman, but moral excellence,
beautiful virtues springing from a heart vivified by faith. No, giving
her up shall not cost me one regretful throb."

He hastened from the garden to his room and rang the bell.

"Pack my trunks this very day, John," said he to his servant. "Tomorrow
we shall be off."

He then entered in his diary a circumstantial account of the unmasked
beauty. He also dwelt at length upon the painful shock his heart
experienced when the bright and beautiful creature he had considered
Louise to be suddenly vanished before his soul. As he was finishing the
last line, John reappeared with a telegraphic despatch. He read it, and
was stunned.

"Meet your father at the train this evening." He looked at the concise
despatch, and fancied he saw his father's stern and threatening
countenance.

The contemplated match had for several years been regarded by the
families of Gerlach and Greifmann as a fixed fact. Seraphin was aware
how stubbornly his father adhered to a project that he had once set his
mind upon. Here now, just as the union had became impossible and as the
youth was about to free himself for ever from an engagement that was
destructive of his happiness, the uncompromising sire had to appear to
enforce unconditional obedience to his will. A fearful contest awaited
Seraphin, unequal and painful; for a son, accustomed from childhood to
revere and obey his parents, was to maintain this contest against his
own father. Seraphin paced the room and wrung his hands in anguish.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                          AN ULTRAMONTANE SON.


Greifmann and Gerlach had driven to the railway station. The express
train thundered along. As the doors of the carriages flew open,
Seraphin peered through them with eyes full of eager joy. He thought no
more of the fate that threatened him as the sequel of his father's
arrival; his youthful heart exulted solely in the anticipation of the
meeting. A tall, broad-shouldered gentleman, with severe features and
tanned complexion, alighted from a _coupe_. It was Mr. Conrad Gerlach.
Seraphin threw his arms around his father's neck and kissed him. The
banker made a polite bow to the wealthiest landed proprietor of the
country, in return for which Mr. Conrad bestowed on him a cordial shake
of the hand.

"Has your father returned?"

"He cannot possibly reach home before September," answered the banker.
The traveller stepped for a moment into the luggage-room. The gentlemen
then drove away to the Palais Greifmann. During the ride, the
conversation was not very animated. Conrad's curt, grave manner and
keen look, indicative of a mind always hard at work, imposed reserve,
and rapidly dampened his son's ingenuous burst of joy. Seraphin cast a
searching glance upon that severe countenance, saw no change from its
stern look of authority, and his heart sank before the appalling
alternative of either sacrificing the happiness of his life to his
father's favorite project, or of opposing his will and braving the
consequences of such daring. Yet he wavered but an instant in the
resolution to which he had been driven by necessity, and which, it was
plain from the lines of his countenance, he had manhood enough to abide
by.

Mr. Conrad maintained his reserve, and asked but few questions. Even
Carl, habitually profuse, studied brevity in his answers, as he knew
from experience that Gerlach, Senior, was singularly averse to the use
of many words.

"How is business?"

"Very dull, sir; the times are hard."

"Did you sustain any losses through the failures that have recently
taken place in town?"

"Not a farthing. We had several thousands with Wendel, but fortunately
drew them out before he failed."

"Very prudent. Has your father entered into any new connections in the
course of his travels?"

"Several, that promise fairly."

"Is Louise well?"

"Her health is as good as could be wished."

"General prosperity, then, I see, for you both look cheerful, and
Seraphin is as blooming as a clover field.

"How is dear mother?"

"Quite well. She misses her only child. She sends much love."

The carriage drew up at the gate. The young lady was awaiting the
millionaire at the bottom of the steps. While greetings were exchanged
between them, a faint tinge of warmth could be noticed on the cold
features of the land-owner. A smile formed about his mouth, his
piercing eyes glanced for an instant at Seraphin, and instantly the
smile was eclipsed under the cloud of an unwelcome discovery.

"I am on my way to the industrial exhibition," said he, "and I thought
I would pay you a visit in passing. I wish you not to put yourself to
any inconvenience, my dear Louise. You will have the goodness to make
me a little tea, this evening, which we shall sip together."

"I am overjoyed at your visit, and yet I am sorry, too."

"Sorry! Why so?"

"Because you are in such a hurry."

"It cannot be helped, my child. I am overwhelmed with work. Harvest has
commenced; no less than six hundred hands are in the fields, and I am
obliged to go to the exhibition. I must see and test some new machinery
which is said to be of wonderful power."

"Well, then, you will at least spare us a few days on your return?"

"A few days! You city people place no value on time. We of the country
economize seconds. Without a thought you squander in idleness what
cannot be recalled."

"You are a greater rigorist than ever," chided she, smiling.

"Because, my child, I am getting older. Seraphin, I wish to speak a
word with you before tea."

The two retired to the apartments which for years Mr. Conrad was
accustomed to occupy whenever he visited the Palais Greifmann.

"The old man still maintains his characteristic vigor," said Louise.
"His face is at all times like a problem in arithmetic, and in place of
a heart he carries an accurate estimate of the yield of his farms. His
is a cold, repelling nature."

"But strictly honest, and alive to gain," added Carl. "In ten years
more he will have completed his third million. I am glad he came; the
marriage project is progressing towards a final arrangement. He is now
having a talk with Seraphin; tomorrow, as you will see, the bashful
young gentleman, in obedience to the command of his father, will
present himself to offer you his heart, and ask yours in return."

"A free heart for an enslaved one," said she jestingly. "Were there no
hope of ennobling that heart, of freeing it from the absurdities with
which it is encrusted, I declare solemnly I would not accept it for
three millions. But Seraphin is capable of being improved. His eye will
not close itself against modern enlightenment. Servility of conscience
and a baneful fear of God cannot have entirely extinguished his sense
of liberty."

"I have never set a very high estimate on the pluck and moral force of
religious people," declared Greifmann. "They are a craven set, who are
pious merely because they are afraid of hell. When a passion gets
possession of them, the impotence of their religious frenzy at once
becomes manifest. They fall an easy prey to the impulses of nature,
and the supernatural fails to come to the rescue. It would be vain
for Seraphin to try to give up the unbelieving Louise, whom his
strait-laced faith makes it his duty to avoid. He has fallen a victim
to your fascinations; all the Gospel of the Jew of Nazareth, together
with all the sacraments and unctions of the church, could not loose the
coils with which you have encircled him."

In this scornful tone did Carl Greifmann speak of the heroism of virtue
and of the energy of faith, like a blind man discoursing about colors.
He little suspected that it is just the power of religion that produces
characters, and that, on this very account, in an irreligious age,
characters of a noble type are so rarely met with; the warmth of faith
is not in them.

"Mr. Schwefel desires to speak a word with you," said a servant who
appeared at the door.

The banker nodded assent.

"I ask your pardon for troubling you at so unseasonable an hour," began
the leader, after bowing lowly several times. "The subject is urgent,
and must be settled without delay. But, by the way, I must first give
you the good news: Mr. Shund is elected by an overwhelming majority,
and Progress is victorious in every ward."

"That is what I looked for," answered the banker, with an air of
satisfaction. "I told you whatever Caesar, Antony, and Lepidus command,
must be done."

"I am just from a meeting at which some important resolutions have been
offered and adopted," continued the leader. "The strongest prop of
ultramontanism is the present system of educating youth. Education
must, therefore, be taken out of the hands of the priests. But the
change will have to be brought about gradually and with caution. We
have decided to make a beginning by introducing common schools. A vote
of the people is to be taken on the measure, and, on the last day of
voting, a grand barbecue is to be given to celebrate our triumph over
the accursed slavery of religious symbols. The ground chosen by the
chief-magistrate for the celebration is the common near the Red Tower,
but the space is not large enough, and we will need your meadow
adjoining it to accommodate the crowd. I am commissioned by the
magistrate to request you to throw open the meadow for the occasion."

The banker, believing the request prejudicial to his private interests,
looked rather unenthusiastic. Louise, who had been busy with the
teapot, had heard every word of the conversation, and the new
educational scheme had won her cordial approval. Seeing her brother
hesitated, she flew to the rescue:

"We are ready and happy to make any sacrifice in the interest of
education and progress."

"I am not sure that it is competent for me in the present instance to
grant the desired permission," replied Greifmann. "The grass would be
destroyed, and perhaps the sod ruined for years. My father is away from
home, and I would not like to take the responsibility of complying with
his honor's wish."

"The city will hold itself liable for all damages," said Schwefel.

"Not at all!" interposed the young lady hastily. "Make use of the
meadow without paying damages. If my brother refuses to assume the
responsibility, I will take it upon my self. By wresting education from
the clergy, who only <DW36> the intellect of youth, progress aims a
death-blow at mental degradation. It is a glorious work, and one full
of inestimable results that you gentlemen are beginning in the cause of
humanity against ignorance and superstition. My father so heartily
concurs in every undertaking that responds to the wants of the times,
that I not only feel encouraged to make myself responsible for this
concession, but am even sure that he would be angry if we refused. Do
not hesitate to make use of the meadow, and from its flowers bind
garlands about the temples of the goddess of liberty!"

The leader bowed reverently to the beautiful advocate of progress.

"In this case, there remains nothing else for me to do than to confirm
my sister's decision," said Greifmann. "When is the celebration to take
place?"

"On the 10th of August, the day of the deputy elections. It has been
intentionally set for that day to impress on the delegates how genuine
and right is the sentiment of our people."

"Very good," approved Greifmann.

"In the name of the chief-magistrate, I thank you for the offering you
have so generously laid upon the shrine of humanity, and I shall hasten
to inform the gentlemen before they adjourn that you have granted our
request." And Schwefel withdrew from the gorgeously furnished
apartment.

Meanwhile a fiery struggle was going on between Seraphin and his
father. He had briefly related his experience at the Palais Greifmann;
had even confessed his preference for Louise, and had, for the first
time in his life, incurred his father's displeasure by mentioning the
wager. And when he concluded by protesting that he could not marry
Louise, Conrad's suppressed anger burst forth.

"Have you lost your senses, foolish boy? This marriage has been in
contemplation for years; it has been coolly weighed and calculated. In
all the country around, it is the only equal match possible. Louise's
dower amounts to one million florins, the exact value of the noble
estate of Hatzfurth, adjoining our possessions. You young people can
occupy the chateau, I shall add another hundred acres to the land,
together with a complete outfit of farming implements, and then you
will have such a start as no ten proprietors in Germany can boast of."

Seraphin knew his father. All the old gentleman's thought and effort
was concentrated on the management of his extensive possessions. For
other subjects there was no room in the head and heart of the
landholder. He barely complied with his religious duties. It is true,
on Sundays Mr. Conrad attended church, but surrounded invariably by a
motley swarm of worldly cares and speculations connected with farming.
At Easter, he went to the sacraments, but usually among the last, and
after being repeatedly reminded by his wife. He took no interest in
progress, humanity, ultramontanism, and such other questions as vex the
age, because to trouble himself about them would have interfered with
his main purpose. He knew only his fields and woodlands--and God, in so
far as his providence blessed him with bountiful harvests.

"What is the good of millions, father, if the very fundamental
conditions of matrimonial peace are wanting?"

"What fundamental conditions?"

"Louise believes neither in God nor in revelation. She is an infidel."

"And you are a fanatic--a fanatic because of your one-sided education.
Your mother has trained you as priests and monks are trained. During
your childhood piety was very useful; it served as the prop to the
young tree, causing it to grow up straight and develop itself into a
vigorous stem. But you are now full-grown, and life makes other demands
on the man than on the boy; therefore, with your fanaticism.

"To my dying hour I shall thank my mother for the care she has bestowed
on the child, the boy, and the young man. If her pious spirit has given
a right direction to my career, and watched faithfully over my steps,
the untarnished record of the son cannot but rejoice the heart of the
father--a record which is the undoubted product of religious training."

"You are a good son, and I am proud of you," accorded Mr. Conrad with
candor. "Your mother, too, is a woman whose equal is not to be found.
All this is very well. But, if Louise's city manners and free way of
thinking scandalize you, you are sheerly narrow-minded. I have been
noticing her for years, and have learned to value her industry and
domestic virtues. She has not a particle of extravagance; on the
contrary, she has a decided leaning towards economy and thrift. She
will make an unexceptionable wife. Do you imagine, my son, my choice
could be a blind one when I fixed upon Louise to share the property
which, through years of toil, I have amassed by untiring energy?"

"I do not deny the lady has the qualities you mention, my dear father."


"Moreover, she is a millionaire, and handsome, very handsome, and you
are in love with her--what more do you want?"

"The most important thing of all, father. The very soul of conjugal
felicity is wanting, which is oneness of faith in supernatural truth.
What I adore, Louise denies; what I revere, she hates; what I practise,
she scorns. Louise never prays, never goes to church, never receives
the sacraments, in a word, she has not a spark of religion."

"That will all come right," returned Mr. Conrad. "Louise will learn to
pray. You must not, simpleton, expect a banker's daughter to be for
ever counting her beads like a nun. Take my word for it, the weight of
a wife's responsibilities will make her serious enough."

"Serious perhaps, but not religious, for she is totally devoid of
faith."

"Enough; you shall marry her nevertheless," broke in the father. "It is
my wish that you shall marry her. I will not suffer opposition."

For a moment the young man sat silent, struggling painfully with the
violence of his own feelings.

"Father," said he, then, "you command what I cannot fulfil, because it
goes against my conscience. I beg you not to do violence to my
conscience; violence is opposed to your own and my Christian
principles. An atheist or a progressionist who does not recognize a
higher moral order, might insist upon his son's marrying an infidel for
the sake of a million. But you cannot do so, for it is not millions of
money that you and I look upon as the highest good. Do not, therefore,
dear father, interfere with my moral freedom; do not force me into a
union which my religion prohibits."

"What does this mean?" And a dark frown gathered on the old gentleman's
forehead. "Defiance disguised in religious twaddle? Open rebellion? Is
this the manner in which my son fulfils the duty of filial obedience?"

"Pardon me, father," said the youth with deferential firmness, "there
is no divine law making it obligatory upon a father to select a wife
for his son. Consequently, also, the duty of obedience on this point
does not rest upon the son. Did I, beguiled by passion or driven by
recklessness, wish to marry a creature whose depravity would imperil my
temporal and eternal welfare, your duty, as a father, would be to
oppose my rashness, and my duty, as a son, would be to obey you. Louise
is just such a creature; she is artfully plotting against my religious
principles, against my loyalty to God and the church. She has put upon
herself as a task to lead me from the darkness of superstition into the
light of modern advancement. I overheard her when she said to her
brother, 'Did I for an instant doubt that Seraphin may be reclaimed
from superstition, I would renounce my union with him, I would forego
all the gratifications of wealth, so much do I detest stupid
credulity.' Hence I should have to look forward to being constantly
annoyed by my wife's fanatical hostility to my religion. There never
would be an end of discord and wrangling. And what kind of children
would such a mother rear? She would corrupt the little ones, instil
into their innocent souls the poison of her own godlessness, and make
me the most wretched of fathers. For these reasons Miss Greifmann shall
not become my wife---no, never! I implore you, dear father, do not
require from me what my conscience will not permit, and what I shall on
no condition consent to," concluded the young man with a tone of
decision.

Mr. Conrad had observed a solemn silence, like a man who suddenly
beholds an unsuspected phenomenon exhibited before him. Seraphin's
words produced, as it were, a burst of vivid light upon his mind,
dispelling the multitudinous schemes and speculations that nestled in
every nook and depth. The effect of this sudden illumination became
perceptible at once, for Mr. Gerlach lost the points of view which had
invariably brought before his vision the million of the Greifmanns, and
he began to feel a growing esteem for the stand taken by his son.

"Your language sounds fabulous," said he.

"Here, father, is my diary. In it you will find a detailed account of
what I have briefly stated."

Gerlach took the book and shoved it into the breast-pocket of his coat.
In an instant, however, his imagination conjured up to him a picture of
the Count of Hatzfurth's splendid estate, and he went on coldly and
deliberately: "Hear me, Seraphin! Your marriage with Louise is a
favorite project upon which I have based not a few expectations. The
observations you have made shall not induce me to renounce this project
unconditionally, for you may have been mistaken. I shall take notes
myself and test this matter. If your view is confirmed, our project
will have been an air castle. You shall be left entirely unmolested in
your convictions."

Seraphin embraced his father.

"Let us have no scene; hear me out. Should it turn out, on the other
hand, that your judgment is erroneous, should Louise not belong to yon
crazy progressionist mob who aim to dethrone God and subvert the order
of society, should her hatred against religion be merely a silly
conforming to the fashionable impiety of the age, which good influences
may correct--then I shall insist upon your marrying her. Meanwhile I
want you to maintain a strict neutrality--not a step backward nor a
step in advance. Now to tea, and let your countenance betray nothing of
what has passed." He drew his son to his bosom and imprinted a kiss on
his forehead.

The millionaires were seated around the tea-table. Mr. Conrad playfully
commended Louise's talent for cooking. Apparently without design he
turned the conversation upon the elections, and, to Seraphin's utter
astonishment, eulogized the beneficent power of liberal doctrines.

"Our age," said he, "can no longer bear the hampering notions of the
past. In the material world, steam and machinery have brought about
changes which call for corresponding changes in the world of intellect.
Great revolutions have already commenced. In France, Renan has written
a _Life of Christ_, and in our own country Protestant convocations are
proclaiming an historical Christ who was not God, but only an
extraordinary man. You hardly need to be assured that I too take a deep
interest in the intellectual struggles of my countrymen, but an excess
of business does not permit me to watch them closely. I am obliged to
content myself with such reports as the newspapers furnish. I should
like to read Renan's work, which seems to have created a great
sensation. They say it suits our times admirably."

The brother and sister were not a little astonished at the old
gentleman's unusual communicativeness.

"It is a splendid book," exclaimed Louise--"charming as to style, and
remarkably liberal and considerate towards the worshippers of Christ."

"So I have everywhere been told," said Mr. Conrad.

"Have you read the book, Louise?"

"Not less than four times, three times in French and once in German."

"Do you think a farmer whose moments are precious as gold could forgive
himself the reading of Renan's book in view of the multitude of his
urgent occupations?" asked he, smiling.

"The reading of a book that originates a new intellectual era is also a
serious occupation," maintained the beautiful lady.

"Very true; yet I apprehend Renan's attempt to disprove to me the
divinity of Christ would remain unsuccessful, and it would only cause
me the loss of some hours of valuable time."

"Read it, Mr. Gerlach, do read it. Renan's arguments are unanswerable."

"So you have been convinced, Louise?"

"Yes, indeed, quite."

"Well, now, Renan is a living author, he is the lion of the day, and
nothing could be more natural than that the fair sex should grow
enthusiastic over him. But, of course, at your next confession you will
sorrowfully declare and retract your belief in Renan."

The young lady cast a quick glance at Seraphin, and the brim of her
teacup concealed a proud, triumphant smile.

"Our city is about taking a bold step," said Carl, breaking the
silence. "We are to have common schools, in order to take education
from the control of the clergy." And he went on to relate what Schwefel
had reported.

"When is the barbecue to come off?" inquired Mr. Conrad.

"On the 10th of August."

"Perhaps I shall have time to attend this demonstration," said Gerlach.
"Hearts reveal themselves at such festivities. One gets a clear insight
into the mind of the multitude. You, Louise, have put progress under
obligations by so cheerfully advancing to meet it."

After these words the landholder rose and went to his room. The next
morning he proceeded on his journey, taking with him Seraphin's diary.
The author himself he left at the Palais Greifmann in anxious
uncertainty about future events.




                              CHAPTER IX.

                     FAITH AND SCIENCE OF PROGRESS.


Seraphin usually look an early ride with Carl. The banker was overjoyed
at the wager, about the winning of which he now felt absolute
certainty. He expressed himself confident that before long he would
have the pleasure of going over the road on the back of the best racer
in the country. "The noble animals," said he, "shall not be brought by
the railway; it might injure them. I shall send my groom for them to
Chateau Hallberg. He can ride the distance in two days."

Seraphin could not help smiling at his friend's solicitude for the
horses.

"Do not sell the bear's skin before killing the bear," answered he. "I
may not lose the horses, but may, on the contrary, acquire a pleasant
claim to twenty thousand florins."

"That is beyond all possibility," returned the banker. "Hans Shund is
now chief-magistrate, has been nominated to the legislature, and in a
few days will be elected. Mr. Hans will appear as a shining light
to-morrow, when he is to state his political creed in a speech to his
constituents. Of course, you and I shall go to hear him. Next will
follow his election, then my groom will hasten to Chateau Hallberg to
fetch the horses. Are you sorry you made the bet?"

"Not at all! I should regret very much to lose my span of bays. Still,
the bet will be of incalculable benefit to me. I will have learned
concerning men and manners what otherwise I could never have dreamed
of. In any event, the experience gained will be of vast service to me
during life.

"I am exceedingly glad to know it, my dear fellow," assured Greifmann.
"Your acquaintance with the present has been very superficial. You have
learned a great deal in a few days, and it is gratifying to hear you
acknowledge the fact."

The banker had not, however, caught Gerlach's meaning.

But for the wager, Seraphin would not have become acquainted with
Louise's intellectual standpoint. He would probably have married her
for the sake of her beauty, would have discovered his mistake when it
could not be corrected, and would have found himself condemned to spend
his life with a woman whose principles and character could only annoy
and give him pain. As it was, he was tormented by the fear that his
father might not coincide in his opinion of the young lady. What if the
old gentleman considered her hostility to religion as a mere
fashionable mania unsupported by inner conviction, a girlish whim
changeable like the wind, which with little effort might be made to
veer round to the point or the most unimpeachable orthodoxy? He had not
uttered a word condemning Louise's infatuation about Renan. On taking
leave he had parted with her in a friendly, almost hearty, manner,
proof sufficient that the young lady's doubtful utterances at tea had
not deceived him.

Upon reaching home, Gerlach sat in his room with his eyes thoughtfully
fixed upon a luminous square cast by the sun upon the floor. Quite
naturally his thoughts ran upon the marriage, and to the prospect of
having to maintain his liberty by hard contest with his inflexible
parent. He was unshaken in his resolution not to accede to the
projected alliance, and, when a will morally severe conceives
resolutions of this sort, they usually stand the hardest tests. So
absorbing were his reflections that he did not hear John announcing a
visitor. He nodded mechanically in reply to the words that seemed to
come out of the distance, and the servant disappeared.

Soon after a country girl appeared entrance of the room. In both hands
she was carrying a small basket made of peeled willows, quite new. A
snow-white napkin was spread over the basket. The girl's dress was
neat, her figure was slender and graceful. Her hair, which was wound
about the head in heavy plaits, was golden and encircled her forehead
as with a _nimbus_. Her features were delicate and beautiful, and she
looked upon the young gentleman with a pair of deep-blue eyes. Thus
stood she for an instant in the door of the apartment. There was a
smile about her mouth and a faint flush upon her cheeks.

"Good-morning, Mr. Seraphin!" said a sweet voice.

The youth started at this salutation and looked at the stranger with
surprise. She was just then standing on the sunlit square, her hair
gleamed like the purest gold, and a flood of light streamed upon her
youthful form. He did not return the greeting. He looked at her as if
frightened, rose slowly, and bowed in silence.

"My father sends some early grapes which he begs you to have the
goodness to accept."

She drew nearer, and he received the basket from her hand.

"I am very thankful!" said he. And, raising the napkin, the delicious
fruit smiled in his face. "These are a rarity this season. To whom am I
indebted for this friendly attention?"

"The obligation is all on our side, Mr. Seraphin," she replied
trustfully to the generous benefactor of her family. "Father is sorry
that he cannot offer you something better."

"Ah! you are Holt's daughter?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin."

"Your name is Johanna, is it not?"

"Mechtild, Mr. Seraphin."

"Will you be so good as to sit down?" And he pointed her to a sofa.

Mechtild, however, drew a chair and seated herself.

He had noted her deportment, and could not but marvel at the graceful
action, the confiding simplicity, and well-bred self-possession of the
extraordinary country girl. As she sat opposite to him, she looked so
pure, so trusting and sincere, that his astonishment went on
increasing. He acknowledged to himself never to have beheld eyes whose
expression came so directly from the heart--a heart whose interior must
be equally as sunny and pure.

"How are your good parents?"

"They are very well, Mr. Seraphin. Father has gone to work with renewed
confidence. The sad--ah! the terrible period is past. You cannot
imagine, Mr. Seraphin, how many tears you have dried, how much misery
you have relieved!"

The recollection of the ruin that had been hanging over her home
affected her painfully; her eyes glistened, and tears began to roll
down her cheeks. But she instantly repressed the emotion, and exhibited
a beautiful smile on her face. Seraphin's quick eye had observed both
the momentary feeling, and that she had resolutely checked it in order
not to annoy him by touching sorrowful chords. This trait of delicacy
also excited the admiration of the gentleman.

"Your father is not in want of employment?" he inquired with interest.

"No, sir! Father is much sought on account of his knowledge of farming.
Persons who have ground, but no team of their own, employ him to put in
crops for them."

"No doubt the good man has to toil hard?"

"That is true, sir; but father seems to like working, and we children
strive to help him as much as we can."

"And do you like working?"

"I do, indeed, Mr. Seraphin. Life would be worthless if one did not
labor. Man's life on earth is so ordered as to show him that he must
labor. Doing nothing is abominable, and idleness is the parent of many
vices."

Another cause of astonishment for the millionaire. She did not converse
like an uneducated girl from the country. Her accurate, almost choice
use of words indicated some culture, and her concise observations
revealed both mind and reflection. He felt a strong desire to fathom
the mystery--to cast a glance into Mechtild's past history.

"Have you always lived at home, or have you ever been away at school?"

She must have detected something ludicrous in the question, for
suddenly a degree of archness might be observed in her amiable smile.

"You mean, whether I have received a city education? No, sir! Father
used to speak highly of the clearness of my mind, and thought I might
even be made a teacher. But he had not the means to give me the
necessary amount of schooling. Until I was fourteen years old, I went
to school to the nuns here in town. I used to come in of mornings and
go back in the evening. I studied hard, and father and mother always
had the satisfaction of seeing me rewarded with a prize at the
examinations. I am very fond of books, and make good use of the convent
library. On Sundays, after vespers, I wait till the door of the
book-room is opened. I still spend my leisure time in reading, and on
Sundays and holidays I know no greater pleasure than to read nice
instructive books. At my work I think over what I have read, and I
continue practising composition according to the directions of the good
ladies of the convent."

"And were you always head at school?"

"Yes," she admitted, with a blush.

"You have profited immensely by your opportunities," he said
approvingly. "And the desire for learning has not yet left you?"

"This inordinate craving still continues to torment me," she
acknowledged frankly.

"Inordinate--why inordinate?"

"Because, my station and calling do not require a high degree of
culture. But it is so nice to know, and it is so nice to have refined
intercourse with each others. For seven years I admired the elegant
manners of the convent ladies, and I learned many a lesson from them."

"How old are you now?"

"Seventeen, Mr. Seraphin."

"What a pity you did not enter some higher educational institution!"
said he.

A pause followed. He looked with reverence upon the artless girl whom
God had so richly endowed, both in body and mind, Mechtild rose.

"Please accept, also, my most heartfelt thanks for your generous aid,"
she said, with emotion, "All my life long I shall remember you before
God, Mr. Seraphin. The Almighty will surely repay you what alas! we
cannot."

She made a courtesy, and he accompanied her through all the apartments
as far as the front door. Here the girl, turning, bowed to him once
more and went away.

Returning to his room, Seraphin stood and contemplated the grapes.
Strongly did the delicious fruit tempt him, but he touched not one. He
then pulled out a drawer, and hid the gifts as though it were a costly
treasure. For the rest of the day, Mechtild's bright form hovered near
him, and the sweet charm of her eyes, so full of soul, continually
worked on his imagination. When he again went into Louise's company,
the grace and innocence of the country girl gained ground in his
esteem. Compared with Mechtild's charming naturalness, Louise's manner
appeared affected, spoiled; through evil influences. The difference in
the expression of their eyes struck him especially. In Louise's eyes
there burned a fierce glow at times, which roused passion and stirred
the senses. Mechtild's neither glowed nor flashed; but from their
limpid depths beamed goodness so genuine and serenity so unclouded,
that Seraphin could compare them to nothing but two heralds of peace
and innocence. Louise's eyes, thought he, flash like two meteors of the
night; Mechtild's beam like two mild suns in a cloudless sky of spring.
As often as he entered the room where the grapes lay concealed, he
would unlock the drawer, examine the fragrant fruit, and handle the
basket which had been carried by her hands. He could not himself help
smiling at this childish action, and yet both great delicacy and deep
earnestness are manifested in honoring objects that have been touched
by pure hands, and in revering places hallowed by the presence of the
good.

Next morning the banker asked his guest to accompany him to the church
of S. Peter, where Hans Shund was to address a large gathering.

"In a church?" Gerlach exclaimed, with amazement.

"Don't get frightened, my good fellow. The church is no longer in the
service of religion. It has been _secularized_ by the state, and is
customarily used as a hall for dancing. There will be quite a crowd,
for several able speakers are to discuss the question of common
schools. The church has been chosen for the meeting on account of the
crowd."

The millionaires drove to the desecrated church. A tumultuous mass
swarmed about the portal. "Let us permit them to push us; we shall get
in most easily by letting them do so," said the banker merrily. Two
officious progressionists, recognizing the banker, opened a passage for
them through the throng. They reached the interior of the church, which
was now an empty space, stripped of every ornament proper to a house of
God. In the sanctuary could yet be seen, as if in mournful abandonment,
a large quadrangular slab, that had been the altar, and attached to one
of the side walls was an exquisite Gothic pulpit, which on occasions
like the present was used for a rostrum. Everywhere else reigned
silence and desolation.

The nave was filled by a motley mass. The chieftains of progress, some
elegantly dressed, others exhibiting frivolous miens and huge beards,
crowded upon the elevation of the chancel. All the candidates for the
legislature were present, not for the purpose of proving their
qualifications for the office--progress never troubled itself about
those--but to air their views on the subject of education. There were
speakers on hand of acknowledged ability in the discussion of the
doctrines of progress, who were to lay the result of their
investigations before the people.

Seraphia also noted some anxious faces in the crowd. They were
citizens, whose sons were alarmed at the thought of yielding up the
training of their children into the hands of infidelity. And near the
pulpit stood two priests, irreverently crowded against the wall,
targets for the scornful pleasantries of the wits of the mob. Leader
Schwefel was voted into the chair by acclamation. He thanked the
assembly in a short speech for the honor conferred, and then announced
that Mr. Till, member of the former assembly, would address the
meeting. Amid murmurs of expectation a short, fat gentleman climbed
into the pulpit. First a red face with a copper-tipped nose bobbed
above the ledge of the pulpit, next came a pair of broad shoulders,
upon which a huge head rested without the intermediary of a neck,
two puffy hands were laid upon the desk, and the commencement of a
well-rounded pauch could just be detected by the eye. Mr. Till, taking
two handfuls of his shaggy beard, drew them slowly through his fingers,
looked composedly upon the audience, and breathed hotly through mouth
and nostrils.

"Gentlemen," he began, with a voice that struggled out from a mass of
flesh and fat, "I am not given to many words, you know. What need is
there of many words and long speeches? We know what we want, and what
we want we will have in spite of the machinations of Jesuits and the
whinings of an ultramontane horde. You all know how I acquitted myself
at the last legislature, and if you will again favor me with your
suffrages, I will endeavor once more to give satisfaction. You know my
record, and I shall remain staunch to the last."

Cries of "Good!" from various directions.

"Gentlemen! if you know my record, you must also be aware that I am
passionately fond of the chase. I even follow this amusement in the
legislative hall. Our country abounds in a sort of black game, and for
me it is rare sport to pursue this species of game in the assembly."

A wild tumult of applause burst forth. Jeers and coarse witticisms were
bandied about on every side of the two clergymen, who looked meekly
upon these orgies of progress.

"Gentlemen!" Till continued, "the _blacks_ are a dangerous kind of wild
beast. They have heretofore been ranging in a preserve, feeding on the
fat of the land. That is an abuse that challenges the wrath of heaven.
It must be done away with. The beasts of prey that in the dark ages
dwelt in castles have long since been exterminated, and their rocky
lairs have been reduced to ruins. Well, now, let us keep up the chase
in both houses of the legislature until the last of these _black_
beasts is destroyed. Should you entrust to me again your interests, I
shall return to the seat of government, to aid with renewed energy in
ridding the land of these creatures that are enemies both of education
and liberty."

Amid prolonged applause the fat man descended. The chieftains shook him
warmly by the hand, assuring him that the cause absolutely demanded his
being reelected.

Gerlach was aghast at Till's speech. He hardly knew which deserved most
scorn, the vulgarity of the speaker or the abjectness of those who had
applauded him. Their wild enthusiasm was still surging through the
building, when Hans Shund mounted the pulpit. The chairman rang for
order; the tumult ceased. In mute suspense the multitude awaited the
great speech of the notorious usurer, thief, and debauchee. And indeed,
progress might well entertain great expectations, for Hans Shund had
read a pile of progressionist pamphlets, had extracted the strong
passages, and out of them had concocted a right racy speech. His speech
might with propriety have been designated the Gospel of Progress, for
Hans Shund had made capital of whatever freethinkers had lucubrated in
behalf of so-called enlightenment, and in opposition to Christianity.
The very appearance of the speaker gave great promise. His were not
coarse features and goggle eyes like Till's; his piercing feline eyes
looked intellectual. His face was rather pale, the result, no doubt, of
unusual application, and he had skilfully dyed his sandy hair. His
position as mayor of the city seemed also to entitle him to special
attention, and these several claims were enhanced by a white necktie,
white vest, and black cloth swallowtail coat.

"Gentlemen," began the mayor with solemnity, "my honorable predecessor
in this place has told you with admirable sagacity that the kernel of
every political question is of a religious character. Indeed, religion
is linked with every important question of the day, it is the _ratio
ultima_ of the intellectual movement of our times. Men of thought and
of learning are all agreed as to the condition to which our social life
should be and must be brought. The friends of the people are actively
and earnestly at work trying to further a healthy development of our
social and political status. Nor have their efforts been utterly
fruitless. Progress has made great conquests; yet, gentlemen, these
conquests are far from being complete. What is it that is most hostile
to liberalism in morals, to enlightenment, and to humanity? It is the
antiquated faith of departed days. Have we not heard the language of
the Holy Father in the Syllabus? But the Holy Father at Rome,
gentlemen, is no father of ours--happily he is the father only of
stupid and credulous men."

"Bravo! Well said!" resounded from the audience. Flaschen nudged
Spitzkopf, who sat next to him. "Shund is no mean speaker. Even that
fellow Voelk, of Bavaria, cannot compete with Shund."

"Gentlemen, our good sense teaches us to smile with pity at the
infallible declarations of yon Holy Father. We are firmly convinced
that papal decrees can no more stop the onward march of civilization
than they can arrest the heavenly bodies in their journeys about the
sun. 'Tis true, an [oe]cumenical council is lowering like a black
storm-cloud. But let the council meet; let it declare the Syllabus an
article of faith; it will never succeed in destroying the treasures of
independent thought which creative intellects have been hoarding up for
centuries among every people. Since men of culture have ceased to yield
unquestioning submission, like dumb sheep, to the church, they have
begun to discover that nowhere are so many falsehoods uttered as in
pulpits."

Tremendous applause, clapping, and swinging of hats, followed this
eloquent period. A distinguished gentleman, laying his hand upon Till's
shoulder, asked: "What calibre of ammunition do you use in hunting
_black_ game?"

"Conical balls of two centimetres," replied Till, with no great wit.

"Yon fellow in the pulpit fires shells of a hundredweight, I should
say. And if in the legislative assembly his shells all explode, not a
man of them will be left alive."

Till thought this witticism so good that he set up a loud roar of
laughter, that could be heard above the general uproar.

Stimulated by these marks of appreciation, Shund waxed still more
eloquent. "Gentlemen," cried he, "no body of men is more savagely
opposed to science and culture than a conventicle of so-called servants
of God. Were you to repeat the multiplication table several times over,
there would be as much prayer and sense in it as in what is designated
the Apostles' Creed."

More cheering and boundless enthusiasm. "Gentlemen!" exclaimed the
speaker, with thundering emphasis and a hideous expression of hatred on
his face, "the significance of religious dogmas is simply a sort of
hom[oe]opathic concoction to which every succeeding age contributes
some drops of fanaticism. Subjected to the microscope of science, the
whole basis of the Christian church evaporates into thin mist. We must
shield our children against religious fables. Away with dogmas and saws
from the Bible; away with the Trinity; the divinity and humanity of
Jesus, and other such stuff! Away with apothegms such as this: _Christ
is my life, my death, and my gain._ Such things are opposed to nature.
Children's minds are thereby warped to untruthfulness and hyprocrisy.
In this manner the child is deprived of the power of thinking; loses
all interest in intellectual pursuits, and ceases to feel the need of
further culture. The times are favorable for a reformation. Our
imperial and royal rulers have at length realized that minds must be
set free. For this end it was as unavoidable for them to break with the
church and priesthood as it is necessary for us. If we cherish our
fatherland and the people, we must take the initiative. We are not
striving to effect a revolution; we want intellectual development,
profounder knowledge, and healthier morality.

     "Shall peace be seen beneath our skies,
      The spirit's freedom first must rise,"

concluded the orator poetically, and he came down amidst a very
hurricane of applause.

There followed a lull. In the audience, heads protruded and necks were
stretched that their possessors might obtain a glimpse of the great
Shund. In the chancel, the chiefs and leaders crowded around him,
smiling, bowing, and shaking his hand in admiration.

"You have won the laurels," smirked a fellow from amidst a wilderness
of beard.

"Your election to the Assembly is a certainty," declared another.

"You carry deadly weapons against Christ," said a professor.

Mr. Hans smiled, and nodded so often that he was seized with a pain in
the muscles of the face and neck. At length, the chairman's bell came
to the rescue.

"The Rev. Mr. Morgenroth will now address the meeting."

The clergyman mounted the rostrum, but scarcely had he appeared there,
when the crowd became possessed by a legion of hissing demons.

"Gentlemen," began the fearless priest, "the duty of my calling as well
as personal conviction demands that I should enter a solemn protest
against the sundering of school and church."

Further the priest was not allowed to proceed. Loud howling, hissing,
and whistling drowned his voice. The president called for order.

"In the name of good-breeding, I beg this most honorable assembly to
hear the speaker out in patience," cried Mr. Schwefel.

The mob relaxed into unwilling silence like a growling beast.

"Not all the citizens of this town are affected with infidelity," the
reverend gentleman went on to say. "Many honorable gentlemen believe in
Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and in his church. These citizens wish
their children to receive a religious education; it would, therefore,
be unmitigated terrorism, tyrannical constraint of conscience, to force
Christian parents to bring up their children in the spirit of
unbelief."

This palpable truth progress could not bear to listen to. A mad yell
was set up. Clenched fists were shaken at the clergyman, and fierce
threats thundered from all sides of the church. "Down with the priest!"
"Down with the accursed blackcoat!" "Down with the dog of a Jesuit!"
and similar exclamations resounded from all sides. The chairman rang
his bell in vain. The mob grew still more furious and noisy. The
clergyman was compelled to come down.

"Such is the liberty, the education, the tolerance, the humanity of
progress," said he sadly to his colleague.

Once more the bell of the chairman was heard amid the tumult.

"Mr. Seicht, officer of the crown, will now address the meeting,"
Schwefel announced.

The audience were seized with amazement, and not without a cause. A
dignitary of a higher order, a member of the administration, ascended
the pulpit for the purpose of making an assault upon Christian
education. He was about to make war upon morals and faith, the true
supports of every solid government, the sources of the moral sentiment
and of the prosperity of human society. A remnant of honesty and a
lingering sense of justice may have raised a protest in Seicht's
mind against his undertaking; for his bearing was anything but
self-possessed, and he had the appearance of a wretch that was being
goaded on by an evil spirit. Besides, he had the habit peculiar to
bureaucrats of speaking in harsh, snarling tones. Seicht was conscious
of these peculiarities of his bureaucratic nature, and labored to
overcome them. The effort imparted to his delivery an air of constraint
and a sickening sweetness which were climaxed by the fearfully involved
style in which his speech was clothed.

"Gentlemen," said Seicht, "in view of present circumstances, and in
consideration of the requirements of culture whose spirit is
incompatible with antiquated conditions, popular education, which in
connection with domestic training is the foundation of the future
citizen, must also undergo such changes as will bring it into harmony
with modern enlightened sentiment; and this is the more necessary as
the provisions of the law, which progress in its enlightenment and
clearness of perception cannot refuse to recognize as a fit model for
the imitation of a party dangerous to the state--I mean the party of
Jesuitism and ultramontranism--allow untrammelled scope for the
reformation of the school system, provided the proper clauses of the
law and the ordinances relating to this matter are not left out of
consideration. Accordingly, it is my duty to refer this honorable
meeting especially to the ministerial decree referring to common
schools, in accordance with which said common schools may be
established, after a vote of the citizens entitled to the elective
franchise, as soon as the need of this is felt; which in the present
instance cannot be contested, since public opinion has taken a decided
stand against denominational schools, in which youth is trained after
unbending forms of religion, and in doctrines that evidently conflict
with the triumph of the present, and with those exact sciences which
make up the only true gospel--the gospel of progress, which scarcely in
any respect resembles the narrow gospel of dubious dogmas--dubious for
the reason that they lack the spirit of advancement, and are
prejudicial to the investigation of the problems of a God, of material
nature, and of man."

Here leader Sand thrust his fingers in his ears.

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed he wrathfully, "what a shallow
babbler! What is he driving at? His periods are a yard long; and when
he has done, a man is no wiser than when he began. Gospel--gospel of
progress--fool--numskull--down! down!"

"Quite a remarkable instance, this!" said Gerlach to the banker.
"Evidently this man is trying might and main to please, yet he only
succeeds in torturing his hearers."

"I will explain this man to you," replied the banker. "Heretofore Mr.
Seicht has been a most complete exemplar of absolute bureaucracy. The
only divinity he knew were the statutes, the only heaven the bureau,
and the only safe way of reaching supreme felicity was, in his opinion,
to render unquestioning obedience to ministerial rescripts. Suddenly
Mr. Seicht heard the card-house of bureaucracy start in all its joints.
His divinity lost its worshippers, and his heaven lost all charms for
those who were seeking salvation. He felt the ground moving under him,
he realized the colossal might of progress, and hastened to commend
himself to this party by adopting liberal ideas. He is now aiming to
secure a seat in the house of delegates, which is subsequently to serve
him as a stepping-stone to a place in the cabinet. Just listen how the
man is agonizing! He is wasting his strength, however, and the attitude
of the audience is beginning to get alarming."

For some time past, the chieftains in the chancel had been shaking
their heads at the efforts of this official advocate of progress. To
avoid being tortured by hearing, they had engaged in conversation. The
auditors in the nave of the church were also growing restive. The
speaker, however, continued blind to every hint and insinuation. At
last a tall fellow in the crowd swung his hat and cried, "Three cheers
for Mr. Seicht!" The whole nave joined in a deafening cheer. Seicht,
imagining the cheering to be a tribute to the excellence of his effort,
stopped for a moment to permit the uproar to subside, intending then to
go on with his speech; but no sooner had he resumed than the cheering
burst forth anew, and was so vigorously sustained that the man, at
length perceiving the meaning of the audience, came down amid peals of
derisive laughter.

"Serves the gabbler right!" said Sand. "He's a precious kind of a
fellow! The booby thinks he can hoist himself into the chamber of
deputies by means of the shoulders of progress, and thence to climb up
higher. But it happens that we know whom we have to deal with, and we
are not going to serve as stirrups for a turn-coat official."

The chairman wound up with a speech in which he announced that the vote
on the question of common schools would soon come off, and then
adjourned the meeting.

The millionaires drew back to allow the crowd to disperse. Near them
stood Mr. Seicht, alone and dejected. The countenances of the
chieftains had yielded him no evidence on which to base a hope that his
speech had told, and that he might expect to occupy a seat in the
assembly. Moreover, Sand had rudely insulted the ambitious official to
his face. This he took exceedingly hard. All of a sudden, he spied the
banker in the chancel, and went over to greet him. Greifmann introduced
Gerlach.

"I am proud," Mr. Seicht asseverated, "of the acquaintance of the
wealthiest proprietor of the country."

"Pardon the correction, sir; my father is the proprietor."

"No matter, you are his only son," rejoined Seicht. "Your presence
proves that you take an interest in the great questions of the day.
This is very laudable."

"My presence, however, by no means proves that I concur in the object
of this meeting. Curiosity has led me hither."

The official directed a look of inquiry at the banker.

"Sheer curiosity," repeated this gentleman coldly.

"Can you not, then, become reconciled to the spirit of progress?" asked
Seicht, with a smile revealing astonishment.

"The value of my convictions consists in this, that I worship genuine
progress," replied the millionaire gravely. "The progress of this
community, in particular, looks to me like retrogression."

"I am astonished at what you say," returned the official; "for surely
Shund's masterly speech has demonstrated that we are keeping pace with
the age."

"I cannot see, sir, how fiendish hatred of religion can be taken for
progress. This horrible, bloodthirsty monster existed even in the days
of Nero and Tiberius, as we all know. Can the resurrection of it, now
that it has been mouldering for centuries, be seriously looked upon as
a step in advance? Rather a step backward, I should think, of eighteen
hundred years. Especially horrible and revolting is this latest
instance of tyranny, forcing parents who entertain religious sentiments
to send their children to irreligious schools. Not even Nero and
Tiberius went so far. On this point, I agree, there has been progress,
but it consists in putting a most unnatural constraint upon
conscience."

Gerlach's language aroused the official. He was face to face with an
ultramontane. The mere sight of such an one caused a nervous twitching
in his person. He resorted at once to bureaucratic weapons in making
his onslaught.

"You are mistaken, my dear sir--you are very much mistaken. The spirit
of the modern state demands that the schools of the multitude,
particularly public institutions, should be accessible to the children
of every class of citizens, without distinction of religious
profession. Consequently, the schools must be taken from under the
authority, direction, and influence of the church, and put entirely
under civil and political control. Such, too, is now the mind of our
rulers, besides that public sentiment calls for the change."

"But, Mr. Seicht, in making such a change, the state despotically
infringes on the province of religion."

"Not despotically, Mr. Gerlach, but legally; for the state is the
fountain-head of all right, and consequently possessed of unlimited
right."

"You enunciate principles, sir, which differ vastly from what morality
and religion teach."

"What signify morals--what signifies religion? Mere antiquated forms,
sir, with no living significance," explained Seicht, lavishly
displaying the treasures of the storehouse of progressionist wisdom.
"The past submitted quietly to the authority of religion, because there
existed then a low degree of intellectual culture. At present there is
only one authority--it is the preponderance of numbers and of material
forces. Consequently, the only real authority is the majority in power.
On the other hand, authorities based upon the supposed existence of a
supersensible world have lost their cause of being, for the reason that
exact science plainly demonstrates the nonexistence of an immaterial
world. _Cessante causa, cessat effectus_, the supersensible world, the
basis of religious authority, being gone, it logically results that
religious authority itself is gone. Hence the only real authority
existing in a state is the majority, and to this every citizen is
obliged to submit. You marvel, Mr. Gerlach. What I have said is not my
own personal view, but the expression of the principles which alone
pass current at the present day."

"I agree in what you say," said the banker. "You have spoken from the
standpoint of the times. The controlling power is the majority."

"Shund, then, accurately summed up the creed of the present age when he
said, 'Progress conquers death, destroys hell, rejects heaven, and
finds its god in the sweet enjoyment of life.' It is to be hoped that
all-powerful progress will next decree that there are no death and no
suffering upon earth, that all the hostile forces of nature have
ceased, that want and misery are no more, and that earth is a paradise
of sweet enjoyment for all."

Mr. Seicht was rather taken aback by this satire.

"Besides, gentlemen," proceeded Gerlach, "you will please observe that
the doctrine of state supremacy is a step backward of nearly two
thousand years. In Nero's day, but one source of right, namely, the
state, was recognized. In the head of the state, the emperor, were
centred all power, all authority, and all right. In his person, the
state was exalted into a divinity. Temples and altars were reared to
the emperor; sacrifices were offered to him; he was worshipped as a
deity. Even human sacrifices were not denied him if the imperial
divinity thought proper to demand them. And, now, to what condition did
these monstrous errors bring the world of that period? It became one
vast theatre of crime, immorality, and despotism. Slavery coiled itself
about men and things, and strangled their liberty. Matrimonial life
sank into the most loathsome corruption. Infanticide was permitted to
pass unpunished. The licentiousness of women was even greater than that
of men. Life and property became mere playthings for the whims of the
emperor and of his courtiers. Did the divine Caesar wish to amuse his
deeply sunken subjects, he had only to order the gladiators to butcher
one another, or some prisoners or slaves or Christians to be thrown to
tigers and panthers; this made a Roman holiday. Such, gentlemen, was
human society when it recognized no supersensible world, no God above,
no moral law. If our own progress proceeds much further in the path on
which it is marching, it will soon reach a similar fearful stage. We
already see in our midst the commencement of social corruption. We have
the only source of right proclaimed to be the divine state. Conscience
is being tyrannized over by a majority that rejects God and denies
future rewards and punishments. All the rest, even to the divine
despot, has already followed, or inevitably will follow. Therefore, Mr.
Seicht, the progress you so loudly boast of is mere stupid
retrogression, blind superstition, which falls prostrate before the
majority of a mob, and worships the omnipotence of the state."

"Don't you think my friend has been uttering some very bitter truths?"
asked the banker, with a smile.

"Pretty nearly so," replied the official demurely. "However, one can
detect the design, and cannot help getting out of humor."

"What design?" asked Seraphin.

"Of creating alarm against progress."

"Indeed, sir, you are mistaken. I, too, am enthusiastic about progress,
but genuine progress. And because I am an advocate of real progress I
cannot help detesting the monstrosity which the age would wish to palm
off on men instead."

The church was now cleared. Greifmann's carriage was at the door. The
millionaires drove off.

"Pity for this Gerlach!" thought the official, as he strode through the
street. "He is lost to progress, for he is too solidly rooted in
superstition to be reclaimed. War against nature's claims; deny healthy
physical nature its rights; re-establish terror of the seven capital
sins; permit the priesthood to tyrannize over conscience; restore the
worship of an unmathematical triune God--no! no!" cried he fiercely, "I
shall all go to the devil!"

A carriage whirled past him. He caste a glance into the vehicle, and
raised his hat to Mr. Hans Shund.

The chief magistrate was on his way home from the town-hall. He could
not rest under the weight of his laurels; the inebriation of his
triumph drove him into the room where sat his lonely and careworn wife.

"My election to the assembly is assured, wife." And he went on with a
minute account of the proceedings of the day.

The pale, emaciated lady sat bowed in silence over her work, and did
not look up.

"Well, wife, don't you take any interest in the honors won by your
husband? I should think you ought to feel pleased."

"All my joys are swallowed up in an abyss of unutterable wretchedness,"
replied she. "And my husband is daily deepening the gulf. Yesterday you
were again at a disreputable house. Your abominable deeds are heaped
mountain high--and am I to rejoice?"

"A thousand demons, wife, I'm beginning to believe you have spies on
foot!"

"I have not. But you are at the head of this city--your steps cannot
possibly remain unobserved."

"Very well!" cried he, "it shall be my effort in the assembly to bring
about such a change that there shall no longer be any houses of
disrepute. Narrow-minded moralists shall not be allowed to howl any
longer. The time is at hand, old lady--so-called disreputable houses
are to become places of amusement authorized by law."

He spoke and disappeared.




                               CHAPTER X.

                         PROGRESS GROWS JOLLY.


The agitators of progress were again hurrying through the streets and
alleys of the town. They knocked at every door and entered every house
to solicit votes in favor of common schools. Thanks to the overwhelming
might of the party in power, they again carried their measure.
Dependent, utterly enslaved, many yielded up their votes without
opposition. It is true conscience tortured many a parent for voting
against his convictions, for sacrificing his children to a system with
which he could not sympathize; but not a man in a dependent position
had the courage to vindicate for his child the religious training which
was being so ruthlessly swept away. Even men in high office gave way
before the encroaching despotism, for in the very uppermost ranks of
society also progress domineered.

One man only, fearless and firm, dared to put himself in the path of
the dominant power--the Rev. F. Morgenroth. From the pulpit, he
unmasked and scathed the unchristian design of debarring youth from
religious instruction, and of rearing a generation ignorant of God and
of his commandments. He warned parents against the evil, entreated them
to stand up conscientiously for the spiritual welfare of their
children, to reject the common schools, and to rescue the little ones
for the maternal guardianship of the church.

His sermon roused the entire progressionist camp. The local press
fiercely assailed the intrepid clergyman. Lies, calumnies, and
scurrility were vomited against him and his profession. Hans Shund
seized the pen, and indited newspaper articles of such a character as
one would naturally look for from a thief, usurer, and debauchee.
Morgenroth paid no attention to their disgraceful clamor, but continued
his opposition undismayed. By means of placards, he invited the
Catholic citizens to assemble at his own residence, for the purpose of
consulting about the best mode of thwarting the designs of the
liberals. This unexpected fearlessness put the men of culture,
humanity, and freedom beside themselves with rage. They at once decided
upon making a public demonstration. The chieftains issued orders to
their bands, and these at the hour appointed for the meeting mustered
before the residence of the priest. A noisy multitude, uttering
threats, took possession of the churchyard. If a citizen attempted to
make his way through the mob to the house, he was loaded with vile
epithets, at times even with kicks and blows. But a small number had
gathered around the priest, and these showed much alarm; for outside
the billows of progress were surging and every moment rising higher.
Stones were thrown at the house, and the windows were broken.
Parteiling, the commissary of police, came to remonstrate with the
clergyman.

"Dismiss the meeting," said he. "The excitement is assuming alarming
proportions."

"Commissary, we are under the protection of the law and of civil rule,"
replied Morgenroth. "We are not slaves and helots of progress. Are we
to be denied the liberty of discussing subjects of great importance in
our own houses?"

A boulder coming through the window crushed the inkstand on the table,
and rolled on over the floor. The men pressed to one side in terror.

"Your calling upon the law to protect you is utterly unreasonable under
present circumstances," said Parteiling. "Listen to the howling. Do you
want your house demolished? Do you wish to be maltreated? Will you have
open revolution? This all will surely follow if you persist in refusing
to dismiss the meeting. I will not answer for results."

Stones began to rain more densely, and the howling grew louder and more
menacing.

"Gentlemen," said Morgenroth to the men assembled, "since we are not
permitted to proceed with our deliberations, we will separate, with a
protest against this brutal terrorism."

"But, commissary," said a much frightened man, "how are we to get away?
These people are infuriated; they will tear us in pieces."

"Fear nothing, gentlemen; follow me," spoke the commissary, leading the
way.

The ultramontanes were hailed with a loud burst of scornful laughter.
The commissary, advancing to the gate, beckoned silence.

"In the name of the law, clear the place!" cried he.

The mob scoffed and yelled.

"Fetch out the slaves of the priest--make them run the gauntlet--down
with the Jesuits!"

At this moment, a man was noticed elbowing his way through the crowd;
presently Hans Shund stepped before the embarrassed guardian of public
order.

"Three cheers for the magistrate!" vociferated the mob.

Shund made a signal. Profound silence followed.

"Gentlemen," spoke the chief magistrate, in a tone of entreaty, "have
goodness to disperse."

Repeated cheers were raised, then the accumulation of corrupt elements
began to dissolve and flow off into every direction.

"I deeply regret this commotion of which I but a moment ago received
intelligence," said Shund. "The excitement of the people is
attributable solely to the imprudent conduct of Morgenroth."

"To be sure--to be sure!" assented Parteiling.

The place was cleared. The Catholics hurried home pursued and hooted by
straggling groups of rioters.

The signs of the approaching celebration began to be noticeable on the
town-common. Booths were being erected, tables were being disposed in
rows which reached further than the eye could see, wagon-loads of
chairs and benches were being brought from all parts of town, men were
busy sinking holes for climbing-poles and treacherous turnstiles; but
the most attractive feature of all the festival was yet invisible--free
beer and sausages furnished at public cost. The rumor alone, however,
of such cheer gladdened the heart of every thirsty voter, and
contributed greatly to the establishment of the system of common
schools. Bands of music paraded the town, gathered up voters, and
escorted them to the polls. As often as they passed before the
residence of a progressionist chieftain, the bands struck up an air,
and the crowd cheered lustily. They halted in front of the priest's
residence also. The band played, "Today we'll taste the parson's
cheer," the mob roaring the words, and then winding up with whistling
and guffaws of laughter. This sort of disorderly work was kept up
during three days. Then was announced in the papers in huge type: "An
overwhelming majority of the enlightened citizens of this city have
decided in favor of common schools. Herewith the existence of these
schools is secured and legalized."

On the fourth day, the celebration came off. The same morning Gerlach
senior arrived at the Palais Greifmann on his way home from the
Exposition.

"I am so glad!" cried Louise. "I was beginning to fear you would not
come, and getting provoked at your indifference to the interests of our
people. We have been having stirring times, but we have come off
victorious. The narrow-minded enemies of enlightenment are defeated.
Modern views now prevail, and education is to be remodelled and put in
harmony with the wants of our century."

"Times must have been stirring, for you seem almost frenzied, Louise,"
said Conrad.

"Had you witnessed the struggle and read the newspapers, you, too,
would have grown enthusiastic," declared the young lady.

"Even quotations advanced," said the banker. "It astonished me, and
I can account for it only by assuming that the triumph of the
common-school system is of general significance and an imperative
desideratum of the times."

"How can you have any doubt about it?" cried his sister. "Our town has
pioneered the way: the rest of Germany will soon adopt the same
system."

Seraphin greeted his father.

"Well, my son, you very likely have heard nothing whatever of this
hubbub about schools?"

"Indeed, I have, father. Carl and I were in the midst of the commotion
at the desecrated church of S. Peter. We saw and heard what it would
have been difficult to imagine." He then proceeded to give his father a
minute account of the meeting. His powerful memory enabled him to
repeat Shund's speech almost verbatim. The father listened attentively,
and occasionally directed a glance of observation at the young lady.
When Shund's coarse ridicule of Christian morals and dogmas was
rehearsed, Mr. Conrad lowered his eyes, and a frown flitted over his
brow. For the rest, his countenance was, as usual, cold and stern.

"This Mr. Shund made quite a strong speech," said he, in a nonchalant
way.

"He rather intensified the colors of truth, 'tis true," remarked
Louise. "The masses, however, like high coloring and vigorous
language."

A servant brought the banker a note.

"Good! Shund is elected to the assembly! The span of bays belongs to
me," exulted Carl Greifmann.

"Your bays Seraphin?" inquired the father. "How is this?"

Mr. Conrad had twice been informed of the wager; he had learned it
first from Seraphin's own lips, then also he had read of it in his
diary; still he asked again, and his son detailed the story a third
time.

"I should sooner have expected to see the heavens fall than to lose
that bet," added Seraphin.

"When a notorious thief and usurer is elected to the chief magistracy
and to the legislative assembly, the victory gained is hardly a
creditable one to the spirit of progress, my dear Carl. Don't you think
so, Louise?" said the landholder.

"You mustn't be too rigorous," replied the lady, with composure. "Rumor
whispers many a bit of scandal respecting Shund which does, indeed,
offend one's sense of propriety; for all that, however, Shund will play
his part brilliantly both in the assembly and in the town council. The
greatest of statesmen have had their foibles, as everybody knows."

"Very true," said Gerlach dryly. "Viewed from the standpoint of very
humane tolerance, Shund's disgusting habits may be considered
justifiable."

Seraphin left the parlor, and retired to his room. Here he wrestled
with violent feelings. His father's conduct was a mystery to him.
Opinions which conflicted with his own most sacred convictions, and
principles which brought an indignant flush to his cheek, were listened
to and apparently acquiesced in by his father. Shund's abominable
diatribe had not roused the old gentleman's anger; Louise's avowed
concurrence with the irreligious principles of the chieftain had not
even provoked his disapprobation.

"My God, my God! can it be possible?" cried he in an agony of despair.
"Has the love of gain so utterly blinded my father? Can he have sunk so
low as to be willing to immolate me, his only child, to a base
speculation? Can he be willing for the sake of a million florins to
bind me for life to this erring creature, this infidel Louise? Can a
paltry million tempt him to be so reckless and cruel? No! no! a
thousand times no!" exclaimed he. "I never will be the husband of this
woman, never--I swear it by the great God of heaven! Get angry with me,
father, banish me from your sight--it would be more tolerable than the
consciousness of being the husband of a woman who believes not in the
Redeemer of the world. I have sworn--the matter is for ever settled."
He threw himself into an arm-chair, and moodily stared at the opposite
wall. By degrees, his excitement subsided, and he became quiet.

In fancy, he beheld beside Louise's form another lovely one rise
up--that of the girl with the golden hair, the bright eyes, and the
winning smile. She had stood before him on this very floor, in her neat
and simple country garb, radiant with innocence and purity, adorned
with innate grace and uncommon beauty. And the lapse of days, far from
weakening, had deepened the impression of her first apparition. The
storm that had been raging in his interior was allayed by the
recollection of Mechtild, as the fury of the great deep subsides upon
the reappearance of the sun. Scarcely an hour had passed during which
he had not thought of the girl, rehearsed every word she had uttered,
and viewed the basket of grapes she had brought him. Again he pulled
out the drawer, and looked upon the gift with a friendly smile; then,
locking up the precious treasure, he returned to the parlor.

He found the company on the balcony. The sound of trumpets and drums
came from a distance, and presently a motley procession was seen coming
up the nearest street.

"You have just arrived in time to see the procession," cried Louise to
him. "It is going to defile past here, so we will be able to have a
good look at it."

A dusky swarm of boys and half-grown youths came winding round the
nearest street-corner, followed immediately by the head of a mock
procession. In the lead marched a fellow dressed in a brown cloak, the
hood of which was drawn over his head. His waist was encircled with a
girdle from which dangled a string of pebbles representing a rosary. To
complete the caricature of a Capuchin, his feet were bare, excepting a
pair of soles which were strapped to them with thongs of leather.
In his hands he bore a tall cross rudely contrived with a couple
of sticks. The image of the cross was represented by a broken
mineral-water bottle. Behind the cross-bearer followed the procession
in a double line, consisting of boys, young men, factory-hands, drunken
mechanics, and such other begrimed and besotted beings as progress
alone can count in its ranks. The members of the procession were
chanting a litany; at the same time they folded their hands, made
grimaces, turned their eyes upwards, or played unseemly pranks with
genuine rosary beads.

Next in the procession came a low car drawn by a watery-eyed mare which
a lad bedizened like a clown was leading by the bridle. In the car sat
a fat fellow whose face was painted red, and eyebrows dyed, and who
wore a long artificial beard. Over a prodigious paunch, also
artificial, he had drawn a long white gown, over which again he wore a
many- rag shaped like a cope. On his head he wore a high paper
cap, brimless; around the cap were three crowns of gilt paper to
represent the tiara of the pope. A sorry-looking donkey walked after
the car, to which it was attached by a rope. It was the _role_ of the
fellow in the car to address the donkey, make a sign of blessing over
it, and occasionally reach it straw drawn from his artificial paunch.
As often as he went through this man[oe]uvre, the crowd set up a
tremendous roar of laughter. The fat man in the car represented the
pope, and the donkey was intended to symbolize the credulity of the
faithful.

This mock pope was not a suggestion of Shund's or of any other
inventive progressionist. The whole idea was copied from a caricature
which had appeared in a widely circulating pictorial whose only aim and
pleasure it has been for years to destroy the innate religious
nobleness of the German people by means of shallow wit and vulgar
caricatures. And this very sheet, leagued with a daily organ equally
degraded, can boast of no inconsiderable success. The rude and vulgar
applaud its witticisms, the low and infamous regale themselves with its
pictures, and its demoralizing influence is infecting the land.

The principal feature of the procession was a wagon, hung with garlands
and bestuck with small flags, drawn by six splendid horses. In it sat a
youthful woman, plump and bold. Her shoulders were bare, the dress
being an exaggerated sample of the style _decollete_; above her head
was a wreath of oak leaves. She was attended by a number of young men
in masks. They carried drinking-horns, which they filled from time to
time from a barrel, and presented to the _bacchante_, who sipped from
them; then these gentlemen in waiting drank themselves, and poured what
was left upon the crowd. A band of music, walking in front of this
triumphal car, played airs and marches. Not even the mock pope was as
great an object of admiration as this shameless woman. Old and young
thronged about the wagon, feasting their lascivious eyes on this
beastly spectacle which represented that most disgusting of all
abominable achievements of progress--the emancipated woman. And perhaps
not even progress could have dared, in less excited times, so grossly
to insult the chaste spirit of the German people; but the social
atmosphere had been made so foul by the abominations of the election,
and the spirits of impurity had reigned so absolutely during the
canvass in behalf of common schools, that this immoral show was
suffered to parade without opposition.

The very commencement of this sacrilegious mockery of religion had
roused Seraphin's indignation, and he had retired from the balcony. His
father, however, had remained, coolly watching the procession as it
passed, and carefully noting Louise's remarks and behavior.

"What does that woman represent?" he asked. "A goddess of liberty, I
suppose?"

"Only in one sense, I think," replied the progressionist young lady.
"The woman wearing the crown symbolizes, to my mind, the enjoyment of
life. She typifies heaven upon earth, now that exact science has done
away with the heaven of the next world."

"I should think yon creature rather reminds one of hell," said Mr.
Conrad.

"Of hell!" exclaimed Louise, in alarm. "You are jesting, sir, are you
not?"

"Never more serious in my life, Louise. Notice the shameless
effrontery, the baseness and infamy of the creature, and you will be
forced to form conclusions which, far from justifying the expectation
of peace and happiness in the family circle, the true sphere of woman,
will suggest only wrangling, discord, and hell upon earth."

The young lady did not venture to reply. A gentleman made his way
through the crowd, and waved his hat to the company on the balcony. The
banker returned the salutation.

"Official Seicht," said he.

"What! an officer of the government in this disreputable crowd!"
exclaimed Gerlach, with surprise.

"He is on hand to maintain order," explained Greifmann. "You see some
policemen, too. Mr. Seicht sympathizes with progress. At the last
meeting, he made a speech in favor of common schools; he sounded the
praises of the gospel of progress, gave a toast at the banquet to the
gospel of progress, and has won for himself the title of evangelist of
progress. He once declared, too, that the very sight of a priest rouses
his blood, and they now pleasantly call him the parson-eater. He is
very popular."

"I am amazed!" said Gerlach. "Mr. Seicht dishonors his office. He
advocates common schools, insults all the believing citizens of his
district, and runs with mock processions--a happy state of things,
indeed!"

"His conduct is the result of careful calculation," returned Greifmann.
"By showing hostility to ultramontanism, he commends himself to
progress, which is in power."

"But the government should not tolerate such disgraceful behavior on
the part of one of its officials," said Gerlach. "The entire official
corps is disgraced so long as this shallow evangelist of progress is
permitted to continue wearing the uniform."

"You should not be so exacting," cried Louise. "Why will you not allow
officials also to float along with the current of progress until they
will have reached the Eldorado of the position to which they are
aspiring?"

"The corruption of the state must be fearful indeed, when such
deportment in an officer is regarded as a recommendation," rejoined Mr.
Conrad curtly.

A servant appeared to call them to table.

"Would you not like to see the celebration?" inquired Louise.

"By all means," answered Gerlach. "The excitement is of so unusual a
character that it claims attention. You will have to accompany us,
Louise."

"I shall do so with pleasure. When sound popular sentiment thus
proclaims itself, I cannot but feel a strong desire to be present."

The procession had turned the corner of a street where stood Holt and
two more countrymen looking on. The religious sentiment of these honest
men was deeply wounded by the profanation of the cross; and when,
besides, they heard the singing of the mock litany, their anger
kindled, their eyes gleamed, and they mingled fierce maledictions with
the tumult of the mob. Next appeared the mock pope, dispensing
blessings with his right hand, reaching straw to the donkey with his
left, and distorting his painted face into all sorts of farcical
grimaces.

The peasants at once caught the significance of this burlesque. Their
countenances glowed with indignation. Avenging spirits took possession
of Mechtild's father; his strong, stalwart frame seemed suddenly to
have become herculean. His fist of iron doubled itself; there was
lightning in his eyes; like an infuriated lion, he burst into the
crowd, broke the line of the procession, and, directing a tremendous
blow at the head of the mock pope, precipitated him from the car. The
paper cap flew far away under the feet of the bystanders, and the false
beard got into the donkey's mouth. When the mock pope was down. Holt's
comrades immediately set upon him, and tore the many- rag from
his shoulders. Then commenced a great tumult. A host of furious
progressionists surrounded the sturdy countrymen, brandishing their
fists and filling the air with mad imprecations.

"Kill the dogs! Down with the accursed ultramontanes!"

Some of the policemen hurried up to prevent bloodshed. Mr. Seicht also
hurried to the scene of action, and his shrill voice could be heard
high above the noise and confusion.

"Gentlemen, I implore you, let the law have its course, gentlemen!"
cried he. "Gentlemen, friends, do not, I beg you, violate the law!
Trust me, fellow-citizens--I shall see that the impertinence of these
ultramontanes is duly punished."

They understood his meaning. Sticks and fists were immediately lowered.

"Brigadier Forchhaem," cried Mr. Seicht, in a tone of
command--"Forchhaem, hither! Put handcuffs on these ultramontanes,
these disturbers of the peace--put irons on these revolutionists."

Handcuffs were forthwith produced by the policemen. The towering,
broad-shouldered Holt stood quiet as a lamb, looked with an air of
astonishment at the confusion, and suffered himself to be handcuffed.
His comrades, however, behaved like anything but lambs. They laid about
them with hands and feet, knocking down the policemen, and giving
bloody mouths and noses to all who came within their reach.

"Handcuff us!" they screamed, grinding their teeth, bleeding and
cursing. "Are we cutthroats?" The bystanders drew back in apprehension.
The confusion seemed to be past remedying. A thousand voices were
screaming, bawling, and crying at the same time; the circle around the
struggling countrymen was getting wider and wider; and when finally
they attempted to break through, the crowd took to flight, as if a
couple of tigers were after them.

Many of the spectators found a pleasurable excitement in watching the
battle between the policemen and the peasants; but they would not move
a finger to aid the officers of the law in arresting the culprits. They
admired the agility and strength of the countrymen, and the more fierce
the struggle became, the greater grew their delight, and the louder
their merriment.

Holt had been carried on with the motion of the crowd. When he dealt
the blow to the fellow in the car, he was beside himself with rage. The
genuine _furor teutonicus_ had taken possession of him so irresistibly
and so bewilderingly as to leave him utterly without any of the calm
judgment necessary to measure the situation. After his first adventure,
he had submitted to be handcuffed, and had watched the struggle between
Forchhaem and his own comrades in a sort of absence of mind. He had
stood perfectly quiet, his face had become pale, and his eyes looked
about strangely. The excitement of passion was now beginning to wear
off. He felt the cold iron of the manacles around his wrists, his eyes
glared, his face became crimson, the sinews of his powerful arm
stiffened, and with one great muscular convulsion he wrenched off the
handcuffs. Nobody had observed this sudden action, all eyes being
directed to the combatants. Shoving the part of the handcuff which
still hung to his wrist under the sleeve of his jacket, Holt
disappeared through the crowd.

The resistance of the peasants was gradually becoming fainter. At
length they succumbed to overpowering force, and were handcuffed.

"Where is the third one?" cried Seicht. "There were three of them."

"Where is the third one? There were three of them," was echoed on every
hand, and all eyes sought for the missing one in the crowd.

"The third one has run away, sir," reported Forchhaem.

"What's his name?" asked Seicht.

Nobody knew.

A street boy, looking up at the official, ingenuously cried, "'Twas a
Tartar."

Seicht looked down upon the obstreperous little informant.

"A Tartar--do you know him?"

"No; but these here know him," pointing to the captives.

"What is the name of your comrade?"

"We don't know him," was the surly reply.

"Never mind, he will become known in the judicial examination. Off to
jail with these rebellious ultramontanes," the official commanded.

Bound in chains, and guarded by a posse of police, these honest men,
whose religious sense had been so wantonly outraged as to have
occasioned an outburst of noble indignation, were marched through the
streets of the town and imprisoned. They were treated as criminals for
a crime, however, the guilt of which was justly chargeable to those
very rioters who were enjoying official protection.

The procession moved on to the ground selected for the barbecue. A
motley mass, especially of factory-men, were hard at work upon the
scene. The booths, spread far and wide over the common, were thrown
open, and around them moved a swarm of thirsty beings drawing rations
of beer and sausages, with which, when they had received them, they
staggered away to the tables. Degraded-looking women were also to be
seen moving about unsteadily with brimming mugs of beer in their hands.
There were several bands of music stationed at different points around
the place.

The chieftains of progress, perambulating the ground with an air of
triumph, bestowed friendly nods of recognition on all sides, and
condescendingly engaged in conversation with some of the rank and file.

Hans Shund approached the awning where the woman with the bare
shoulders and indecent costume had taken a seat. She had captivated the
gallant chief magistrate, who hovered about her as a raven hovers over
a dead carcass. Moving off, he halted within hearing distance, and,
casting frequent glances back, addressed immodest jokes to those who
occupied the other side of the table, at which they laughed and
applauded immoderately.

The men whom Seraphin had met in the subterranean den, on the memorable
night before the election, were also present: Flachsen, Graeulich,
Koenig, and a host of others. They were regaling themselves with
sausages which omitted an unmistakable odor of garlic, and were of a
very dubious appearance; interrupting the process of eating with
frequent and copious draughts from their beer-mugs.

"Drink, old woman!" cried Graeulich to his wife. "Drink, I tell you! It
doesn't cost us anything to-day."

The woman put the jug to her lips and drained it manfully. Other women
who were present screamed in chorus, and the men laughed boisterously.

"Your old woman does that handsomely," applauded Koth. "Hell and
thunder! But she must be a real spitfire."

Again they laughed uproariously.

"I wish there were an election every day, what a jolly life this would
be!" said Koenig. "Nothing to do, eating and drinking gratis--what more
would you wish?"

"That's the way the bigbugs live all the year round. They may eat and
drink what they like best, and needn't do a hand's turn. Isn't it
glorious to be rich?" cried Graeulich.

"So drink, boys, drink till you can't stand! We are all of us big-bugs
to-day."

"And if things were regulated as they should be," said Koth, "there
would come a day when we poor devils would also see glorious times. We
have been torturing ourselves about long enough for the sake of others.
I maintain that things will have to be differently regulated."

"What game is that you are wishing to come at? Show your hand, old
fellow!" cried several voices.

"Here's what I mean: Coffers which are full will have to pour some of
their superfluity into coffers which are empty. You take me, don't
you?"

"'Pon my soul, I can't make you out. You are talking conundrums,"
declared Koenig.

"You blockhead, I mean there will soon have to be a partition. They who
have plenty will have to give some to those who have nothing."

"Bravo! Long live Koth!"

"That sort of doctrine is dangerous to the state," said Flachsen. "Such
principles bring about revolutions, and corrupt society."

"What of society! You're an ass, Flachsen! Koth is right--partition,
partition!" was the cry all round the table.

"As you will! I have nothing against it if only it were practicable,"
expostulated Flachsen; "for I, too, am a radical."

"It is practicable! All things are practicable," exclaimed Koth. "Our
age can do anything, and so can we. Haven't we driven religion out of
the schools? Haven't we elected Shund for mayor? It is the majority who
rule; and, were we to vote in favor of partition to-morrow, partition
would have to take place. Any measure can be carried by a majority,
and, since we poor devils are in the majority, as soon as we will have
voted for partition it will come without fail."

"That's sensible!" agreed they all. "But then, such a thing has never
yet been done. Do you think it possible?"

"Anything is possible," maintained Koth. "Didn't Shund preach that
there isn't any God, or hell, or devil? Was that ever taught before? If
the God of old has to submit to being deposed, the rich will have to
submit to it. I tell you, the majority will settle the business for the
rich. And if there's no God, no devil, and no life beyond, well then,
you see, I'm capable of laying my hand to anything. If voting won't do,
violence will. Do you understand?"

"Bravo! Hurrah for Koth!"

"There must be progress," cried Graeulich, "among us as well as others.
We are not going to continue all our lives in wretchedness. We must
advance from labor to comfort without labor, from poverty to wealth,
from want to abundance. Three cheers for progress--hurrah! hurrah!",
And the whole company joined in frantically.

"There comes Evangelist Seicht," cried Koenig. "Though I didn't
understand one word of his speech, I believe he meant well. Although he
is an officer of the government, he cordially hates priests. A man may
say what he pleases against religion, and the church, and the Pope, and
the Jesuits, it rather pleases Seicht. He is a free and enlightened
man, is he. Up with your glasses, boys; if he comes near, let's give
him three rousing cheers."

They did as directed. Men and women cheered lustily. Seicht very
condescendingly raised his hat and smiled as he passed the table. The
ovation put him in fine humor. Though he had failed in securing a
place in the assembly, perhaps the slight would be repaired in the
future. Such was the tenor of his thoughts whilst he advanced to the
climbing-pole, around which was assembled a crowd of boys. Quite a
variety of prizes, especially tobacco-pipes, was hanging from the
cross-pieces at the top of the mast. The pole was so smooth that more
than ordinary strength and activity were required to get to the top.
The greater number of those who attempted the feat gave out and slid
back without having gained a prize. There were also grown persons
standing around watching the efforts of the boys and young men.

"It's my turn now," cried the fellow who had carried the cross in the
procession.

"But, first, let me have one more drink--it'll improve the sliding." He
swallowed the drink hastily, then swaying about as he looked and
pointed upward, "Do you see that pipe with tassels to it?" he said.
"That's the one I'm going after."

Throwing aside his mantle, he began to climb.

"He'll not get up, he's drunk," cried a lad among the bystanders.
"Belladonna has given him two pints of double beer for carrying the
cross in the procession--that's what ails him."

"Wait till I come down, I'll slap your jaws," cried the climber.

The spectators were watching him with interest. He was obliged to pause
frequently to rest himself, which he did by winding his legs tightly
round the pole. At last he reached the top. Extending his arm to take
the pipe, it was too short. Climbing still higher, he stretched his
body to its greatest length, lost his hold, and fell to the ground. The
bystanders raised a great cry. The unfortunate youth's head had
embedded itself in the earth, streams of blood gushed from his mouth
and nostrils--he was lifeless.

"He's dead! It's all over with him," was whispered around.

"Carry him off," commanded Seicht, and then walked on.

One of the bystanders loosed the cross-piece of the mock crucifix; the
corpse was then stretched across the two pieces of wood and carried off
the scene. As the body was carried past, the noise and revelry
everywhere ceased.

"Wasn't that the one who carried the cross?" was asked. "Is he dead?
Did he fall from the pole? How terrible!"

Even the progressionist revellers were struck thoughtful, so deeply is
the sense of religion rooted in the heart of man. Many a one among
them, seeing the pale, rigid face of the dead man, understood his fate
to be a solemn warning, and fled from the scene in terror.

The progressionist element of the town was much flattered by the
presence at its orgies of the wealthiest property owner of the country.

The women had already made the discovery that the millionaire's only
son, Mr. Seraphin Gerlach, was on the eve of marrying a member of the
highly respectable house of Greifmann, bankers. But it occasioned them
no small amount of surprise that the young gentleman was not in
attendance on the beautiful lady at the celebration. Louise's radiant
countenance gave no indication, however, that any untoward occurrence
had caused the absence of her prospective husband. The wives and
daughters of the chieftains were sitting under an awning sipping coffee
and eating cake. When Louise approached leaning on her brother's arm,
they welcomed her to a place in the circle of loveliness with many
courtesies and marks of respect.

Mr. Conrad strolled about the place, studying the spirit which animated
the gathering.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                         PROGRESS GROWS JOLLY.


In passing near the tables Gerlach overheard conversations which
revealed to him unmistakably the communistic aspirations and tendencies
prevailing among the lower orders, their fiendish hatred of religion
and the clergy, their corruption and appalling ignorance. On every hand
he perceived symptoms of an alarmingly unhealthy condition of society.
He heard blasphemies uttered against the Divinity which almost caused
his blood to run cold; sacred things were scoffed at in terms so coarse
and with an animus so plainly satanical that his hair rose on his head.
It was clear to him that the firmest supports, the only true
foundations of the social order, were tottering--rotted away by an
incurable corruption.

In Gerlach's life, also, as in that of many other men, there had been a
period of mental struggle and of doubt. He, too, had at one time
himself face to face with questions the solution of which involved the
whole aim of his existence. During this period of mental unrest, he had
thought and studied much about faith and science, but not with a silly
parade of superficial scepticism. He had resolutely engaged in the soul
struggle, and had tried to end it for once and all. Supported by a good
early training and a disposition naturally noble, instructed and guided
by books of solid learning, he had come out from that crisis stronger
in faith and more correct in his views of human science. The scenes
which he was witnessing reminded him vividly of that turning-point in
his life; they were to him an additional proof that man's dignity
disappears as soon as he refuses to follow the divine guidance of
religion. Grave in mood, he returned to the table around which were
gathered the chieftains. The marks of respect shown to the millionaire
were numerous and flattering. Even the bluff Sand exerted himself
unusually in paying his respects to the wealthy landholder, and
Erdblatt, whose embarrassed financial condition enabled him beyond them
all to appreciate the worth of money, filled a glass with his own hand,
and reached it to Mr. Conrad with the deference of an accomplished
butler, Gerlach was pleased to speak in terms of praise of the
nut-brown beverage, which greatly tickled Belladonna, the fat brewer.
Naturally enough, the conversation turned upon the subject of the
celebration.

"I confess I am not quite clear respecting the purpose of your city in
the matter of schools," said Mr. Conrad. "How do you intend to arrange
the school system?"

"In such a way as to make it accord with the requirements of the times
and the progressive spirit of civilization," answered Hans Shund. "An
end must be put to priest rule in the schools. The establishment of
common schools will be a decided step towards this object. For a while,
of course, the priests will be allowed to visit the schools at
specified times, but their influence and control in school matters will
be greatly restricted. Education will be withdrawn from the church's
supervision, and after a few years we hope to reach the point when the
school-rooms will be closed altogether against the priests. There is
not a man of culture but will agree that children should not be
required to learn things which are out of date, and the import of which
must only excite smiles of compassion."

"Whom do you intend to put in the place of the clergy?" inquired Mr.
Conrad.

"We intend to impart useful information and a moral sense in harmony
with the spirit of the age," replied Hans Shund.

"It seems to me the elementary branches have been very competently
taught heretofore in our schools, consequently I do not see the need of
a change on this head," said Gerlach. "But you have not understood my
question, I mean, who are to fill the office of instructors in morals
and in religion?"

The chieftains looked puzzled, for such a question they had not
expected to hear from the wealthiest man of the country.

"You see, Mr. Gerlach," said Sand bluntly, "religion must be done away
with entirely. We haven't any use for such trash. Children ought to
spend their time in learning something more sensible than the
catechism."

"I am not disposed to believe that what you have just uttered is a
correct expression of the general opinion of this community on the
subject of the school question," returned the millionaire with some
warmth. "It is impossible to bring up youth morally without religion.
You are a housebuilder, Mr. Sand. What would you think of the man who
would expect you to build him a house without a foundation--a castle in
the air?"

"Why, I would regard him as nothing less than a fool," cried Sand.

"The case is identically the same with moral education. Morality is an
edifice which a man must spend his life in laboring at. Religion is the
groundwork of this edifice. Moral training without religion is an
impossibility. It would be just as possible to build a house in the
air, as to train up a child morally without a religious belief, without
being convinced of the existence of a holy and just God."

"Facts prove the contrary," maintained Hans Shund. "Millions of persons
are moral who have no religious belief."

"That's an egregious mistake, sir," opposed the landholder. "The
repudiation of a Supreme Being and the violent extinction of the idea
of the Divinity in the breast are of themselves grave offences against
moral conscience. I grant you that, in the eyes of the public,
thousands of men pass for moral who have no faith in religion. But
public opinion is anything but a criterion of certainty when the moral
worth of a man is to be determined. A man's interior is a region which
cannot be viewed by the eye of the public. You know yourselves that
there are men who pass for honorable, moral, pure men, whose private
habits are exceedingly filthy and corrupt."

Hans Shund's color turned a palish yellow; the eyes of the chieftains
sank.

"Besides, gentleman, it would be labor lost to try to educate youth
independently of religion. Man is by his very nature a religious being.
It is useless to attempt to educate the young without a knowledge of
God and of revealed religion; to be able to do so you would previously
have to pluck out of their own breasts the sense of right and wrong,
and out of their souls the idea of God, which are innate in both. Were
the attempt made, however, believe me, gentlemen, the yearning after
God, alive in the human breast, would soon impel the generation brought
up independently of religion to seek after false gods. For this very
reason we know of no people in history that did not recognize and
worship some divinity, were it but a tree or a stone, that served them
for an object of adoration. In my opinion, it would be far more
indicative of genuine progress to adhere to the God of Christians, who
is incontestably holy, just, omnipotent, and kind, whilst to return to
the sacred oaks of ancient Germany or to adopt the fetichism of
uncivilized tribes would be a most monstrous reaction, the most
degrading barbarism."

The chieftains looked nonplussed. Earnest thinking and investigation
upon subjects pertaining to religion were not customary among the
disciples of progress. They looked upon religion as something so common
and trivial that anybody was free to argue upon and condemn it with a
few flippant or smart sayings; But the millionaire was now disclosing
views so new and vast, that their weak vision was completely dazzled,
and their steps upon the unknown domain became unsteady.

Mr. Seicht, observing the embarrassment of the leaders, felt it his
duty to hasten to their relief. His polemical weapons were drawn from
the armory of bureaucracy.

"The progressive development of humanity," said Mr. Seicht, "has
revealed an admirable substitute for all religious ideas. A state well
organized can exist splendidly without any religion. Nay, I do not
hesitate to maintain that religion is a drawback to the development of
the modern state, and that, therefore, the state should have nothing
whatever to do with religion. An invisible world should not exert an
influence upon a state--the wants of the times are the only rule to be
consulted."

"What do you understand by a state, sir?" asked the millionaire.

"A state," replied the official, "is a union of men whose public life
is regulated by laws which every individual is bound to observe."

"You speak of laws; upon what basis are these laws founded?"

"Upon the basis of humanity, morality, liberty, and right," answered
the official glibly.

"And what do you consider moral and just?"

"Whatever accords with the civilization of the age."

A faint smile passed over the severe features of Mr. Conrad.

"I was watching the procession," spoke he. "I have seen the religious
feelings of a large number of citizens publicly ridiculed and grossly
insulted. Was that moral? Was it just? You are determined to oust God
and religion from the schools; yet there are thousands in the country
who desire and endeavor to secure a religious education for their
children. Is it moral and just to utterly disregard the wishes of these
thousands? Does it accord with a profession of humanity and freedom to
put constraint on the consciences of fellow-citizens?"

"The persons of whom you speak are a minority in the state, and the
minority is obliged to yield to the will of the majority," answered
Seicht.

"It follows, then, that the basis of morality and justice is superior
numbers?"

"Yes, it is! In a state, it appertains to the majority to determine and
regulate everything."

"Gentlemen," spoke Gerlach with great seriousness, "as I was a moment
ago strolling over this place, I overheard language at several tables,
which was unmistakably communistic. Laborers and factory men were
maintaining that wealth is unequally distributed; that, whilst a small
number are immensely rich, a much greater number are poor and
destitute; that progress will have to advance to a point when an equal
division of property must be made. Now, the poor and the laboring
population are in the majority. Should they vote for a partition,
should they demand from us what hitherto we have regarded as
exclusively our own, we, gentlemen, will in consistency be forced to
accept the decree of the majority as perfectly moral and just--will we
not?"

There was profound silence.

"I, for my part, should most emphatically protest against such a ruling
of the majority," declared Greifmann.

"Your protest would be contrary to morals and equity; for, according to
Mr. Seicht, only what the majority wills is moral and just," returned
the landowner. "And, in mentioning partition of property, I hinted at a
red monster which is not any longer a mere goblin, but a thing of real
flesh and bone. We are on the verge of a fearful social revolution
which threatens to break up society. If there is no holy and just God;
if he has not revealed himself, and man is not obliged to submit to his
will; if the only basis of right and of morals is the wish of the
majority, this terrible social revolution must be moral and just, for
the majority wills it and carries it out."

"Of course, there must be a limit," said the official feebly.

"The demands of the majority must be reasonable."

"What do you understand by reasonable, sir?"

"I call reasonable whatever accords with the sense of right, with sound
thinking, with moral ideas."

"Sense of right--moral ideas? I beg you to observe that these notions
differ vastly from the sole authority of numbers. You have trespassed
upon God's kingdom in giving your explanation, for ideas are
supersensible; they are the thought of God himself. And the sense of
right was not implanted in the human breast by the word of a majority;
it was placed there by the Creator of man."

The official was driven to the wall. The chieftains thoughtfully stared
at their beer-pots.

"It is clear that the will of the majority alone cannot be accepted as
the basis of a state," said Schwefel. "The life of society cannot be
put at the mercy of the rude and fickle masses. There must be a moral
order, willed and regulated by a supreme ruler, and binding upon every
man. This is plain."

"I agree with you, sir," said the millionaire. "Let us continue
building on Christian principles. As everybody knows, our civilization
has sprung from Christianity. If we tear down the altars and destroy
the seats from which lessons of Christian morality are taught,
confusion must inevitably follow. And I, gentlemen, have too exalted an
opinion of the German nation, of its earnest and religious spirit, to
believe that it can be ever induced to fall away completely from God
and his holy law. Infidelity is an unhealthy tendency of our times; it
is a pernicious superstition which sound sense and noble feeling will
ultimately triumph over. We will do well to continue advancing in
science, art, refinement, and industry, in true liberty and the right
understanding of truth; we will thus be making real progress, such
progress as I am proud to call myself a partisan of."

The chieftains maintained silence. Some nodded assent. Hans Shund gave
an angry bite to his pipe-stem, and puffed a heavy cloud of smoke
across the table.

"I have confidence in the enlightenment and good sense of our people,"
said he. "You have called modern progress 'a pernicious superstition
and an unhealthy tendency of the times,' Mr. Gerlach," turning towards
the millionaire with a bow. "I regret this view of yours."

"Which I have substantiated and proved," interrupted Gerlach.

"True, sir! Your proofs have been striking, and I do not feel myself
competent to refute them. But I can point you to something more
powerful than argument. Look at this scene; see these happy people
meeting and enjoying one another's society in most admirable harmony
and order. Is not this spectacle a beautiful illustration and
vindication of the moral spirit of progress?"

"These people are jubilant from the effect of beer, why shouldn't they
be? But, sir, a profound observer does not 'suffer himself to be
deceived by mere appearances.'"

An uproar and commotion at a distance interrupted the millionaire. At
the same instant a policeman approached out of breath.

"Your honor, the factorymen and the laborers are attacking one
another!"

"What are you raising such alarm for," said Hans Shund gruffly. "It is
only a small squabble, such as will occur everywhere in a crowd."

"I ask your honor's pardon: it is not a small squabble, it is a bloody
battle."

"Well, part the wranglers."

"We cannot manage them; there are too many of them. Shall I apply for
military?"

"Hell and thunder--military!" cried Hans Shund, getting on his feet.
"Are you in your senses?"

"Several men have already been carried off badly wounded," reported the
policeman further. "You have no idea how serious the affray is, and it
is getting more and more so; the friends of both sides are rushing in
to aid their own party. The police force is not a match for them."

Women, screaming and in tears, were rushing in every direction. The
bands had ceased playing, and noise and confusion resounded from the
scene of action. Louise ran to take her brother's arm in consternation.
The wives and daughters of the chieftains huddled round their natural
protectors.

"Hurry away and report this at the military post," was Seicht's order
to the policeman. "The feud is getting alarming. One moment!"

Tearing a leaf from a memorandum book, he wrote a short note, which he
sent by the messenger.

"Off to the post--be expeditious!"

Louise hastened with her brother and Gerlach senior to their carriage,
and her feeling of security returned only when the noise of the combat
had died away in the distance.

The next day the town papers contained the following notice: "The
beautiful celebration of yesterday, which, on account of its object,
will be long remembered by the citizens of this community, was
unfortunately interrupted by a serious conflict between the laborers
and factorymen. A great many were wounded during the _melee_, of whom
five have since died, and it required the interference of an armed
force to separate the combatants."




                              CHAPTER XII.

                     BROWN BREAD AND BONNYCLABBER.


Seraphin had not gone to the celebration. He remained at home on the
plea of not feeling well. He was stretched upon a sofa, and his soul
was engaged in a desperate conflict. What it was impossible for himself
to look upon, had been viewed by his father with composure: the
burlesque procession, the public derision of holy practices, the
mockery of the Redeemer of the world, in whose place had been put a
broken bottle on the symbol of salvation. He himself had been stunned
by the spectacle; and his father? Was it his father? Again, his father
had accompanied the brother and sister to the infamous celebration. Was
not this a direct confirmation of his own suspicions? His father had
become a fearful enigma to his soul! And what if, upon his return from
the festival, the father were to come and insist upon the marriage with
Louise, declaring her advanced notions to be an insufficient ground for
renouncing a pet project? A wild storm was convulsing his interior. He
could not bear it longer, he was driven forth. Snatching his straw hat,
he rushed from the house, ran through the alleys and streets, out of
the town, onward and still onward. The August sun was burning, and its
heat, reflected from the road, was doubly intense. The perspiration was
rolling in large drops down the glowing face of the young man, whom
torturing thoughts still kept goading on. Holt's whitewashed dwelling
became visible on the summit of a knoll, and gleamed a friendly welcome
as he came near it--a welcome which seemed opportune for one who hardly
knew whither he was hastening. The walnut-tree which could be seen from
afar was casting an inviting shade over the table and bench that seemed
to be confidingly leaning against its stem. A flock of chickens were
taking a sand-bath under the table, flapping their wings, ruffling
their feathers, and wallowing in the dust. Seated on the sunny hillock,
the cottage appeared quiet, almost lonesome but for a ringing sound
which came from the adjoining field and was made by the sickle passing
through the corn. A broad-brimmed straw hat with a blue band could be
noticed from the road moving on over the fallen grain, and presently
Mechtild's slender form rose into view as she pushed actively onward
over the harvest field. Hasty steps resounded from the road. She raised
her head, and her countenance first indicated surprise, then
embarrassment. Whom did her eyes behold rushing wildly by, like a
fugitive, but the generous rescuer of her family from the clutches of
the usurer Shund. His hat was in his hand, his auburn locks were
hanging down over his forehead, his face aglow, his whole being seemed
to be absorbed in a mad pursuit. To her quick eye his features revealed
deep trouble and violent excitement She was frightened, and the sickle
fell from her hand. Not a day passed on which she would not think of
this benefactor. Perhaps there was not a being on earth whom she
admired and revered as much as she did him. All the pure and elevated
sentiments of an innocent and blooming girl, united to form a halo of
affection round the head of Seraphin. At evening prayer when her father
said, "Let us pray for our benefactor Seraphin," her soul sent up a
fervent petition to God, and she declared with joy that she was willing
to sacrifice all for him. But behold this noble object of her
admiration and affection suddenly presented before her in a state that
excited the greatest uneasiness. With his head sunk and his eyes
directed straight before him, he would have rushed past without
noticing the sympathizing girl, when a greeting clear and sweet as the
tone of a bell caused him to look up. He beheld Mechtild with her
beautiful eyes fixed upon him in an expression of anxiety.

"Good-morning, Mr. Seraphin," she said again.

"Good-morning," he returned mechanically, and staring about vaguely.
His bewilderment soon passed, however, and his gaze was riveted by the
apparition.

She was standing on the other side of the ditch. The fear of some
unknown calamity had given to her beautiful face an expression of
tender solicitude, and whilst a smile struggled for possession of her
lips her look indicated painful anxiety. Mechtild's appearance soon
directed the young man's attention to his own excited manner. The dark
shadow disappeared from his brow, he wiped the perspiration from his
face, and began to feel the effect of his walk under the glowing heat
of midsummer.

"Ah! here is the neat little white house, your pretty country home,
Mechtild," he said pleasantly. "If you had not been so kind as to wish
me good-morning, I should actually have passed by in an unpardonable
fit of distraction."

"I was almost afraid to say good-morning, Mr. Seraphin, but--" She
faltered and looked confused.

"But--what? You didn't think anything was wrong?"

"No! But you were in such a hurry and looked so troubled, I got
frightened," she confessed with amiable uprightness. "I was afraid
something had happened you."

"I am thankful for your sympathy. Nothing has happened me, nor, I
trust, will," he replied, with a scarcely perceptible degree of
defiance in his tone. "This is a charming situation. Corn-fields on all
sides, trees laden with fruit, the skirt of the woods in the
background--and then this magnificent view! With your permission, I
will take a moment's rest in the shade of yon splendid walnut-tree
planted by your great-grandfather."

She joyfully nodded assent and stepped over the ditch. She shoved back
the bolt of the gate. Together they entered the yard, which a hedge
separated from the road. The cock crew a welcome to the stranger, and
led his household from the sand-bath into the sunshine near the barn.

"This is a cool, inviting little spot," said the millionaire, as he
pointed to the shade of the walnut-tree. "No doubt you often sit here
and read?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin; but the dirty chickens have scattered dust all over
the bench and table. Wait a minute, you'll get your clothes dusty."

She hurried into the house. His eyes followed her receding form, his
ears kept listening for her departing steps, he heard the opening and
closing of doors: presently she reappeared, dusted the bench and table
with a brush, and spread a white cloth over the table. Seraphin looked
on with a smile.

"I do not wish to be troublesome, Mechtild!"

"It is no trouble, Mr. Seraphin! Sit down, now, and rest yourself. I am
so sorry father and mother are not at home. They will be ever so glad
to hear that you have honored us with a visit."

"Is nobody at home?"

"Father is in town, and mother is at work with the children in the
harvest field."

"Are you not afraid to stay here by yourself?"

"What should I be afraid of? There are no ghosts in daytime," she said
with a bewitching archness; "and as for thieves, they never expect to
find anything worth having at our house."

She was standing on the other side of the table, looking at him with a
beautiful smile.

"Won't you have a seat on this bench?" said he, making room for her.
"You need rest more than I do. You have been working, and I am merely
an idle stroller. Do take a seat, Mechtild."

"Thank you, Mr. Seraphin--I could not think of doing so! It would not
be becoming," she answered with some confusion.

"Why not becoming?"

"Because you are a gentleman, and I am only a poor girl."

"Your objection on the score of propriety is not worth anything. Oblige
me by doing what I ask of you."

"I will do so, Mr. Seraphin, since you insist upon it, but after a
while. I would like to offer you some refreshments beforehand, if you
will allow me."

"With pleasure," he said, nodding assent.

A second time she hurried away to the house, whilst he kept listening
to her footsteps. The extraordinary neatness and cleanliness which
could be seen everywhere about the little homestead did not escape his
observation. On all sides he fancied he saw the work of Mechtild. The
purity of her spirit, which beamed so mildly from her eyes and was
revealed in the beauty of her countenance and the grace of her person,
seemed embodied in the very odor of roses wafted over from the
neighboring flower garden. He was unconscious of the rapid growth
within his bosom of a deep and tender feeling. This feeling was casting
a warm glow, like softest sunshine, over all that he beheld. Not even
the chickens looked to him like other fowls of their kind; they were
ennobled by the reflection that they were objects of Mechtild's care,
that she fed them, that when they were still piping little pullets she
had held them in her lap and caressed them. He abandoned himself
completely to this sentiment; it carried him on like a smooth current;
and he could not tell, did not suspect even, why so wonderful a
reaction had in so short a time taken place in his interior. Beholding
himself seated under the walnut-tree surrounded only by evidences of
honorable poverty and rural thrift, and yet feeling a degree of
happiness and peace he had never known before, he fancied he was
performing a part in some fairy tale which he was dreaming with
his eyes open. And now the fairy appeared at the door having on a
snowy-white apron, and carrying a shallow basket from which could be
seen, protruding above the rest of its contents, a milk jar. She set
before him a pewter plate, bright as silver. Then she took out the jar
and a cup, next she laid a knife and spoon for him, and finished her
hospitable service with a huge loaf of bread.

"Don't get dismayed at the bread, Mr. Seraphin! I am sorry I cannot set
something better before you. But it is well baked and will not hurt
you!"

"You baked it yourself, did you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin!"

He attacked the loaf resolutely. From the dimensions of the slice which
he cut off, it was plain that appetite and his confidence in her skill
were satisfactory. She raised the jar of bonnyclabber, which lurched
out in jerks upon his plate, whilst he kept gayly stirring it with the
spoon. Then she dipped a spoonful of rich cream out of the cup and
poured it into the refreshing contents of the plate.

"Let me know when you want me to stop, Mr. Seraphin." Mechtild poured
spoonful after spoonful; he sat immovable, seemingly observing the
spoon, but in reality watching her soft plump fingers, then her
well-shaped hand, next her exquisitely arm, and, when finally he raised
his eyes to her face, they were met by a mischievous smile. The cup was
empty, and all the cream was in his plate.

"May I go and fetch some more?" she asked.

"No, Mechtild, no! Why, this is a regular yellow sea!"

"You wouldn't cry 'enough!'"

"I forgot about it," he replied, somewhat confused. "To atone for my
forgetfulness, I will eat it all."

"I hope you will relish it, Mr. Seraphin!"

"Thank you! Where is your plate?"

"I had my dinner before you came."

"Well, then, at any rate you must not continue standing. Won't you
share this seat with me?"

She seated herself upon the bench, took off her hat, smoothed down her
apron, and appeared happy at seeing him eating heartily.

"Don't you find that dish refreshing, Mr. Seraphin?"

"You have done me a real act of charity," he replied. "This bread, is
excellent. Who taught you how to make bread?"

"I learned from mother; but there isn't much art in making that sort of
bread, Mr. Seraphin. The food which people in the country eat does not
require artistic preparation. It only needs good, pure material, so
that it may give strength to labor."

"I suppose you attend to the kitchen altogether, do you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin. That's not very difficult, our meals are of the
plainest kind. We have meat once a week, on Sundays. When the work is
unusually hard, as in harvest time, we have meat oftener. We raise our
own meat and cure it."

"You have assumed household cares at quite an early age, Mechtild."

"Early? I am seventeen now, and am the oldest. Mother has a great deal
of trouble with the small ones, so the housework falls chiefly to my
share. It does not require any great exertion, however, to do it. Plain
and saving is our motto. Mother specially recommends four things:
industry, cleanliness, order, and economy. She advises me not to
neglect any one of these points when once I will have a household of my
own."

"Do you think you will soon set up a separate household?" asked he with
some hesitation.

"Not for some time to come, Mr. Seraphin, yet it must be done one day.
If my own inclination were consulted, I would prefer never to leave
home. I should like things to continue as they are. But a separation
must come. Death will pay us a visit as it has done to others, father
and mother will pass away, and the course of events will sever us from
one another."

Her head sank, the brightness of her face became obscured beneath the
shadow of these sombre thoughts, and, when she again looked up, there
appeared in her eyes so touching and childlike a sadness that he felt
pained to the soul. And yet this revelation of tenderness pleased him,
for it made known to him a new phase of her amiable nature.

For a long time he continued conversing with the artless girl. Every
word she uttered, no matter how trifling, had an interest for him.
Besides her charming artlessness, he had frequent occasions to admire
the wisdom of her language and her admirable delicacy. The setting sun
had already cast a subdued crimson over the hilltops, hours had sped
away, the chickens had gone to roost, still he remained riveted to the
spot by Mechtild's grace and loveliness.

"Father is just coming," she said, pointing down the road. "How glad he
will be to find you here!"

His head bent forward. Holt came wearily plodding up the road. His
right hand was hidden in the pocket of his pantaloons, and his head was
bowed, as if beneath a heavy weight. As Mechtild's clear voice rang
out, he raised his head, caught sight of his high-hearted benefactor,
and smiled in joyful surprise.

"Welcome, Mr. Seraphin; a thousand times welcome!" he cried from the
other side of the road. "Why, this is an honor that I had not
expected!"

He stood uncovered, holding his cap in the left hand, his right hand
was still concealed. Mechtild at once noticed her father's singular
behavior, and her eye watched anxiously for the hidden hand.

"Your daughter has been so kind as to offer refreshments to a weary
wanderer," said Gerlach, "and it has been a great pleasure for me to
sit awhile. We have been chatting for several hours under this glorious
tree, and may be I am to blame for keeping her from her work."

Holt's honest face beamed with satisfaction. He entirely forgot about
his secret, he drew his hand out of his pocket, Mechtild turned pale,
and a sharp cry escaped her lips.

"For mercy's sake, father!" And she pointed to the broken chain.

"What are you screaming for, foolish girl? Don't be alarmed, Mr.
Seraphin! this chain has got on my arm in an honorable cause. I will
tell you the whole story; I know you will not inform on me."

Seating himself on the bench, he related the adventures of the day.

The mock procession passed before Mechtild's imagination with the
vividness of reality. The narration transformed her. Her mildness was
changed to noble anger. She had heard of the vicar of Christ being
insulted, of holy things being scoffed at, of the Redeemer being
derided by a horde of wretches. With her arms akimbo, she drew up her
lithe and graceful form to its full height, and with flashing eyes
looked at her father while he related what had befallen him. Seraphin
could not help wondering at the transformation. Such a display of
spirit he had not been prepared to witness in a girl so gentle and
beautiful. When her father had ended his account, she seized his hand
passionately, pressed it warmly between her own hands, and kissed the
chain.

"Father, dear father," she exclaimed in a burst of feeling, "I thank
you from my heart for acting as you did! Those wretches were scoffing
at our holy religion, but you behaved bravely in defence of the faith.
For this they put chains on you, as the heathen did to S. Peter and S.
Paul."

Once more she kissed the chain, then, turning quickly, hastened across
the yard to the house.

"Mechtild isn't like the rest of us," said Holt, smiling. "There's a
great deal of spirit in her. I have often noticed it. But I am not
astonished at her being roused at the mock procession--I was roused
myself. I declare, Mr. Seraphin, it is a shame, a crying shame, that
persons are permitted to rail at doctrines and things which we revere
as holy. One would almost believe Satan himself was in some people,
they take so fanatical a delight in scoffing at a religion which is
holy and enjoins nothing but what is good."

"It is incontestable that infidelity hates and opposes God and
religion," replied Gerlach. "The boasted culture of those who find a
pleasure in grossly wounding the most sacred feelings of their
neighbors, is wicked and stupid."

Mechtild returned with a file in her hand.

"Right, my child! I was just thinking of the file myself. Here, cut the
catches of the lock."

He laid his arm across the table. A few strokes of the file caused the
lock and remnant of chain to fall from his wrist.

"We will keep this as a precious memento," said she. "Only think,
father, that wicked official ordered you to be manacled, and he is the
representative of authority. How can one respect or even pray for
authorities when they allow religion to be ridiculed?"

"Pray for your enemies," answered the countryman gravely.

"I will do so because God commands me; but I shall never again be able
to respect the official!"

Her anger had fled; she appeared again all light and loveliness. He did
not fail to observe a searching look which she directed upon him, but
its meaning became clear to him only when, as he was taking leave, she
said in a tone of humility: "Pardon my vehemence, Mr. Seraphin! Don't
think me a bad girl."

"There is nothing to be forgiven, Mechtild. You were indignant against
godless wretches, and they who are not indignant against evil cannot
themselves be good."

"We are most heartily thankful for this visit," spoke Holt. "I need not
say that we will consider it a great happiness as often as you will be
pleased to come."

"Good-night!" returned the young man, and he walked away.

Deeply immersed in his thoughts, Seraphin went back to town. What he
was thinking about, his diary does not record. But the excitement under
which he had rushed forth was gone--dispelled by the magic of a rural
sorceress. He walked on quietly like a man who seems filled with
confidence in his own future. The recent painful impressions seemed to
his mind to lie far back in the past; their place was taken up by
beautiful anticipations which, like the aurora, shed soft and pleasing
light upon his path. He halted frequently in a dream-like reverie to
indulge the happiness with which his soul was flooded. The full moon,
just peering over the hills, shed around him a mystic brightness that
harmonized perfectly with the indefinable contentment of his heart, and
seemed to be gazing quizzingly into the countenance of the young man,
who almost feared to confess to himself that he had found an invaluable
treasure.

As he stopped before the Palais Greifmann, all the bright spirits that
had hovered round about him on the way back from the little whitewashed
cottage, fled. He awoke from his dream, and, ascending the stairs with
a feeling of discomfort, he entered his apartment, where his father sat
awaiting him.

"At last," spoke Mr. Conrad, looking up from a book. "You have kept me
waiting a long time, my son."

"I was in need of a good long walk, father, to get over what I
witnessed this morning. The country air has dispelled all those
horrible impressions. There is only one thing more required to make me
feel perfectly well, dear father, which is that you will not insist on
my allying myself to people who are utterly opposed to my way of
thinking and feeling."

"I understand and approve of your request, Seraphin. The impressions
made on me, too, are exceedingly disagreeable. The advancement of which
this town boasts is stupid, immoral, detestable. How this state of
society has come about, is inexplicable to me who live secluded in the
country. Society is diseased, fatally diseased. Many of the new views
professed are sheer superstition, and their morality is a mere cloak
for their corruption and wickedness. All the powers of progress
so-called are actively at work to subvert all the safeguards of
society. And what your diary reports of Louise, I have found fully
confirmed. Though it cost the sacrifice of a long cherished plan, a son
of mine shall never become the husband of a progressionist woman."

"O father! how deeply do I thank you!" cried the youth, carried away by
his feelings.

"I must decline being thanked, for I have not merited it," spoke Mr.
Conrad earnestly. "A father's duty determines very clearly what my
decision upon the matter of your marriage with Louise, ought to be. But
I am under obligations to you, my son, which justice compels me to
acknowledge. Your discernment and moral sense have prevented a great
deal of discord and unhappiness in our family. Continue good and true,
my Seraphin!"

He pressed his son to his bosom and imprinted a kiss on his forehead.

"To-morrow we shall start for home by the first train. Fortunately your
prudent behavior makes it easy for us to get away, and the final
breaking off of this engagement I will myself arrange with Louise's
father."


                    SERAPHIN GERLACH TO THE AUTHOR.

Dear Sir: Two years ago, I took the liberty of sending you my diary,
with the request that you would be pleased to publish such portions of
its contents as might be useful, in the form of a tale illustrative of
the times. I made the request because I consider it the duty of a
writer who delineates the condition of society, to transmit to
posterity a faithful picture of the present social status, and I am
vain enough to believe that my jottings will be a modest contribution
towards such a tableau.

The meagre account given by the diary of my intercourse with Mechtild,
will probably have enabled you to perceive the germ of a pure and true
relation likely to develop itself further. I shall add but a few items
to complete the account of the diary, knowing that poets, painters, and
artists have rigorously determined bounds, and that a twilight cannot
be represented when the sun is at the zenith. I am emboldened to use
this illustration because your unbounded admiration of pure womanhood
is well known to me, and because the brightness of Mechtild's
character, were it further described, would no more be compatible with
the sombre colorings in which a true picture of modern progress would
have to be exhibited, than the noonday sun with the shadows of evening.

My memoranda concerning Mechtild, which, despite studied soberness,
betrayed a considerable degree of admiration, made known to my parents,
naturally enough, the secret of my heart. Hence it came that a quiet
smile passed over my father's face every time I commenced to speak of
Mechtild. Holt's manly deed at the mock procession had already gained
for him my father's esteem, and, as I spoke a great deal about Holt's
thoroughness as a cultivator, my father began to look upon him as a
very desirable man to employ.

"We want an experienced man on the 'green farm,'" said father, one day.
"Offer the situation to Holt, and tell him to come to see me about it.
I want to talk with him."

"Give the good man my compliments," said mother; "tell him I would be
much pleased to become acquainted with Mechtild, who sympathized with
you so kindly on that memorable day!"

I wrote without delay. Holt came, and so did Mechtild. But few moments
were necessary to enable mother to detect the girl's fine qualities.
Father, too, was delightfully surprised at her modesty, the beauty of
her form, and grace of her manner. He visited the farm accompanied by
Holt. The cultivator's extraordinary knowledge, his practical manner of
viewing things, and the shrewdness of his counsels in regard to the
improvement of worn-out land and the cultivation of poor soil,
completely charmed my father. A contract containing very favorable
conditions for Holt was entered into, and three weeks later the family
took charge of the "green farm."

Upon mother's suggestion, Mechtild was sent to an educational
institution, where she acquired in ten months' time the learning and
culture necessary for associating with cultivated people.

Father and mother had received her on her return like a daughter. This
reception was given her not only in consideration of Holt's skilful and
faithful management of business, but also on account of Mechtild's own
splendid womanly character--perhaps, too, partly on account of my
unbounded admiration for the rare girl.

"The girl is an ornament to her sex," lauded my father. "Her polished
manner and ease in company do not suffer one to suspect ever so
remotely that she at any time plied the reaping-hook, and came out of a
stubblefield to regale a weary wanderer with brown bread and
bonnyclabber. I am quite in harmony with, your secret wishes, my dear
Seraphin! At the same time, I am of opinion that a step promising so
much happiness ought not to be longer deferred. I think, then, you
should ask the father for his daughter without delay, so that I may
soon have the pleasure of giving you my blessing."

From my father's arms, into which. I had thrown myself in thankfulness,
I hastened away to the "green farm," where Mechtild with maidenly
blushes, and Holt in speechless astonishment, heard and granted my
petition.

I am now four months married. I am the blest husband of a wife whose
lovely qualities are daily showing themselves to greater advantage.
Mechtild presides over Chateau Hallberg like an angel of peace. Towards
my father and mother she conducts herself with filial reverence and
never-ceasing delicate attentions. Mother loves her unspeakably, and no
access of ill humor in father can withstand her charming smile and
prudent mirth. Concerning the banking-house of Greifmann, I have only
sad things to tell. Carl's father had entered into very considerable
speculations which failed and drove him into bankruptcy. Carl saw the
blow coming, and saved himself in a disgraceful manner. There was a
savings institution connected with the bank in which poor people and
servants deposited the savings of their hard labor. Carl appropriated
this fund and made off a short time before the failure of the house.
Thousands of poor persons were robbed of the little sums which they
were saving for old age, by denying themselves many even of the
necessaries of life.

The maledictions and curses of these unfortunate people followed across
the ocean the thief whose modern culture and progressive humanity did
not hinder him from committing a crime which no Christian can be guilty
of without losing his claim to the title. Carl, however, still
continues to pass for a man of culture and humanity notwithstanding his
deed. And why should he not, since without faith in the Deity moral
obligations do not exist, and consequently every species of crime is
allowable? The old gentleman Greifmann died shortly after his ruin;
Louise lost her mind.

My father felt the misfortune of the Greifmanns deeply, without,
however, regretting in the smallest degree the wise determination which
their godless principles and actions had driven him to. Formerly he
could never find time to take part in the elections. But now he is
constantly speaking about the duty of every respectable man to oppose
the infernal machinations and plans of would-be progress. He intends at
the next election to use all his influence for the election of
conscientious deputies, so that the evil may be put an end to which
consists in trying to undermine the foundations of society.

Accept, dear sir, the assurance of the esteem with which I have the
honor to be

                  Your most obedient servant,
                            Seraphin Gerlach.

Chateau Hallberg, Jan. 4, 1872.



FOOTNOTE TO THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

[Footnote 1: Proverbs vi., vii.]






                                ANGELA.






                              A N G E L A.


                     TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF


                          CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.


                           *   *   *   *   *




                               CHAPTER I.

                               CRINOLINE.


An express train was just on the eve of leaving the railway station in
Munich. Two fashionably dressed gentlemen stood at the open door of a
railway carriage, in conversation with a third, who sat within. These
two young men bore on their features the marks of youthful dissipation,
indicating that they had not been sparing of pleasures. The one in the
carriage had a handsome, florid countenance, two clear, expressive
eyes, and thick locks of hair, which he now and then stroked back from
his fine forehead. He scarcely observed the conversation of the two
friends, who spoke of balls, dogs, horses, theatres, and ballet-girls.

In the same carriage sat another traveller, evidently the father of the
young man. He was reading the newspaper--that is the report of the
money market--while his fleshy left hand dallied with the heavy gold
rings of his watch-chain. He had paid no attention to the conversation
till an observation of his son brought him to serious reflection.

"By the bye," said one of the young men quickly, "I was nearly
forgetting to tell you the news, Richard! Do you know that Baron Linden
is engaged?"

"Engaged? To whom?" said Richard carelessly.

"To Bertha von Harburg. I received a card this morning, and immediately
wrote a famous letter of congratulation."

Richard looked down earnestly, and shook his head.

"I commiserate the genial baron," said he. "What could he be thinking
of, to rush headlong into this misfortune?"

The father looked in surprise at his son; the hand holding the paper
sank on his knee.

"Permit me, gentlemen," said the conductor; the doors were closed, the
friends nodded good-by, and the train moved off.

"Your observation about Linden's marriage astonishes me, Richard. But
perhaps you were only jesting."

"By no means," said Richard. "Never more earnest in my life. I
expressed my conviction, and my conviction is the result of careful
observation and mature reflection."

The father's astonishment increased.

"Observation--reflection--fudge!" said the father impatiently, as he
folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket. "How can a young man of
twenty-two talk of experience and observation! Enthusiastic nonsense!
Marriage is a necessity of human life. And you will yet submit to this
necessity."

"True, if marriage be a necessity, then I suppose I must bow to the
yoke of destiny. But, father, this necessity does not exist. There are
intelligent men enough who do not bind themselves to woman's caprices."

"Oh! certainly, there are some strange screech-owls in the world---some
enthusiasts. But certainly you do not wish to be one of them. You, who
have such great expectations. You, the only son of a wealthy house.
You, who have a yearly income of thousands to spend."

"The income can be enjoyed more pleasantly, free and single, father."

"Free and single--and enjoyed! Zounds! you almost tempt me to think ill
of you. Happily, I know you well. I know your strict morality, your
solidity, your moderate pretensions. All these amiable qualities please
me. But this view of marriage I did not expect; you must put away this
sickly notion."

The young man made no answer, but leaned back in his seat with a
disdainful smile.

Herr Frank gazed thoughtfully through the window. He reflected on the
determined character of his son, whose disposition, even when a child,
shut him out from the world, and who led an interior, meditative life.
Strict regularity and exact employment of time were natural to him. At
school, he held the first place in all branches. His ambition and
effort were to excel all others in knowledge. His singular questions,
which indicated a keen observation and capacity, had often excited the
surprise of his father. And while the companions of the youth hailed
with delight the time which released them from the benches of the
school and from their studies, Richard cheerfully bound himself to his
accustomed task, to appease his longing for knowledge. Approaching
manhood had not changed him in this regard. He was punctual to the
hours of business, and labored with zeal and interest, to the great joy
of his father. He recreated himself with music and, painting, or by a
walk in the open country, for whose beauties he had a keen
appreciation. The few shades of his character were, a proud
haughtiness, an unyielding perseverance in his determinations, and a
strength of conviction difficult to overcome. But perhaps these shades
were, after all, great qualities, which were to brighten up and polish
his maturity. This obstinacy the father was now considering, and, in
reference to his singular view of marriage, it filled him with great
anxiety.

"But, Richard," began Herr Frank again, "how did you come to this
singular conclusion?"

"By observation, and reflection--and also by experience, although you
deny my years this right."

"What have you experienced and observed?"

"I have observed woman as she is, and found that such a creature would
only make me miserable. What occupies their minds? Fineries, pleasures;
and trifles. The pivot of their existence turns on dress, ornaments,
balls, and the like. We live in an age of crinoline, and you know how I
abominate that dress; I admit my aversion is abnormal, perhaps
exaggerated, but I cannot overcome it. When I see a woman going through
the streets with swelling hoops, the most whimsical fancies come into
my mind. It reminds me of an inflated balloon, whose clumsy swell
disfigures the most beautiful form. It reminds me of a drunken gawk,
who swaggers along and carries the foolish gewgaw for a show. The
costume is indeed expressive. It reveals the interior disposition.
Crinoline is to me the type of the woman of our day--an empty, vain,
inflated something. And this type repels me."

"Then you believe our women to be vain, pleasure-seeking, and destitute
of true womanhood, because they wear crinoline?"

"No, the reverse. An overweening propensity to show and frivolity
characterizes our women, and therefore they wear crinoline in spite of
the protestations of the men."

"Bah! Nonsense; you lay too much stress on fashion. I know many women
myself who complain of this fashion."

"And afterward follow it. This precisely confirms my opinion. Women
have no longer sufficient moral force to disregard a disagreeable
restraint. Their vanity is still stronger than their inclinations to a
natural enjoyment of life."

"Do you want a wife who would be sparing and saving; who, by her
frugality, would increase your wealth; who, by her social seclusion,
would not molest your cash-box?"

"No; I want no wife," answered the young man, somewhat pettishly. "And
I am not alone in this. The young men are beginning to awaken. A sound,
natural feeling revolts against the vitiated taste of the women.
Alliances are forming everywhere. The last paper announced that, at
Marseilles, six thousand young men have, with joined hands, vowed never
to marry until the women renounce their ruinous costumes and costly
idleness, and return to a plain style of dress and frugal habits. I
object to this propensity to ease and pleasure--this desire of our
women for finery and the gratification of vanity. Not because this
inclination is expensive, but because it is objectionable. Every
creature has an object. But, if we consider the women of our day, we
might well ask, for what are they here?

"For what are women here, foolish man?" interrupted Herr Frank. "Are
they to go about without any costume, like Eve before the fall? Are
they to know the trials of life, and not its joys? Are they to exist
like the women of the sultan, shut up in a harem? For what are they
here? I will tell you. They are here to make life cheerful. Does not
Schiller say,

          "'Honor to woman! she scatters rife
            Heavenly roses, 'mid earthly life;
              Love she weaves in gladdening bands;
            Chastity's veil her charm attires;
            Beautiful thoughts' eternal fires,
              Watchful, she feeds with holy hands.'"

Richard smiled.

"Poetical fancy!" said he. "My unhappy friend Emil Schlagbein often
declaimed and sang with passion that same poem of Schiller's. Love
had even made a poet of him. He wrote verses to his Ida. And now,
scarcely three years married, he is the most miserable man in the
world--miserable through his wife. Ida has still the same finely carved
head as formerly; but that head, to the grief of Emil, is full of
stubbornness--full of whimsical nonsense. Her eyes have still the same
deep blue; but the charming expression has changed, and the blue not
unfrequently indicates a storm. How often has Emil poured out his
sorrows to me! How often complained of the coldness of his wife! A ball
missed--missed from necessity--makes her stupid and sulky for days. In
vain he seeks a cheerful look. When he returns home worried by the
cares of business, he finds no consolation in Ida's sympathy, but is
vexed by her stubbornness and offended by her coldness. Emil sprang
headlong into misery. I will beware of such a step."

"You are unjust and prejudiced. Must all women, then, be Ida
Schlagbeins?"

"Perhaps my Ida might be still worse," retorted Richard sharply.

Herr Frank drummed on his knees, always a sign of displeasure.

"I tell you, Richard," said he emphatically. "Your time will come yet.
You will follow the universal law, and this law will give the lie to
your one-sided view--to your contempt of woman."

"That impulse, father, can be overcome, and habit becomes a second
nature. Besides--"

"Besides--well, what besides?"

"I would say that the time of which you speak is, in my case, happily
passed," answered Richard, still gazing through the window. "For me the
time of sentimental delusion has been short and decisive," he concluded
with a bitter smile.

"Can I, your father, ask a clearer explanation?"

The young man leaned back in his seat and looked at the opposite side
while he spoke.

"Last summer I visited Baden-Baden. On old Mount Eberstein, which is so
picturesquely enthroned above the village, I fell in with a party.
Among the number was a young lady of rare beauty and great modesty. An
acquaintance gave me an opportunity of being introduced to her. We sat
in pleasant conversation under the black oaks until the approaching
twilight compelled us to return to the town. Isabella--such was the
name of the beauty--had made a deep impression on me. So deep that even
the detested crinoline that encircled her person in large hoops found
favor in my sight. Her manner was in no wise coquettish. She spoke with
deliberation and spirit. Her countenance had always the same
expression. Only when the young people, into whose heads the fiery wine
had risen, gave expression to sharp words, did Isabella look up and a
displeased expression, as of injured delicacy, passed over her
countenance. My presence seemed agreeable to her. My conversation may
have pleased her. As we descended the mountain, we came to a difficult
pass. I offered her my arm, which she took in the same unchanging,
quiet manner which made her so charming in my sight. I soon discovered
my affection for the stranger, and wondered how it could arise so
suddenly and become so impetuous. I was ashamed at abandoning so
quickly my opinion of women. But this feeling was not strong enough to
stifle the incipient passion. My mind lay captive in the fetters of
infatuation."

He paused for a moment. The proud young man seemed to reproach himself
for his conduct, which he considered wanting in manly independence and
clear penetration.

"On the following day," he continued, "there was to be a horse-race in
the neighborhood. Before we parted, it was arranged that we would be
present at it. I returned to my room in the hotel, and dreamed waking
dreams of Isabella. My friend had told me that she was the daughter of
a wealthy merchant, and that she had accompanied her invalid mother
here. This mark of love and filial affection was not calculated to cool
my ardor. Isabella appeared more beautiful and more charming still. We
went to the race. I had the unspeakable happiness of being in the same
car and sitting opposite her. After a short journey--to me, at least,
it seemed short--we arrived at the grounds where the race was to take
place. We ascended the platform. I sat at Isabella's side. She did not
for a moment lose her quiet equanimity. The race began. I saw little of
it, for Isabella was constantly before my eyes, look where I would.
Suddenly a noise--a loud cry--roused me from my dream. Not twenty paces
from where we sat, a horse had fallen. The rider was under him. The
floundering animal had crushed both legs of the unfortunate man. Even
now I can see his frightfully distorted features before me. I feared
that Isabella's delicate sensibility might be wounded by the horrible
sight. And when I looked at her, what did I see? A smiling face! She
had lost her quiet, weary manner, and a hard, unfeeling soul lighted up
her features!

"'Do you not think this change in the monotony of the race quite
magnificent?' said she.

"I made no answer. With an apology, I left the party and returned alone
to Baden."

"Very well," said the father, "your Isabella was an unfeeling
creature--granted. But now for your application of this experience."

"We will let another make the application, father. Listen a moment. In
Baden a bottle of Rhine wine, whose spirit is so congenial to sad and
melancholy feelings, served to obliterate the desolate remembrance. I
sat in the almost deserted dining-room. The guests were at the theatre,
on excursions in the neighborhood, or dining about the park. An old man
sat opposite me. I remarked that his eyes, when he thought himself
unobserved, were turned inquiringly on me. The sudden cooling of my
passion had perhaps left some marks upon me. The stranger believed,
perhaps, that I was an unlucky and desperate player. A player I had
indeed been. I had been about to stake my happiness on a beautiful
form. But I had won the game.

"The wine soon cheered me up and I entered into conversation with the
stranger. We spoke of various things, and finally of the race. As there
was a friendly, confiding expression in the old man's countenance, I
related to him the unhappy fall of the rider, and dwelt sharply on the
impression the hideous spectacle made on Isabella. I told him that such
a degree of callousness and insensibility was new to me, and that this
sad experience had shocked me greatly.

"'This comes,' said he, 'from permitting yourself to be deceived by
appearances, and because you do not know certain classes of society. If
you consider the beautiful Isabella with sensual eyes, you will run
great danger of taking appearances for truth--the false for the real.
Even the plainest exterior is often only sham. Painted cheeks, 
eyebrows, false hair, false teeth; and even if these forms were not
false, but true--if you penetrate these forms, if, under the constraint
of graceful repose, we see modesty, purity, and even humility--there is
then still greater danger of deception. A wearied, enervated nature,
nerves blunted by the enjoyment of all kinds of pleasures, are
frequently all that remains of womanly nature.

"'Do you wish to see striking examples of this? Go into the gaming
saloons--into, those horrible places where fearful and consuming
passions seethe; where desperation and suicide lurk. Go into the
corrupt, poisonous atmosphere of those gambling hells, and there you
will find women every day and every hour. Whence this disgusting sight?
The violent excitement of gambling alone can afford sufficient
attraction for those who have been sated with all kinds of pleasures.
Is a criminal to be executed? I give you my word of honor that women
give thousands of francs to obtain the best place, where they can
contemplate more conveniently the shocking spectacle and read every
expression in the distorted features of the struggling malefactor.

"'Isabella was one of these exhausted, enervated creatures, and hence
her pleasure at the sight of the mangled rider.'

"Thus spoke the stranger, and I admitted that he was right. At the same
time I tried to penetrate deeper into this want of sensibility. Like a
venturesome miner, I descended into the psychological depth. I
shuddered at what I there discovered, and at the inferences which
Isabella's conduct forced upon my mind. No, father, no," said he
impetuously, "I will have no such nuptials--I will never rush into the
miseries of matrimony!"

"Thunder and lightning! are you a man?" cried Herr Frank. "Because
Emil's wife and Isabella are good-for-nothings, must the whole sex be
repudiated? Both cases are exceptions. These exceptions give you no
right to judge unfavorably of all women. This prejudice does no honor
to your good sense, Richard. It is only eccentricity can judge thus."

The train stopped. The travellers went out, where a carriage awaited
them.

"Is everything right?" said Herr Frank to the driver.

"All is fixed, sir, as you required,"

"Is the box of books taken out?"

"Yes, sir."

The coach moved up the street. The dark mountain-side rose into view,
and narrow, deep valleys yawned beneath the travellers. Fresh currents
of air rushed down the mountain and Herr Frank inhaled refreshing
draughts.

Richard gazed thoughtfully over the magnificent vineyards and luxuriant
orchards.

The road grew steeper and the wooded summit of the mountain approached.
A light which Frank beheld with satisfaction glared out from it. Its
rays shot out upon the town that, amid rich vineyards, topped the
neighboring hill.

"Our residence is beautifully located," said Herr Frank. "How cheerful
it looks up there! It is a home fit for princes."

"You have indeed chosen a magnificent spot, father. Everything unites
to make Frankenhoehe a delightful place. The vineyards on the <DW72>s of
the hills, the smiling hamlet of Salingen to the right. In the
background the stern mountain with its proud ruins on the summit of
Salburg, the deep valleys and the dark ravines, all unite in the
landscape: to the east that beautiful plain."

These words pleased the father. His eyes rested long on the beautiful
property.

"You have forgotten a reason for my happy choice," said he, while a
smile played on his features. "I mean the habit of my friend and
deliverer, who, for the last eight years, spends the month of May at
Frankenhoehe. You know the singular character of the doctor. Nothing in
the world can tear him from his books. He has renounced all pleasure
and enjoyment, to devote his whole time to his books. When Frankenhoehe
entices and captivates the man of science, so strict, so dead to the
world, it is, as I think, the highest compliment to our place."

Richard did not question his father's opinion. He knew his unbounded
esteem for the learned doctor.

The road grew steeper and steeper. The horses labored slowly along. The
pleasant hamlet of Salingen lay a short distance to the left. A single
house, separated from the village, and standing near the road in the
midst of vineyards, came into view. The features of Herr Frank darkened
as he turned his gaze from Frankenhoehe to this house. It was as though
some unpleasant recollection was associated with it. Richard looked at
the stately mansion, the large out-houses, the walled courts, and saw
that everything about it was neat and clean.

"This must be a wealthy proprietor or influential landlord who lives
here," said Richard. "I have indeed seen this place in former years,
but it did not interest me. How inviting and pleasant it looks. The
property must have undergone considerable change; at least, I remember
nothing that indicated the place to be other than an ordinary
farmhouse."

Herr Frank did not hear these observations. He muttered some bitter
imprecation. The coach gained the summit, left the road, and passed
through vineyards and chestnut groves to the house.

Frankenhoehe was a handsome two-story house whose arrangements
corresponded to Frank's taste and means. Near it stood another,
occupied by the steward. A short distance from it were stables and
out-houses for purposes of agriculture.

Herr Frank went directly to the house, and passed from room to room to
see if his instructions had been carried out.

Richard went into the garden and walked on paths covered with yellow
sand. He strolled about among flower-beds that loaded the air with
agreeable odors. He examined the blooming dwarf fruit-trees and
ornamental plants. He observed the neatness and exact order of
everything. Lastly, he stood near the vineyard whence he could behold
an extensive view. He admired the beautiful, fragrant landscape. He
stood thoughtfully reflecting. His conversation made it evident to him
that his feelings and will did not agree with his father's wishes. He
saw that between his inclinations and his love for his father he must
undergo a severe struggle--a struggle that must decide his happiness
for life. The strangeness of his opinion of women did not escape him.
He tested his experience. He tried to justify his convictions, and yet
his father's claims and filial duty prevailed.




                              CHAPTER II.

                           THE WEATHER-CROSS.


The next morning Richard was out with the early larks, and returned
after a few hours in a peculiar frame of mind. As he was entering his
room, he saw through the open door his father standing in the saloon.
Herr Frank was carefully examining the arrangements, as the servants
were carrying books into the adjoining room and placing them in a
bookcase. Richard, as he passed, greeted his father briefly, contrary
to his usual custom. At other times he used to exchange a few words
with his father when he bid him good-morning, and he let no occasion
pass of giving his opinion on any matter in which he knew his father
took an interest.

The young man walked to the open window of his room, and gazed into the
distance. He remained motionless for a time. He ran his fingers through
his hair, and with a jerk of the head threw the brown locks back from
his forehead. He walked restlessly back and forth, and acted like a man
who tries in vain to escape from thoughts that force themselves upon
him. At length he went to the piano, and beat an impetuous impromptu on
the keys.

"Ei, Richard!" cried Herr Frank, whom the wild music had brought to his
side. "Why, you rave! How possessed! One would think you had discovered
a roaring cataract in the mountains, and wished to imitate its
violence."

Richard glanced quickly at his father, and finished with a tender,
plaintive melody.

"Come over here and look at the rooms."

Richard followed his father and examined carelessly the elegant rooms,
and spoke a few cold words of commendation.

"And what do you say to this flora?" said Herr Frank pointing to a
stepped framework on which bloomed the most beautiful and rare flowers.

"All very beautiful, father. The doctor will be much pleased, as he
always is here."

"I wish and hope so. I have had the peacocks and turkeys sent away,
because Klingenberg cannot endure their noise. The library here will
always be his favorite object, and care has been taken with it. Here
are the best books on all subjects, even theology and astronomy."

"Frankenhoehe is indeed cheerful as the heart of youth and quiet as a
cloister," said Richard "Your friend would indeed be ungrateful if this
attention did not gratify him."

"I have also provided that excellent wine which he loves and enjoys as
a healthful medicine. But, Richard, you know Klingenberg's
peculiarities. You must not play as you did just now; you would drive
the doctor from the house."

"Make yourself easy about that, father; I will play while he is on the
mountain."

Richard took a book from the shelf, and glanced over it. Herr Frank
left him, and he immediately replaced the book and returned to his own
room. There he wrote in his diary:


"12th of May.--Man is too apt to be led by his inclination. And what is
inclination? A feeling caused by external impressions, or superinduced
by a disposition of the body. Inclination, therefore, is something
inimical to intellectual life. A vine that threatens to overgrow and
smother clear conviction. Never act from inclination, if you do not
wish to be unfaithful to conviction and guilty o a weakness."


He went into the garden, where he talked to the gardener about trees
and flowers.

"Are you acquainted in Salingen, John?"

"Certainly, sir. I was born there."

"Do strangers sometimes come there to stop and enjoy the beautiful
neighborhood?"

"Oh! no, sir; there is no suitable hotel there--only plain taverns; and
people of quality would not stop at them."

"Are there people of rank in Salingen?"

"Only farmers, sir. But--stay. The rich Siegwart appears to be such,
and his children are brought up in that manner."

"Has Siegwart many children?"

"Four--two boys and two girls. One son is at college. The other takes
care of the estate, and is at home. The oldest daughter has been at the
convent for three years. She is now nineteen years old. The second is
still a child."

Richard went further into the garden; he looked over at Salingen, and
then at the mountains. His eye followed a path that went winding up the
mountain like a golden thread and led to the top. Then his eye rested
for a time on a particular spot in that yellow path. Richard remained
taciturn and reserved the rest of the day. He sat in his room and tried
to read, but the subject did not interest him. He often looked dreamily
from the book. He finally arose, took his hat and cane, and was soon
lost in the mountain. The next morning Richard went to the borders of
the forest, and looked frequently over at Salingen as it lay in rural
serenity before him. The pleasant hamlet excited his interest. He then
turned to the right and pursued the yellow path which he had examined
the day before, up the mountain. The birds sang in the bushes, and on
the branches of the tallest oak perched the black-bird whose morning
hymn echoed far and wide. The sweet notes of the nightingale joined in
the general concert, and the shrill piping of the hawk struck in
discordantly with the varied and beautiful song. Even unconscious
nature displayed her beauties. The dew hung in great drops on the
grass-blades and glittered like so many brilliants, and wild flowers
loaded the air with sweet perfumes. Richard saw little of these
beauties of spring. He ascended still higher. His mind seemed agitated
and burdened. He had just turned a bend in the road when he saw a
female figure approaching. His cheeks grew darker as his eyes rested on
the approaching figure. He gazed in the distance, and a disdainful
flush overspread his face. He approached her as he would approach an
enemy whose power he had felt, and whom he wished to conciliate.

She was within fifty paces of him. Her blue dress fell in heavy folds
about her person. The ribbons of her straw bonnet, that hung on her
arm, fluttered in the breeze. In her left hand she held a bunch of
flowers. On her right arm hung a silk mantle, which the mild air had
rendered unnecessary. Her full, glossy hair was partly in a silk net
and partly plaited over the forehead and around the head, as is
sometimes seen with children. Her countenance was exquisitely
beautiful, and her light eyes now rested full and clear on the stranger
who approached her. She looked at him with the easy, natural
inquisitiveness of a child, surprised to meet such an elegant gentleman
in this place.

Frank looked furtively at her, as though he feared the fascinating
power of the vision that so lightly and gracefully passed him. He
raised his hat stiffly and formally. This was necessary to meet the
requirement of etiquette. Were it not, he would perhaps have passed her
by without a salutation. She did not return his greeting with a stiff
bow, but with a friendly "good-morning;" and this too in a voice whose
sweetness, purity, and melody harmonized with the beautiful echoes of
the morning.

Frank moved on hastily for some distance. He was about to look back,
but did not do so; and continued on his way, with contracted brows,
till a turn in the road hid her from his view. Here he stopped and
wiped the sweat from his forehead. His heart beat quickly, and he was
agitated by strong, emotions. He stood leaning on his cane and gazing
into the shadows of the forest. He then continued thoughtfully, and
ascended some hundred feet higher till he gained the top of the
mountain. The tall trees ceased; a variegated copsewood crowned the
summit, which formed a kind of platform. Human hands had levelled the
ground, and on the moss that covered it grew modest little violets.
Near the border of the platform stood a stone cross of rough material.
Near this cross lay the fragments of another large rock, that might
have been shattered by lightning years before. A few steps back of
this, on two square blocks of stone, stood a statue of the Virgin and
Child, of white stone very carefully wrought, but without much art. The
Virgin had a crown of roses on her head. The Child held a little bunch
of forget-me-nots in its hand, and as it held them out seemed to say,
"Forget me not." Two heavy vases that could not be easily overturned by
the wind, standing on the upper block, also contained flowers. All
these flowers were quite fresh, as if they had just been placed there.

Richard examined these things, and wondered what they, meant in this
solitude of the mountain. The fresh flowers and the cleanliness of the
statue, on which no dust or moss could be seen, indicated a careful
keeper. He thought of the young woman whom he met. He had seen the same
kind of flowers in her hand, and doubtless she was the devotee of the
place.

Scarcely had his thoughts taken this direction when he turned away and
walked to the border of the plot; and gazed at the country before him.
He looked down toward Frankenhoehe, whose white chimneys appeared above
the chestnut grove. He contemplated the plains with their luxuriant
fields reflecting every shade of green--the strips of forests that lay
like shadows in the sunny plain--numberless hamlets with church towers
whose gilded crosses gleamed in the sun. He gazed in the distance where
the mountain ranges vanished in the mist, and long he enjoyed the
magnificence of the view. He was aroused from his dreamy contemplation
by the sound of footsteps behind him.

An old man with a load of wood on his shoulders came up to the place.
Breathing heavily, he threw down the wood and wiped the sweat from his
face. He saw the stranger, and respectfully touched his cap as he sat
down on the wood.

Frank went to him.

"You are from Salingen, I suppose," he began.

"Yes, sir."

"It is very hard for an old man like you to carry such a load so far."

"It is indeed, but I am poor and must do it."

Frank looked at the patched clothes of the old man, his coarse shoes,
his stockingless feet, and meagre body, and felt compassion for him.

"For us poor people the earth bears but thistles and thorns." After a
pause, the old man continued, "We have to undergo many tribulations and
difficulties, and sometimes we even suffer from hunger. But thus it is
in the world. The good God will reward us in the next world for our
sufferings in this."

These words sounded strangely to Richard. Raised as he was in the midst
of wealth, and without contact with poverty, he had never found
occasion to consider the lot of the poor; and now the resignation of
the old man, and his hope in the future, seemed strange to him. He was
astonished that religion could have such power--so great and strong--to
comfort the poor in the miseries of a hopeless, comfortless life.

"But what if your hope in another world deceive you?"

The old man looked at him with astonishment.

"How can I be deceived? God is faithful. He keeps his promises."

"And what has he promised you?"

"Eternal happiness if I persevere, patient and just, to the end."

"I wonder at your strong faith!"

"It is my sole possession on earth. What would support us poor people,
what would keep us from despair, if religion did not?"

Frank put his hand into his pocket,

"Here," said he, "perhaps this money will relieve your wants."

The old man looked at the bright thalers in his hand, and the tears
trickled down his cheeks.

"This is too much, sir; I cannot receive six thalers from you."

"That is but a trifle for me; put it in your pocket, and say no more
about it."

"May God reward and bless you a thousand times for it!"

"What does that cross indicate?"

"That is a weather cross, sir. We have a great deal of bad weather to
fear. We have frequent storms here, in summer; they hang over the
mountain and rage terribly. Every ravine becomes a torrent that dashes
over the fields, hurling rocks and sand from the mountain. Our fields
are desolated and destroyed. The people of Salingen placed that cross
there against the weather. In spring the whole community come here in
procession and pray God to protect them from the storms."

Richard reflected on this phenomenon; the confidence of these simple
people in the protection of God, whose omnipotence must intervene
between the remorseless elements and their victims, appeared to him as
the highest degree of simplicity. But he kept his thoughts to himself,
for he respected the religious sentiments of the old man, and would not
hurt his feelings.

"And the Virgin, why is she there?"

"Ah! that is a wonderful story, sir," he answered, apparently wishing
to evade an explanation.

"Which every one ought not to know?"

"Well--but perhaps the gentleman would laugh, and I would not like
that!"

"Why do you think I would laugh at the story?"

"Because you are a gentleman of quality, and from the city, and such
people do not believe any more in miracles."

This observation of rustic sincerity was not pleasing to Frank. It
expressed the opinion that the higher classes ignore faith in the
supernatural.

"If I promise you not to laugh, will you tell me the story?"

"I will; you were kind to me, and you can ask the story of me. About
thirty years ago," began the old man after a pause, "there lived a
wealthy farmer at Salingen whose name was Schenck. Schenck was young.
He married a rich maiden and thereby increased his property. But
Schenck had many great faults. He did not like to work and look after
his fields. He let his servants do as they pleased, and his fields
were, of course, badly worked and yielded no more than half a crop.
Schenck sat always in the tavern, where he drank and played cards and
dice. Almost every night he came home drunk. Then he would quarrel with
his wife, who reproached him. He abused her, swore wickedly, and
knocked everything about the room, and behaved very badly altogether.
Schenck sank lower and lower, and became at last a great sot. His
property was soon squandered. He sold one piece after another, and when
he had no more property to sell, he took it into his head to sell
himself to the devil for money. He went one night to a cross-road, and
called the devil, but the devil would not come; perhaps because Schenck
belonged to him already, for the Scripture says, 'A drunkard cannot
enter the kingdom of heaven.' At last a suit was brought against him,
and the last of his property was sold, and he was driven from his home.
This hurt Schenck very much, for he always had a certain kind of pride.
He thought of the past times when he was rich and respected, and now he
had lost all respect with his neighbors. He thought of his wife and his
four children, whom he had made poor and miserable. All this drove him
to despair. He determined to put an end to himself. He bought a rope
and came up here one morning to hang himself. He tied the rope to an
arm of the cross, and had his head in the noose, when all at once he
remembered that he had not yet said his three 'Hail! Marys.' His mother
who was dead had accustomed him, when a child, to say every day three
'Hail! Marys.' Schenck had never neglected this practice for a single
day. Then he took his head out of the noose and said, 'Well, as I have
said the "Hail! Marys" every day, I will say them also to-day, for the
last time.' He knelt down before the cross and prayed. When he was
done, he stood up to hang himself. But he had scarcely stood on his
feet when he was snatched up by a whirlwind and carried through the air
till he was over a vineyard, where he fell without hurting himself. As
he stood up, an ugly man stood before him and said, 'This time you have
escaped me, but the next time I will get you.' The ugly man had horses'
hoofs in place of feet, and wore green clothes. He disappeared before
Schenck's eyes. Schenck swears that this ugly man was the devil. He
declares also that he has to thank the Mother of God, through whose
intercession he escaped the claws of the devil. Schenck had that statue
placed there in memory of his wonderful escape--that is why the Mother
of God is there."

"A wonderful story indeed!" said Richard. "Although I do not laugh as
you see, yet I must assure that I do not believe the story."

"I thought so," answered the old man. "But you can ask Schenck himself.
He is still living, and is now seventy. Since that day he has changed
entirely. He drinks nothing but water. He never enters a tavern, but
goes every day to church. From that time to this Schenck has very
industrious, and has saved a nice property."

"That the drunkard reformed is most remarkable and best part of the
story," said Frank. "Drunkards very seldom reform. But," continued he
smiling, "the devil acted very stupidly in the affair. He should have
known that his appearance would have made a deep impression on the man,
and that he would not let himself be caught a second time."

"That is true," said the old man. "I believe the devil was forced to
appear and speak so."

"Forced? By whom?"

"By Him before whom the devils believe and tremble. Schenck was to
understand that God delivered on account of his pious custom, and the
devil had to tell him his would not happen a second time."

"How prudent you are in your superstition!" said Frank.

"As the gentleman has been kind, it hurts me to hear him speak so."

"Now," said Richard quickly, "I would not hurt your feelings. One may
be a good Christian without believing fables. And the flowers near the
statue. Has Schenck placed them there too?"

"Oh! no--the Angel did that."

"The Angel. Who is that?" said Frank, surprised.

"The Angel of Salingen--Siegwart's angel."

"Ah! angel is Angela, is it not?"

"So she may be called. In Salingen they call her only Angel. And she is
indeed as lovely, good, and beautiful as an angel. She has a heart for
the poor, and she gives with an open hand and a smiling face that does
one good. She is like her father, who gives me as many potatoes as I
want, and seed for my little patch of ground."

"Why does Angela decorate this statue?"

"I do not know; perhaps she does it through devotion."

"The flowers are quite fresh; does she come here every day?"

"Every day during the month of May, and no longer."

"Why no longer?"

"I do not know the reason; she has done so for the last two years,
since she came home from the convent, and she will do so this year."

"As Siegwart is so good to the poor, he must be rich."

"Very rich--you can see from his house. Do you see that fine building
there next to the road? That is the residence of Herr Siegwart."

It was the same building that had arrested Richard's attention as he
passed it some days before, and the sight of which had excited the
ill-humor of his father. Richard returned by a shorter way to
Frankenhoehe. He was serious and meditative. Arrived at home, he wrote
in his diary:


"May 13th.--Well, I have seen her. She exhibits herself as the 'Angel
of Salingen.' She is extremely beautiful. She is full of amiability and
purity of character. And to-day she did not wear that detestable
crinoline. But she will have other foibles in place of it. She
will, in some things at least, yield to the superficial tendencies of
her sex. Isabella was an ideal, until she descended from the height
where my imagination, deceived by her charms, had placed her. The
impression which Angela's appearance produced has rests on the same
foundation--deception. A better acquaintance will soon discover this.
Curious! I long to become better acquainted!

"Religion is not a disease or hallucination, as many think. It is a
power. Religion teaches the poor to bear their hard lot with patience.
It comforts and keeps them from despair. It directs their attention to
an eternal reward, and this hope compensates them for all the
afflictions and miseries of this life. Without religion, human society
would fall to pieces."


A servant entered, and announced dinner.

"Ah Richard!" said Herr Frank good-humoredly. "Half an hour late for
dinner, and had to be called! That is strange; I do not remember such a
thing to have happened before. You are always as punctual as a
repeater."

"I was in the mountain and had just returned."

"No excuse, my son. I am glad the neighborhood diverts you, and that
you depart a little from your regularity. Now everything is in good
order, as I desired, for my friend and deliverer. I have just received
a letter from him. He will be here in two days. I shall be glad to see
the good man again. If Frankenhoehe will only please him for a long
time!"

"I have no doubt of that," said Richard. "The doctor will be received
like a friend, treated like a king, and will live here like Adam and
Eve in paradise."

"Everything will go on as formerly. I will be coming and going on
account of business. You will, of course, remain uninterruptedly at
Frankenhoehe. You are high in the doctor's esteem. You interest him very
much. It is true you annoy him sometimes with your unlearned objections
and bold assertions. But I have observed that even vexation, when it
comes from you, is not disagreeable to him."

"But the poor should not annoy him with their sick," said Richard. "He
never denies his services to the poor, as he never grants them to the
rich. Indeed, I have sometimes observed that he tears himself from his
books with the greatest reluctance, and it is not without an effort
that he does it."

"But we cannot change it," said Herr Frank; "we cannot send the poor
away without deeply offending Klingenberg. But I esteem him the more
for his generosity."

After dinner the father and son went into the garden and talked of
various matters; suddenly Richard stopped and pointing over to
Salingen, said,

"I passed to-day that neat building that stands near the road. Who
lives there?"

"There lives the noble and lordly Herr Siegwart," said Herr Frank
derisively.

His tone surprised Richard. He was not accustomed to hear his father
speak thus.

"Is Siegwart a noble?"

"Not in the strict sense. But he is the ruler of Salingen. He rules in
that town, as absolutely as princes formerly did in their kingdoms."

"What is the cause of his influence?"

"His wealth, in the first place; secondly, his charity; and lastly, his
cunning."

"You are not favorable to him?"

"No, indeed! The Siegwart family is excessively ultramontane and
clerical. You know I cannot endure these narrow prejudices and this
obstinate adherence to any form of religion. Besides, I have a
particular reason for disagreement with Siegwart, of which I need not
now speak."

"Excessively ultramontane and clerical!" thought Richard, as he went to
his room. "Angela is undoubtedly educated in this spirit. Stultifying
confessionalism and religious narrow-mindedness have no doubt cast a
deep shadow over the 'angel.' Now--patience; the deception will soon
banish."

He took up Schlosser's History, and read a long time. But his eyes
wandered from the page, and his thoughts soon followed.

The next morning at the same hour Richard went to the weather cross. He
took the same road and again he met Angela; she had the same blue
dress, the same straw hat on her arm, and flowers in her hand. She
beheld him with the same clear eyes, with the same unconstrained
manner--only, as he thought, more charming--as on the first day. He
greeted her coolly and formally, as before. She thanked him with the
same affability. Again the temptation came over him to look back at
her; again he overcame it. When he came to the statue, he found fresh
flowers in the vases. The child Jesus had fresh forget-me-nots in his
hand, and the Mother had a crown of fresh roses on her head. On the
upper stone lay a book, bound in blue satin and clasped with a silver
clasp. When he took it up, he found beneath it a rosary made of an
unknown material, and having a gold cross fastened at the end. He
opened the book. The passage that had been last read was marked with a
silk ribbon. It was as follows:


"My son, trust not thy present affection; it will be quickly changed
into another. As long as thou livest thou art subject to change, even
against thy will; so as to be sometimes joyful, at other times sad; now
easy, now troubled; at one time devout, at another dry; sometimes
fervent, at other times sluggish; one day heavy, another day lighter.
But he that is wise and well instructed in spirit stands above all
these changes, not minding what he feels in himself, nor on what side
the wind of instability blows; but that the whole bent of his soul may
advance toward its due and wished-for end; for thus he may continue one
and the self-same without being shaken, by directing without ceasing,
through all this variety of events, the single eye of his intention
toward me. And by how much more pure the eye of the intention is, with
so much greater constancy mayest thou pass through these divers storms.

"But in many the eye of pure intention is dark; for men quickly look
toward something delightful that comes in their way. And it is rare to
find one who is wholly free from all blemish of self-seeking."


Frank remembered having written about the same thoughts in his diary.
But here they were conceived in another and deeper sense.

He read the title of the book. It was _The Following of Christ_.

He copied the title in his pocketbook. He then with a smile examined
the rosary, for he was not without prejudice against this kind of
prayer.

He had no doubt Angela had left these things here, and he thought it
would be proper to return them to the owner. He came slowly down the
mountain reading the book. It was clear to him that _The Following of
Christ_ was a book full of very earnest and profound reflections. And
he wondered how so young a woman could take any interest in such
serious reading. He was convinced that all the ladies he knew would
throw such a book aside with a sneer, because its contents condemned
their lives and habits. Angela, then, must be of a different character
from all the ladies he knew, and he was very desirous of knowing better
this character of Angela.

In a short time he entered the gate and passed through the yard to the
stately building where Herr Siegwart dwelt. He glanced hastily at the
long out-buildings--the large barns; at the polished cleanliness of the
paved court, the perfect order of every thing, and finally at the
ornamented mansion. Then he looked at the old lindens that stood near
the house, whose trunks were protected from injury by iron railings. In
the tops of these trees lodged a lively family of sparrows, who were at
present in hot contention, for they quarrelled and cried as loud and as
long as did formerly the lords in the parliament of Frankfort. The
beautiful garden, separated from the yard by a low wall covered with
white boards, did not escape him. Frank entered, upon a broad and very
clean path; as his feet touched the stone slabs, he heard, through the
open door, a low growl, and then a man's voice saying, "Quiet, Hector."

Frank walked through the open door into a large room handsomely
furnished, and odoriferous with a multitude of flowers in vases. A man
in the prime of life sat on the sofa reading and smoking. He wore a
light-brown overcoat, brown trousers, and low, thick boots. He had a
fresh, florid complexion, red beard, blue eyes, and an expressive,
agreeable countenance. When Frank entered he arose, laid aside the
paper and cigar, and approached the visitor.

"I found these things on the mountain near the weather-cross." said
Frank, after a more formal than affable bow. "As your daughter met me,
I presume they belong to her. I thought it my duty to return them."

"These things certainly belong to my daughter," answered Herr Siegwart.
"You are very kind, sir. You have placed us under obligations to you."

"I was passing this way," said Frank briefly.

"And whom have we the honor to thank?"

"I am Richard Frank."

Herr Siegwart bowed. Frank noticed a slight embarrassment in his
countenance. He remembered the expressions his father had used in
reference to the Siegwart family, and it was clear to him that a
reciprocal ill feeling existed here. Siegwart soon resumed his friendly
manner, and invited him with much formality to the sofa. Richard felt
that he must accept the invitation at least for a few moments. Siegwart
sat on a chair in front of him, and they talked of various unimportant
matters. Frank admired the skill which enabled him to conduct, without
interruption, so pleasant a conversation with a stranger.

While they were speaking, some house-swallows flew into the room. They
fluttered about without fear, sat on the open door, and joined their
cheerful twittering with the conversation of the men. Richard expressed
his admiration, and said he had never seen anything like it.

"Our constant guests in summer," answered Siegwart. "They build their
nests in the hall, and as they rise earlier than we do, an opening is
left for them above the hall door, where they can go in and out
undisturbed when the doors are closed. Angela is in their confidence,
and on the best of terms with them. When rainy or cold days come during
breeding time they suffer from want of food. Angela is then their
procurator. I have often admired Angela's friendly intercourse with the
swallows, who perch upon her shoulders and hands."

Richard looked indeed at the twittering swallows, but their friend
Angela passed before his eyes, so beautiful indeed that he no longer
heard what Siegwart was saying.

He arose; Siegwart accompanied him. As they passed through the yard,
Frank observed the long row of stalls, and said,

"You must have considerable stock?"

"Yes, somewhat. If you would like to see the property, I will show you
around with pleasure."

"I regret that I cannot now avail myself of your kindness; I shall do
so in a few days," answered Frank.

"Herr Frank," said Siegwart, "may the accident which has given us the
pleasure of your agreeable visit, be the occasion of many visits in
future. I know that as usual you will spend the month of May at
Frankenhoehe. We are neighbors--this title, in my opinion, should
indicate a friendly intercourse."

"Let it be understood, Herr Siegwart; I accept with pleasure your
invitation."

On the way to Frankenhoehe Richard walked very slowly, and gazed into
the distance before him. He thought of the swallows that perched on
Angela's shoulders and hands. Their sweet notes still echoed in his
soul.

The country-like quiet of Siegwart's house and the sweet peace that
pervaded it were something new to him. He thought of the simple
character of Siegwart, who, as his father said, was "ultramontane and
clerical," and whom he had represented to himself as a dark, reserved
man. He found nothing in the open, natural manner of the man to
correspond with his preconceived opinion of him. Richard concluded that
either Herr Siegwart was not an ultramontane, or the characteristics of
the ultramontanes, as portrayed in the free-thinking newspapers of the
day, were erroneous and false.

Buried in such thoughts, he reached Frankenhoehe. As he passed through
the yard, he did not observe the carriage that stood there. But as he
passed under the window, he heard a loud voice, and some books were
thrown from the window and fell at his feet. He looked down in surprise
at the books, whose beautiful binding was covered with sand. He now
observed the coach, and smiled.

"Ah! the doctor is here," said he. "He has thrown these unwelcome
guests out of the window. Just like him."

He took up the books and read the titles, _Vogt's Pictures from Animal
Life_, _Vogt's Physiological Letters_, _Czolbe's Sensualism_.

He took the books to his room and began to read them. Herr Frank, with
his joyful countenance, soon appeared.

"Klingenberg is here!" said he.

"I suspected as much already," said Richard. "I passed by just as he
threw the books out of the window with his usual impetuosity."

"Do not let him see the books; the sight of them sets him wild."

"Klingenberg walks only in his own room. I wish to read these books;
what enrages him with innocent paper?"

"I scarcely know, myself. He examined the library and was much pleased
with some of the works. But suddenly he tore these books from their
place and hurled them through the window."

"'I tolerate no bad company among these noble geniuses,' said he,
pointing to the learned works.

"'Pardon me, honored friend,' said I, 'if, without my knowledge, some
bad books were included. What kind of writings are these, doctor?"

"'Stupid materialistic trash,' said he. 'If I had Vogt, Moleschott,
Colbe, and Buechner here, I would throw them body and bones out of the
window.'

"I was very much surprised at this declaration, so contrary to the
doctor's kind disposition. 'What kind of people are those you have
named?' said I.

"'No people, my dear Frank,' said he. 'They are animals. This Vogt and
his fellows have excluded themselves from the pale of humanity,
inasmuch as they have declared apes, oxen, and asses to be their
equals.'"

"I am now very desirous to know these books," said Richard.

"Well, do not let our friend know your intention," urged Frank.

Richard dressed and went to greet the singular guest. He was sitting
before a large folio. He arose at Richard's entrance and paternally
reached him both hands.

Doctor Klingenberg was of a compact, strong build. He had unusually
long arms, which he swung back and forth in walking. His features were
sharp, but indicated a modest character. From beneath his bushy
eyebrows there glistened two small eyes that did not give an agreeable
expression to his countenance. This unfavorable expression was,
however, only the shell of a warm heart.

The doctor was good-natured--hard on himself, but mild in his judgments
of others. He had an insatiable desire for knowledge, and it impelled
him to severe studies that robbed him of his hair and made him
prematurely bald.

"How healthy you look, Richard!" said he, contemplating the young man.
"I am glad to see you have not been spoiled by the seething atmosphere
of modern city life."

"You know, doctor, I have a natural antipathy to all swamps and
morasses.

"That is right, Richard; preserve a healthy naturalness."

"We expected you this morning."

"And would go to the station to bring me. Why this ceremony? I am here,
and I will enjoy for a few weeks the pure, bracing mountain air. Our
arrangements will be as formerly--not so, my dear friend?"

"I am at your service."

"You have, of course, discovered some new points that afford fine
views?"

"If not many, at least one--the weather cross," answered Frank. "A
beautiful position. The hill stands out somewhat from the range. The
whole plain lies before the ravished eyes. At the same time, there are
things connected with _that_ place that are not without their influence
on me. They refer to a custom of the ultramontanists that clashes with
modern ideas; I will have an opportunity of seeing whether your opinion
coincides with mine."

"Very well; since we have already an object for our next walk--and this
is according to our old plan--tomorrow after dinner at three o'clock,"
and saying this he glanced wistfully at the old folio. Frank, smiling,
observed the delicate hint and retired.




                              CHAPTER III.

                        QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM.


On the following day, Richard went to the weather-cross. He did not
meet Angela. She must have been unusually early; for the flowers had
evidently just been placed before the statue.

He returned, gloomy, to the house, and wrote in his diary:


                                                     "May 14th.

"She did not meet me to-day, and probably will not meet me again. I
should have left the book where it was; it might have awakened her
gratitude; for I think she left it purposely, to give me an opportunity
to make her acquaintance.

"How many young women would give more than a book to get acquainted
with a wealthy party! The 'Angel' is very sensitive; but this
sensibility pleases me, because it is true womanly delicacy.

"She will now avoid meeting me in this lonely road. But I will study
her character in her father's house. I will see if she does not confirm
my opinion of the women of our times. It was for this purpose alone
that I accepted Siegwart's invitation. Angela must not play Isabella;
no woman ever shall. Single, and free from woman's yoke, I will go
through the world."


He put aside the diary, and began reading Vogt's _Physiological
Letters_.

At three o'clock precisely, Richard with the punctual doctor left
Frankenhoehe. They passed through the chestnut grove and through the
vineyard toward Salingen. The doctor pushed on with long steps, his
arms swinging back and forth. He was evidently pleased with the subject
he had been reading. He had, on leaving the house, shaken Richard by
the hand, and spoken a few friendly words, but not a syllable since.
Richard knew his ways; and knew that it would take some time for him to
thaw.

They were passing between Siegwart's house and Salingen, when they
beheld Angela, at a distance, coming toward them. She carried a little
basket on her arm, and on her head she wore a straw hat with broad
fluttering ribbons. Richard fixed his eyes attentively on her. This
time, also, she did not wear hoops, but a dress of modest colors. He
admired her light, graceful movement and charming figure. The
blustering doctor moderated his steps and went slower the nearer he
came to Angela, and considered her with surprise. Frank greeted her,
touching his hat. She did not thank him, as before, with a friendly
greeting, but by a scarcely perceptible inclination of the head; nor
did she smile as before, but on this account seemed to him more
charming and ethereal than ever. She only glanced at him, and he
thought he observed a slight blush on her cheeks.

These particulars were engrossing the young man's attention when he
heard the doctor say,

"Evidently the Angel of Salingen."

"Who?" said Richard in surprise.

"The Angel of Salingen," returned Klingenberg. "You are surprised at
this appellation; is it not well-merited?"

"My surprise increases, doctor; for exaggeration is not your fashion."

"But she deserves acknowledgment. Let me explain. The maiden is the
daughter of the proprietor Siegwart, and her name is Angela. She is a
model of every virtue. She is, in the female world, what an image of
the Virgin, by one of the old masters, would be among the hooped gentry
of the present. As you are aware, I have been often called to the
cabins of the sick poor, and there the quiet, unostentatious labors of
this maiden have become known to me. Angela prepares suitable food for
the sick, and generally takes it to them herself. The basket on her arm
does service in this way. There are many poor persons who would not
recover unless they had proper, nourishing food. To these Angela is a
great benefactor. For this reason, she has a great influence over the
minds of the sick, and the state of the mind greatly facilitates or
impedes their recovery.

"I have often entered just after she had departed, and the beneficial
influence of her presence could be still seen in the countenances of
the poor. Her presence diffused resignation, peace, contentment, and a
peculiar cheerfulness in the meanest and most wretched hovels of
poverty, where she enters without hesitation. This is certainly a rare
quality in so young a creature. She rejoices the hearts of the children
by giving them clothes, sometimes made by herself, or pictures and the
like. Her whole object appears to be to reconcile and make all happy. I
have just seen her for the first time; her beauty is remarkable, and
might well adorn an angel. The common people wish only to Germanize
'Angela' when they call her 'Angel.' But she is indeed an angel of
heaven to the poor and needy."

Frank said nothing. He moved on in silence toward the weather-cross.

"I have accidentally discovered a singular custom of your 'angel,'
doctor. There is at the weather-cross a Madonna of stone. Angela has
imposed upon herself the singular task of adorning this Madonna, daily,
with fresh flowers."

"You are a profane fellow, Richard. You should not speak in such a
derisive tone of actions which are the out-flowings of pious
sentiment."

"Every one has his hobby. What will not people do through ambition? I
know ladies who torture a piano for half the night, in order to catch
the tone of the prima-donna at the opera. I know women who undergo all
possible privations to be able to wear as fine clothes, as costly furs,
as others with whom they are in rivalry. This exhaustive night-singing,
these deprivations, are submitted to through foolish vanity. Perhaps
Angela is not less ambitious and vain than others of her sex. As she
cannot dazzle these country folk with furs or toilette, she dazzles
their religious sentiment by ostentatious piety."

"Radically false!" said the doctor. "Charity and virtue are recognized
and honored not only in the country, but also in the cities. Why do not
your coquettes strive for this approval? Because they want Angela's
nobility of soul. And again, why should Angela wish to gain the
admiration of the peasants? She is the daughter of the wealthiest man
in the neighborhood. If such was her object, she could gratify her
ambition in a very different way."

"Then Angela is a riddle to me," returned Richard. "I cannot conceive
the motives of her actions."

"Which are so natural! The maiden follows the impulses of her own noble
nature, and these impulses are developed and directed by Christian
culture, and convent education. Angela was a long time with the nuns,
and only returned home two years ago. Here you have the very natural
solution of the riddle."

"Are you acquainted with the Siegwart family?"

"No; what I know of Angela I learned from the people of Salingen."

They arrived at the platform. Klingenberg stood silent for some time
admiring the landscape. The view did not seem to interest Richard. His
eyes rested on Angela's home, whose white walls, surrounded by
vineyards and corn-fields, glistened in the sun.

"It is worth while to come up here oftener," said Klingenberg.

"Angela's work," said Richard as he drew near the statue. The doctor
paused a moment and examined the flowers.

"Do you observe Angela's fine taste in the arrangement of the colors?"
said he. "And the forget-me-nots! What a deep religious meaning they
have."

They returned by another way to Frankenhoehe.

"Angela's pious work," began Richard after a long pause, "reminds me of
a religious custom against which modern civilization has thus far
warred in vain. I mean the veneration of saints. You, as a Protestant,
will smile at this custom, and I, as a Catholic, must deplore the
tenacity with which my church clings to this obsolete remnant of
heathen idolatry."

"Ah! this is the subject you alluded to yesterday," said the doctor. "I
must, in fact, smile, my dear Richard! But I by no means smile at 'the
tenacity with which your church clings to the obsolete remnants of
heathen idolatry.' I smile at your queer idea of the veneration of the
saints. I, as a reasonable man, esteem this veneration, and recognize
its admirable and beneficial influence on human society."

This declaration increased Frank's surprise to the highest degree. He
knew the clear mind of the doctor, and could not understand how it
happened that he wished to defend a custom so antagonistic to modern
thought.

"You find fault," continued Klingenberg, "with the custom of erecting
statues to these holy men in the churches, the forest, the fields, the
houses, and in the market?"

"Yes, I do object to that."

"If you had objected to the lazy Schiller at Mayence, or the robber's
poet Schiller, as he raves at the theatre in Mannheim, or to the
conqueror and destroyer of Germany, Gustavus Adolphus, whose statue is
erected as an insult in a German city, then you would be right."

"Schiller-worship has its justification," retorted Frank. "They erect
public monuments to the genial spirit of that man, to remind us of his
services to poetry, his aspirations, and his German patriotism."

"It is praiseworthy to erect monuments to the poet. But do not talk of
Schiller's patriotism, for he had none. But let that pass; it is not to
the point. The question is, whether you consider it praiseworthy to
erect monuments to deserving and exalted genius?"

"Without the least hesitation, I say yes. But I see what you are
driving at, doctor. I know the remorseless logic of your inferences.
But you will not catch me in your vise this time. You wish to infer
that the saints far surpassed Schiller in nobility and greatness of
soul, and that honoring them, therefore, is more reasonable, and more
justifiable, than honoring Schiller. I dispute the greatness of the
so-called saints. They were men full of narrowness and rigorism. They
despised the world and their friends. They carried this contempt to a
wonderful extent--to a renunciation of all the enjoyments of life, to
voluntary poverty and unconditional obedience. But all these are fruits
that have grown on a stunted, morbid tree, and are in opposition to
progress, to industry, and to the enlightened civilization of modern
times. The dark ages might well honor such men, but our times cannot.
Schiller, on the contrary, that genial man, taught us to love the
pleasures of life. By his fine genius and his odes to pleasure, he
frightened away all the spectres of these enthusiastic views of life.
He preached a sound taste and a free, unconstrained enjoyment of the
things of this beautiful earth. And for this reason precisely, because
he inaugurated this new doctrine, does he deserve monuments in his
honor."

"How does it happen then, my friend," said the doctor, in a cutting
tone that was sometimes peculiar to him, "that you do not take
advantage of the modern doctrine of unconstrained enjoyment? Why have
you preserved fresh your youthful vigor, and not dissipated it at the
market of sensual pleasures? Why is your mode of life so often a
reproach to your dissolute friends? Why do you avoid the resorts of
refined pleasures? Why are the coquettish, vitiated, hollow
inclinations of a great part of the female sex so distasteful to you?
Answer me!"

"These are peculiarities of my nature; individual opinions that have no
claim to any weight."

"Peculiarities of your nature--very right; your noble nature, your pure
feelings rebel against these moral acquisitions of progress. I begin
with your noble nature. If I did not find this good, true self in you,
I would waste no more words. But because you are what you are, I must
convince you of the error of your views. Schiller, you say, and, with
him, the modern spirit, raised the banner of unrestrained enjoyment,
and this enjoyment rests on sensual pleasures, does it not?"

"Well--yes."

"I knew and know many who followed this banner--and you also know many.
Of those whom I knew professionally, some ended their days in the
hospital, of the most loathsome diseases. Some, unsatiated with the
whole round of pleasures, drag on a miserable life, dead to all energy,
and spiritless. They drank the full cup of pleasure, and with it
unspeakable bitterness and disgust. Some ended in ignominy and
shame--bankruptcy, despair, suicide. Such are the consequences of this
modern dogma of unrestrained enjoyments."

"All these overstepped the proper bounds of pleasure," said Richard.

"The proper bounds? Stop!" cried the doctor, "No leaps, Richard! Think
clearly and logically. Christianity also allows enjoyment, but--and
here is the point--in certain limits. Your progress, on the contrary,
proclaims freedom in moral principles, a disregard of all moral
obligations, unrestricted enjoyment--and herein consists the danger and
delusion. I ask, Are you in favor of restricted or unrestricted
enjoyment?"

Frank hesitated. He felt already the thumbscrew of the irrepressible
doctor, and feared the inferences he would draw from his admissions.

"Come!" urged Klingenberg, "decide."

"Sound reason declares for restricted enjoyment," said Frank decidedly.

"Good; there you leave the unlimited sphere which godless progress has
given to the thoughts and inclinations of men. You admit the obligation
of self-control, and the restraint of the grosser emotions. But let us
proceed; you speak of industry. The modern spirit of industry has
invoked a demon--or, rather, the demoniac spirit of the times has taken
possession of industry. The great capitalists have built thrones on
their money-bags and tyrannize over those who have no money. They crush
out the work-shop of the industrious and well-to-do tradesman, and
compel him to be their slave. Go into the factories of Elfeld, or
England; you can there see the slaves of this demon industry--miserable
creatures, mentally and morally stunted, socially perishing; not only
slaves, but mere wheels of the machines. This is what modern industry
has made of those poor wretches, for whom, according to modern
enlightenment, there is no higher destiny than to drag through life in
slavery, to increase the money-bags of their tyrants. But the
capitalists have perfect right, according to modern ideas; they only
use the means at their command. The table of the ten commandments has
been broken; the yoke of Christianity broken. Man is morally and
religiously free; and from this false liberalism the tyranny of
plutocracy and the slavery of the poor has been developed. Are you
satisfied with the development, and the principles that made it
possible?"

"No," said Frank decidedly. "I despise that miserable industrialism
that values the product more than the man. My admissions are, however,
far from justifying the exaggerated notions of the saints."

"Wait a bit!" cried Klingenberg hastily. "I have just indicated the
cause of this wretched egotism, and also a consequence--namely, the
power of great capitalists and manufacturers over an army of white
slaves. But this is by no means all. This demon of industry has
consequences that will ruin a great portion of mankind. Now mark what I
say, Richard! The richness of the subject allows me only to indicate.
The progressive development of industry brings forth products of which
past ages were ignorant, because they were not necessary for life. The
existence of these products creates a demand. The increased wants
increase the outlay, which in most cases does not square with the
income, and therefore the accounts of many close with a deficit The
consequences of this deficit for the happiness, and even for the morals
of the family, I leave untouched. The increased products beget luxury
and the desire for enjoyment; the ultimate consequences of which
enervate the individual and society. Hence the phenomenon, in England,
that the greater portion of the people in the manufacturing towns die
before the age of fifteen, and that many are old men at thirty.
Enervated and demoralized peoples make their existence impossible. They
go to the wall. This is a historical fact. Ergo, modern industry
separated from Christian civilization hastens the downfall of nations."

"I cannot dispute the truth of your observations. But you have touched
only the dark side of modern industry, without mentioning its benefits.
If industry is a source of fictitious wants, it affords, on the other
hand, cheap prices to the poor for the most necessary wants of life;
for example, cheap materials for clothing."

"Very cheap, but also very poor material," answered Klingenberg. "In
former times, clothing was dearer, but also better. They knew nothing
of the rags of the present fabrication. And it may be asked whether
that dearer material was not cheaper in the end for the poor. When this
is taken into consideration, the new material has no advantage over the
old. I will freely admit that the inventions of modern times do honor
to human genius. I acknowledge the achievements of industry, as such. I
admire the improvements of machinery, the great revolution caused by
the use of steam, and thousands of other wonders of art. No sensible
man will question the relative worth of all these. But all these are
driven and commanded by a bad influence, and herein lies the injury. We
must consider industrialism from this higher standpoint. What advantage
is it to a people to be clothed in costly stuffs when they are
enervated, demoralized, and perishing? Clothe a corpse as you will, a
corpse it will be still. And besides, the greatest material good does
not compensate the white factory-slaves for the loss of their liberty.
The Lucullan age fell into decay, although they feasted on young
nightingales, drank liquified pearls, and squandered millions for
delicacies and luxuries. The life of nations does not consist in the
external splendor of wealth, in easy comfort, or in unrestrained
passions. Morality is the life of nations, and virtue their internal
strength. But virtue, morality, and Christian sentiment are under the
ban of modern civilization. If Christianity does not succeed in
overcoming this demon spirit of the times, or at least confining it
within narrow limits, it will and must drive the people to certain
destruction. We find decayed peoples in the Christian era, but the
church has always rescued and regenerated them. While the acquisitions
of modern times--industrialism, enlightenment, humanitarianism, and
whatever they may be called--are, on the one hand, of little advantage
or of doubtful worth, they are, on the other hand, the graves of true
prosperity, liberty, and morality. They are the cause of shameful
terrorism and of degrading slavery, in the bonds of the passions and in
the claws of plutocracy."

Frank made no reply.

For a while they walked on in silence.

"Let us," continued Klingenberg, "consider personally those men whose
molten images stand before us. Schiller's was a noble nature, but
Schiller wrote:

          "'No more this fight of duty, hence no longer
              This giant strife will I!
            Canst quench these passions evermore the stronger?
              Then ask not virtue, what I must deny.

          "'Albeit I have sworn, yea, sworn that never
              Shall yield my master will;
            Yet take thy wreath; to me 'tis lost for ever!
              Take back thy wreath, and let me sin my fill.'

"Is this a noble and exalted way of thinking? Certainly not. Schiller
would be virtuous if he could clothe himself in the lustre of virtue
without sacrifice. The passionate impulses of the heart are stronger in
him than the sense of duty. He gives way to his passions. He renounces
virtue because he is too weak, too languid, too listless to encounter
this giant strife bravely like a strong man. Such is the noble
Schiller. In later years, when the fiery impulses of his heart had
subsided, he roused himself to better efforts and nobler aims.

"Consider the prince of poets, Goethe. How morally naked and poor he
stands before us! Goethe's coarse insults to morality are well known.
His better friend, Schiller, wrote of him to Koerner, 'His mind is not
calm enough, because his domestic relations, which he is too weak to
change, cause him great vexation.' Koerner answered, 'Men cannot
violate morality with impunity.' Six years later, the 'noble' Goethe
was married to his 'mistress' at Weimar. Goethe's detestable political
principles are well known. He did not possess a spark of patriotism. He
composed hymns of victory to Napoleon, the tyrant, the destroyer and
desolator of Germany. These are the heroes of modern sentiment, the
advance guard of liberty, morality, and true manhood! And these heroes
so far succeeded that the noble Arndt wrote of his time, 'We are base,
cowardly, and stupid; too poor for love, too listless for anger, too
imbecile for hate. Undertaking everything, accomplishing nothing;
willing every thing, without the power of doing any thing.' So far has
this boasted freethinking created disrespect for revealed truth. So far
this modern civilization, which idealizes the passions, leads to
mockery of religion and lets loose the baser passions of man. If they
cast these representatives of the times in bronze, they should stamp on
the foreheads of their statues the words of Arndt:

"'We are base, cowardly, and stupid; too poor for love, too listless
for anger, too imbecile for hate. Undertaking every thing,
accomplishing nothing; willing every thing, without the power of doing
any thing.'"

"You are severe, doctor."

"I am not severe. It is the truth."

"How does it happen that a people so weak, feeble, and base could
overthrow the power of the French in the world?"

"That was because the German people were not yet corrupted by that
shallow, unreal, hollow twaddle of the educated classes about humanity.
It was not the princes, not the nobility, who overthrew Napoleon. It
was the German people who did it. When, in 1813, the Germans rose, in
hamlet and city, they staked their property and lives for fatherland.
But it was not the enlightened poets and professors, not modern
sentimentality, that raised their hearts to this great sacrifice; not
these who enkindled this enthusiasm for fatherland. It was the
religious element that did it. The German warriors did not sing
Goethe's hymns to Napoleon, nor the insipid model song of 'Luetzows
wilder Jagd,' as they rushed into battle. They sang religious hymns,
they prayed before the altars. They recognized, in the terrible
judgment on Russia's ice-fields, the avenging hand of God. Trusting in
God, and nerved by religious exaltation, they took up the sword that
had been sharpened by the previous calamities of war. So the feeble
philanthropists could effect nothing. It was only a religious, healthy,
strong people could do that."

"But the saints, doctor! We have wandered from them."

"Not at all! We have thrown some light on inimical shadows; the light
can now shine. The lives of the saints exhibit something wonderful and
remarkable. I have studied them carefully. I have sought to know their
aims and efforts. I discovered that they imitated the example of
Christ, that they realized the exalted teachings of the Redeemer. You
find fault with their contempt for the things of this world. But it is
precisely in this that these men are great. Their object was not the
ephemeral, but the enduring. They considered life but as the entrance
to the eternal destiny of man--in direct opposition to the spirit of
the times, that dances about the golden calf. The saints did not value
earthly goods for more than they were worth. They placed them after
self-control and victory over our baser nature. Exact and punctual in
all their duties, they were animated by an admirable spirit of charity
for their fellow-men. And in this spirit they have frequently revived
society. Consider the great founders of orders--St. Benedict, St.
Dominic, St. Vincent de Paul! Party spirit, malice, and stupidity have
done their worst to blacken, defame, and calumniate them. And yet, in a
spirit of self-sacrifice, the sons of St. Benedict came among the
German barbarians, to bring to them the ennobling doctrines of
Christianity. It was the Benedictines who cleared the primeval forests,
educated their wild denizens, and founded schools; who taught the
barbarians handiwork and agriculture. Science and knowledge flourished
in the cloisters. And to the monks alone we are indebted for the
preservation of classic literature. What the monks did then they are
doing now. They forsake home, break all ties, and enter the wilderness,
there to be miserably cut off in the service of their exalted mission,
or to die of poisonous fevers. Name me one of your modern heroes, whose
mouths are full of civilization, humanity, enlightenment--name me one
who is capable of such sacrifice. These prudent gentlemen remain at
home with their gold-bags and their pleasures, and leave the stupid
monk to die in the service of exalted charity. It is the hypocrisy and
the falsehood of the modern spirit to exalt itself, and belittle true
worth. And what did St. Vincent de Paul do? More than all the gold-bags
together. St. Vincent, alone, solved the social problem of his time. He
was, in his time, the preserver of society, or rather, Christianity
through him. And to-day our gold-bags tremble before the apparition of
the same social problem. Here high-sounding phrases and empty
declamation do not avail. Deeds only are of value. But the inflated
spirit of the times is not capable of noble action. It is not the
modern state--not enlightened society, sunk in egotism and gold--that
can save us. Christianity alone can do it. Social development will
prove this."

"I do not dispute the services of the saints to humanity," said Frank.
"But the question is, Whether society would be benefited if the
fanatical, dark spirit of the middle ages prevailed, instead of the
spirit of modern times?"

"The fanatical, dark spirit of the middle ages!" cried the doctor
indignantly. "This is one of those fallacious phrases. The saints were
not fanatical or dark. They were open, cheerful, natural, humble men.
They did not go about with bowed necks and downcast eyes; but affable,
free from hypocrisy, and dark, sullen demeanor, they passed through
life. Many saints were poets. St. Francis sang his spiritual hymns to
the accompaniment of the harp. St. Charles played billiards. The holy
apostle, St. John, resting from his labors, amused himself in childish
play with a bird. Such were these men; severe toward themselves, mild
to others, uncompromising with the base and mean. They were all
abstinent and simple, allowing themselves only the necessary
enjoyments. They concealed from observation their severe mode of life,
and smiled while their shoulders bled from the discipline. Pride,
avarice, envy, voluptuousness, and all the bad passions, were strangers
to them; not because they had not the inclinations to these passions,
but because they restrained and overcame their lower nature.

"I ask you, now, which men deserve our admiration--those who are
governed by unbounded selfishness, who are slaves to their passions,
who deny themselves no enjoyment, and who boast of their degrading
licentiousness; or those who, by reason of a pure life, are strong in
the government of their passions, and self-sacrificing in their charity
for their fellowmen?"

"The preference cannot be doubtful," said Frank. "For the saints have
accomplished the greatest, they have obtained the highest thing,
self-control. But, doctor, I must condemn that saint-worship as it is
practised now. Human greatness always remains human, and can make no
claims to divine honor."

The doctor swung his arms violently. "What does this reproach amount
to? Where are men deified? In the Catholic Church? I am a Protestant,
but I know that your church condemns the deification of men."

"Doctor," said Frank, "my religious ignorance deserves this rebuke."

"I meant no rebuke. I would only give conclusions. Catholicism is
precisely that power that combats with success against the deifying of
men. You have in the course of your studies read the Roman classics.
You know that divine worship was offered to the Roman emperors. So far
did heathen flattery go, that the emperors were honored as the sons of
the highest divinity--Jupiter. Apotheosis is a fruit of heathen growth;
of old heathenism and of new heathenism. When Voltaire, that idol of
modern heathen worship, was returning to Paris in 1778, he was in all
earnestness promoted to the position of a deity. This remarkable play
took place in the theatre. Voltaire himself went there. Modern
fanaticism so far lost all shame that the people kissed the horse on
which the philosopher rode to the theatre. Voltaire was scarcely able
to press through the crowd of his worshippers. They touched his
clothes--touched handkerchiefs to them--plucked hairs from his fur coat
to preserve as relics. In the theatre they fell on their knees before
him and kissed his feet. Thus that tendency that calls itself free and
enlightened deified a man--Voltaire, the most trifling scoffer, the
most unprincipled, basest man of Christendom.

"Let us consider an example of our times. Look at Garibaldi in London.
That man permitted himself to be set up and worshipped. The saints
would have turned away from this stupidity with loathing indignation.
But this boundless, veneration flattered the old pirate Garibaldi. He
received 267,000 requests for locks of his hair, to be cased in gold
and preserved as relics. Happily he had not much hair. He should have
graciously given them his moustaches and whiskers."

Frank smiled. Klingenberg's pace increased, and his arms swung more
briskly.

"Such is the man-worship of modern heathenism. This humanitarianism is
ashamed of no absurdity, when it sinks to the worship of licentiousness
and baseness personified."

"The senseless aberrations of modern culture do not excuse
saint-worship. And you certainly do not wish to excuse it in that way.
There is, however, a reasonable veneration of human greatness.
Monuments are erected to great men. We behold them and are reminded of
their genius, their services; and there it stops. It occurs to no
reasonable man to venerate these men on his knees, as is done with the
saints."

"The bending of the knee, according to the teaching of your church,
does not signify adoration, but only veneration," replied Klingenberg.
"Before no Protestant in the world would I bend the knee; before St.
Benedict and St. Vincent de Paul I would willingly, out of mere
admiration and esteem for their greatness of soul and their purity of
morals. If a Catholic kneels before a saint to ask his prayers, what is
there offensive in that? It is an act of religious conviction. But I
will not enter into the religious question. This you can learn better
from your Catholic brethren--say from the Angel of Salingen, for
example, who appears to have such veneration for the saints."

"You will not enter into the religious question; yet you defend
saint-worship, which is something religious."

"I do not defend it on religious grounds, but from history, reason, and
justice. History teaches that this veneration had, and still has, the
greatest moral influence on human society. The spirit of veneration
consists in imitating the example of the person venerated. Without this
spirit, saint-worship is an idle ceremony. But that true veneration of
the saints elevates and ennobles, you cannot deny. Let us take the
queen of saints, Mary. What makes her worthy of veneration? Her
obedience to the Most High, her humility, her strength of soul, her
chastity. All these virtues shine out before the spiritual eyes of her
worshippers as models and patterns of life. I know a lady, very
beautiful, very wealthy; but she is also very humble, very pure, for
she is a true worshipper of Mary. Would that our women would venerate
Mary and choose her for a model! There would then be no coquettes, no
immodest women, no enlightened viragoes. Now, as saint-worship is but
taking the virtues of the saints as models for imitation, you must
admit that veneration in this sense has the happiest consequences to
human society."

"I admit it--to my great astonishment, I must admit it," said Richard.

"Let us take a near example," continued Klingenberg. "I told you of the
singular qualities of Angela. As she passed, I beheld her with wonder.
I must confess her beauty astonished me. But this astonishing beauty,
it appears to me, is less in her charming features than in the purity,
the maidenly dignity of her character. Perhaps she has to thank, for
her excellence, that same correct taste which leads her to venerate
Mary. Would not Angela make an amiable, modest, dutiful wife and
devoted mother? Can you expect to find this wife, this mother among
those given to fashions--among women filled with modern notions?"

While Klingenberg said this, a deep emotion passed over Richard's face.
He did not answer the question, but let his head sink on his breast.

"Here is Frankenhoehe," said the doctor. "As you make no more
objections, I suppose you agree with me. The saints are great,
admirable men; therefore they deserve monuments. They are models of
virtue and the greatest benefactors of mankind; therefore they deserve
honor. '_Quod erat demonstrandum._'"

"I only wonder, doctor, that you, a Protestant, can defend such views."

"You will allow Protestants to judge reasonably," replied Klingenberg.
"My views are the result of careful study and impartial reflection."

"I am also astonished--pardon my candor--that with such views you can
remain a Protestant."

"There is a great difference between knowing and willing, my young
friend. I consider conversion an act of great heroism, and also as a
gift of the highest grace."


Richard wrote in his diary:


"If Angela should be what the doctor considers her! According to my
notions, such a being exists only in the realm of the ideal. But if
Angela yet realizes this ideal? I must be certain. I will visit
Siegwart to-morrow."




                              CHAPTER IV.

                    THE BUREAUCRAT AND THE SWALLOWS.


Herr Frank returned to the city. Before he went he took advantage of
the absence of Richard, who had gone out about nine o'clock, to
converse with Klingenberg about matters of importance. They sat in the
doctor's studio, the window of which was open. Frank closed it before
he began the conversation.

"Dear friend, I must speak to you about a very distressing peculiarity
of my son. I do so because I know your influence over him, and I hope
much from it."

Klingenberg listened with surprise, for Herr Frank had begun in great
earnestness and seemed greatly depressed.

"On our journey from the city, I discovered in Richard, to my great
surprise, a deep-seated antipathy, almost an abhorrence of women. He is
determined never to marry. He considers marriage a misfortune, inasmuch
as it binds a man to the whims and caprices of a wife. If I had many
sons, Richard's idiosyncrasy would be of little consequence; but as he
is my only son and very stubborn in his preconceived opinions, you will
see how very distressing it must be to me."

"What is the cause of this antipathy of your son to women?"

Herr Frank related Richard's account of his meeting with Isabella and
his knowledge of the unhappy marriage of his friend Emil.

"Do you not think that experiences of this kind must repel a
noble-minded young man?" said the doctor.

"Admitted! But Isabella and Laura are exceptions, and exceptions by no
means justify my son's perverted judgment of women. I told him this.
But he still declared that Isabella and Laura were the rule and not the
exception; that the women of the present day follow a perverted taste;
and that the wearing of crinoline, a costume he detests, proves this."

"I know," said the doctor, "that Richard abominates crinoline. Last
year he expressed his opinion about it, and I had to agree with him."

"My God!" said the father, astonished, "you certainly would not
encourage my son in his perverted opinion?"

"No," returned the doctor quietly; "but you must not expect me to
condemn sound opinions. His judgment of woman is prejudiced--granted.
But observe well, my dear Frank. This judgment is at the same time a
protest of a noble nature against the age of crinoline. Your son
expects much of women. Superficiality, vanity, passion for dress,
fickleness, and so forth, do not satisfy his sense of propriety.
Marriage, to him, is an earnest, holy union. He would unite himself to
a well-disposed woman, to a noble soul who would love her husband and
her duties, but not to a degenerate specimen of womankind. Such I
conceive to have been the reasons which have produced in your son this
antipathy."

"I believe you judge rightly," answered Frank. "But it must appear
clear to Richard that his views are unjust, and that there are always
women who would realize his expectations."

The doctor thought for a moment, and a significant smile played over
his features.

"This must become clear to him--yes, and it will become clear to him
sooner, perhaps, than you expect," said the doctor.

"I do not understand you, doctor."

"Yesterday we met Angela," said Klingenberg. "This Angela is an
extraordinary being of dazzling beauty; almost the incarnation of
Richard's ideal. I told him of her fine qualities, which he was
inclined to question. But happily! was able to establish these
qualities by facts. Now, as Angela lives but a mile from here and as
the simple customs of the country render access to the family easy, I
have not understood the character of your son if he does not take
advantage of this opportunity to become more intimately acquainted with
Angela, even if his object were only to confirm his former opinions of
women. If he knew Angela more intimately, it is my firm conviction that
his aversion would soon change into the most ardent affection."

"Who is this Angela?"

"The daughter of your neighbor, Siegwart."

Frank looked at the doctor with open mouth and staring eyes.

"Siegwart's daughter!" he gasped. "No, I will never consent to such a
connection."

"Why not?"

"Well--because the Siegwart family are not agreeable to me."

"That is no reason. Siegwart is an excellent man, rich, upright, and
respected by the whole neighborhood. Why does he happen to appear so
unfavorably in your eyes?"

Frank was perplexed. He might have reasons and yet be ashamed to give
them.

"Ah!" said the doctor, smiling, "it is now for you to lay aside
prejudice."

"An explanation is not possible," said Frank. "But my son will rather
die a bachelor than marry Siegwart's daughter."

Klingenberg shrugged his shoulders. There was a long pause.

"I renew my request, my friend," urged Frank. "Convince my son of his
errors."

"I will try to meet your wishes," returned Klingenberg. "Perhaps this
daughter of Siegwart will afford efficient aid."

"My son's liberty will not be restricted. He may visit the Siegwart
family when he wishes. But in matters where the mature mind of the
father has to decide, I shall always act according to my better
judgment."

The doctor again shrugged his shoulders. They shook hands, and in ten
minutes after Herr Frank was off for the train. Richard had left
Frankenhoehe two hours before. He passed quickly through the vineyard. A
secret power seemed to impel the young man. He glanced often at
Siegwart's handsome dwelling, and hopeful suspense agitated his
countenance. When he reached the lawn, he slackened his pace. He would
reflect, and understand clearly the object of his visit. He came to
observe Angela, whose character had made such a strong impression on
him and who threatened to compel him to throw his present opinions of
women to the winds. He would at the same time reflect on the
consequences of this possible change to his peace and liberty.

"Angela is beautiful, very beautiful, far more so than a hundred others
who are beautiful but wear crinoline." He had written in his diary:


"Of what value is corporal beauty that fades when it is disfigured by
bad customs and caprices? I admit that I have never yet met any woman
so graceful and charming as Angela; but this very circumstance warns me
to be careful that my judgment may not be dazzled. If it turns out that
Angela sets herself up as a religious coquette or a Pharisee, her fine
figure is only a deceitful mask of falsehood, and my opinion would
again be verified. I must make observations with great care."


Frank reviewed these resolutions as he passed slowly over the lawn,
where some servants were employed, who greeted him respectfully as he
passed. In the hall he heard a man's voice that came from the same room
he had entered on his first visit. The door was open, and the voice
spoke briskly and warmly.

Frank stopped for a moment and heard the voice say,

"Miss Angela is as lovely as ever."

These words vibrated disagreeably in Richard's soul, and urged him to
know the man from whom they came.

Herr Siegwart went to meet the visitor and offered him his hand. The
other gentleman remained sitting, and looked at Frank with stately
indifference.

"Herr Frank, my esteemed neighbor of Frankenhoehe," said Siegwart,
introducing Frank.

The gentleman rose and made a stiff bow.

"The Assessor von Hamm," continued the proprietor.

Frank made an equally stiff and somewhat colder bow.

The three sat down.

While Siegwart rang the bell, Richard cast a searching glance at the
assessor who had said, "Angela is as lovely as ever."

The assessor had a pale, studious color, regular features in which
there was an expression of official importance. Frank, who was a fine
observer, thought he had never seen such a perfect and sharply defined
specimen of the bureaucratic type. Every wrinkle in the assessor's
forehead told of arrogance and absolutism. The red ribbon in the
buttonhole of Herr von Hamm excited Frank's astonishment. He thought it
remarkable that a young man of four or five and twenty could have
merited the ribbon of an order. He might infer from this that
decorations and merit do not necessarily go together.

"How glad I am that you have kept your word!" said Siegwart to Frank
complacently. "How is your father?"

"Very well; he goes this morning to the city, where business calls
him."

"I have often admired your father's attentions to Dr. Klingenberg,"
said Siegwart after a short pause. "He has for years had Frankenhoehe
prepared for the accommodation of the doctor. You are Klingenberg's
constant companion, and I do not doubt but such is the wish of your
father. And your father tears himself from his business and comes
frequently from the city to see that the doctor's least wish is
realized. I have observed this these last eight years, and I have often
thought that the doctor is to be envied, on account of this noble
friendship."

"You know, I suppose, that the doctor saved my father when his life was
despaired of?"

"I know; but there are many physicians who have saved lives and who do
not find such a noble return."

These words of acknowledgment had something in them very offensive to
the assessor. He opened and shut his eyes and mouth, and cast a
grudging, envious look at Richard.

The servant brought a glass.

"Try this wine," said Siegwart; "my own growth," he added with some
pride.

They touched glasses. Hamm put his glass to his lips, without drinking;
Frank tasted the noble liquor with the air of a connoisseur; while
Siegwart's smiling gaze rested on him.

"Excellent! I do not remember to have drank better Burgundy."

"Real Burgundy, neighbor--real Burgundy. I brought the vines from
France."

"Do you not think the vines degenerate with us?" said Frank.

"They have not degenerated yet. Besides, proper care and attention make
up for the unsuitableness of our soil and climate.

"You would oblige me, Herr Siegwart, if you would preserve me some
shoots when you next trim them."

"With pleasure. I had them set last year; they shot forth fine roots,
and I can let you have any number of shoots."

"Is it not too late to plant them?"

"Just the right time. Our vine-growers generally set them too early. It
should be done in May, and not in April. Shall I send them over?"

"You are too kind, Herr Siegwart. My request must certainly destroy
your plan in regard to those shoots."

"Not at all; I have all I can use. It gives me great pleasure to be
able to accommodate a neighbor. It's settled; I'll send over the
Burgundies this evening."

It was clear to Hamm that Siegwart desired to be agreeable to the
wealthy Frank. The assessor opened and shut his eyes and mouth, and
fidgeted about in his chair. While he inwardly boiled and fretted, he
very properly concluded that he must consider himself offended. From
the moment of Frank's arrival, the proprietor had entirely forgotten
him. He was about to leave, in order not to expose his nerves to
further excitement, when chance afforded him an opportunity to give
vent to his ill-humor.

Two boys came running into the room. They directed their bright eyes to
Siegwart, and their childish, joyful faces, seemed to say,

"Here we are again; you know very well what we want."

One of them carried a tin box in his hand; there was a lock on the box,
and a small opening in the top--evidently a money-box.

"Gelobt sei Jesus Christus," said the children, and remained standing
near the door.

"In Ewigkeit," returned Siegwart. "Are you there again, my little ones?
That's right; come here, Edward." And Siegwart took out his purse and
dropped a few pennies into the box.

"A savings-box? Who gave the permission?" said the assessor in a tone
that frightened the children, astonished Richard, and caused Siegwart
to look with embarrassment at the questioner.

"For the pope, Herr von Hamm," said Siegwart.

The official air of the assessor became more severe.

"The ordinances make no exceptions," retorted Hamm. "The ordinances
forbid all collections that are not officially permitted." And he eyed
the box as if he had a notion to confiscate it.

Perhaps the lads noticed this, for they moved backward to the door and
suddenly disappeared from the room.

"I beg pardon, Herr Assessor," said Siegwart. "The Peter-pence is
collected in the whole Catholic world, and the Catholics of Salingen
thought they ought to assist the head of their church, who is so sorely
pressed, and who has been robbed of his possessions."

"I answer--the ordinances make no exceptions; the Peter-pence comes
under the ordinances. I find myself compelled to interpose against this
trespass."

"But the Peter-pence is collected in the whole country, Herr von Hamm!
Why, even in the public journals we read the results of this
collection, and I have never heard that the government forbade the
Peter-pence."

"Leave the government out of the question. I stand on my instructions.
The government forbids all collections unless permission is granted.
You must not expect an official to connive at an open breach of the
ordinances. I will do my duty and remind the burgomaster of Salingen
that he has not done his."

The occurrence was very annoying to Siegwart; this could be seen in his
troubled countenance. He thought of the reproof of the timid
burgomaster, and feared that the collection might in future be stopped.

"You have the authority, Herr Assessor, to permit it; I beg you will do
so."

"The request must be made in written official form," said Hamm. "You
know, Herr Siegwart, that I am disposed to comply with your wishes, but
I regret I cannot do so in the present case; and I must openly confess
I oppose the Peter-pence on principle. The temporal power of the pope
has become unnecessary. Why support an untenable dominion?"

"I consider the temporal power of the pope to be a necessity," said
Siegwart emphatically. "If the pope were not an independent prince, but
the subject of another ruler, he would in many things have to govern
the church according to the mind and at the command of his superior.
Sound common sense tells us that the pope must be free."

"Certainly, as far as I am concerned," returned Hamm. "But why drain
the money out of the country for an object that cannot be accomplished?
I tell you that the political standing of the bankrupt papal government
will not be saved by the Peter-pence."

"Permit me to observe, Herr Assessor, that I differ with you entirely.
The papal government is by no means bankrupt--quite the contrary. Until
the breaking out of the Franco-Sardinian revolution, its finances were
as well managed and flourishing as those of any state in Europe. I will
convince you of this in a moment." He went to the bookcase and handed
the assessor a newspaper. "These statistics will convince you of the
correctness of my assertion."

"As the documents to prove these statements are wanting, I have great
reason to doubt their correctness," said Hamm. "Paper will not refuse
ink, and in the present case the pen was evidently driven by a friendly
hand."

"Why do you draw this conclusion?"

"From the contradictions between this account of the papal finances and
that given by all independent editors."

"Permit me to call that editor not 'an independent,' but a 'friend of
the church.' The enemies of the church will not praise a church which
they hate. The papal government is the most calumniated government on
earth; and calumny and falsehood perform wonders in our times. The
Italian situation furnishes at present a most striking illustration.
The king of Piedmont has been raised to the rulership of Italy by the
unanimous voice of the people--so say the papers. But the revolution in
the greater part of Italy at the present time proves that the unanimous
voice of the people was a sham, and that the Piedmontese government is
hated and despised by the majority of the Italians. It is the same in
many other things. If falsehood and calumny were not the order of the
day, falsehood and calumny would not sit crowned on the throne."

"Right!" said Richard. "It is indisputable. It is nothing but the
depravity of the times that enables the emperor to domineer over the
world."

Siegwart heard Frank's observation with pleasure. Hamm read this in the
open countenance of the proprietor, and he made a movement as though he
would like to tramp on Frank's toes.

"I admit the flourishing condition of the former Papal States," said
Hamm, with a mock smile. "I will also admit that the former subjects of
the pope, who have been impoverished by the hungry Piedmontese, desire
the milder papal government. 'There is good living under the crozier,'
says an old proverb. But what does all this amount to? Does the
beautiful past overthrow the accomplished facts of the present? The
powers have determined to put an end to papal dominion. The powers have
partly accomplished this. Can the Peter-pence change the programme of
the powers? Certainly not. The papal government must go the way of all
flesh, and if the Catholics are taxed for an unattainable object, it
is, in my opinion, unjust, to say the least."

The proprietor shook his head thoughtfully. "We consider the question
from very different stand-points," said he. "Pius IX. is the head of
the church--the spiritual father of all Catholics. The revolution has
robbed him of his revenues. Why should not Catholics give their father
assistance?"

"And I ask," said Hamm, "why give the pope alms when the powers are
ready to give him millions?"

"On what conditions, Herr Assessor?"

"Well--on the very natural condition that he will acknowledge
accomplished facts."

"You find this condition so natural!" said Siegwart, somewhat excited.
"Do you forget the position of the pope? Remember that on those very
principles of which the pope is the highest representative, was built
the civilization of the present. The pope condemns robbery, injustice,
violence, and all the principles of modern revolution. How can the pope
acknowledge as accomplished facts, results which have sprung from
injustice, robbery, and violence? The moment the pope does that, he
ceases to be the first teacher of the people and the vicar of Christ on
earth."

"You take a strong religious position, my dear friend," said Hamm,
smiling compassionately.

"I do, most assuredly," said the proprietor with emphasis. "And I am
convinced that my position is the right one."

Hamm smiled more complacently still. Frank observed this smile; and the
contemptuous manner of the official toward the open, kind-hearted
proprietor annoyed him.

"Pius IX. is at any rate a noble man," said he, looking sharply at the
assessor, "There exists a critical state of uncertainty in all
governments. All the courts and principalities look to Paris, and the
greatest want of principle seems to be in the state taxation. The
pope alone does not shrink; he fears neither the anger nor the threats
of the powers. While thrones are tumbling, and Pius IX. is not master
in his own house, that remarkable man does not make the least
concession to the man in power. The powers have broken treaties,
trampled on justice, and there is no longer any right but the right of
revolution--of force. There is nothing any longer certain; all is
confusion. The pope alone holds aloft the banner of right and justice.
In his manifestoes to the world, he condemns error, falsehood, and
injustice. The pope alone is the shield of those moral forces which
have for centuries given stability and safety to governments. This
firmness, this confidence in the genius of Christianity, this
unsurpassed struggle of Pius, deserves the highest admiration even of
those who look upon the contest with indifference."

Siegwart listened and nodded assent. Hamm ate sardines, without paying
the least attention to the speaker.

"The Roman love of power is well known, and Rome has at all times made
the greatest sacrifices for it," said he.

The proprietor drummed with his fingers on the table. Frank thought he
observed him suppressing his anger, before he answered,

"Rome does not contend for love of dominion. She contends for the
authority of religion, for the maintenance of those eternal principles
without which there is no civilization. This even Herder, who is far
from being a friend of Rome, admits when he says, 'Without the church,
Europe would, perhaps, be a prey to despots, a scene of eternal
discord, and a Mogul wilderness.' Rome's battle is, therefore, very
important, and honorable. Had it not been for her, you would not have
escaped the bloody terrorisms of the power-seeking revolution. Think of
French liberty at present, think of the large population of Cayenne, of
the Neapolitan prisons, where thousands of innocent men hopelessly
languish."

"You have not understood me, my dear Siegwart. Take an example for
illustration. The press informs us almost daily of difficulties between
the government and the clergy. The cause of this trouble is that the
latter are separated from and wish to oppose the former. To speak
plainly, the Catholic clergy are non-conforming. They will not give up
that abnormal position which the moral force of past times conceded to
them. But in organized states, the clergy, the bishops, and the pastors
should be nothing more than state officials, whose rule of conduct is
the command of the sovereign."

"That is to make the church the servant of the state," said Siegwart.
"Religion, stripped of her divine title, would be nothing more than the
tool of the minister to restrain the people."

"Well, yes," said the official very coolly. "Religion is always a
strong curb on the rough, uneducated masses; and if religion restrains
the ignorant, supports the moral order and the government, she has
fulfilled her mission."

The proprietor opened wide his eyes.

"Religion, according to my belief, educates men not for the state but
for their eternal destiny."

"Perfectly right, Herr Siegwart, according to your view of the
question. I admire the elevation of your religious convictions, which
all men cannot rise up to."

A mock smile played on the assessor's pale countenance as he said this.
Siegwart did not observe it; but Frank did.

"If I understand you rightly, Herr Assessor, the clergy are only state
officials in clerical dress."

The assessor nodded his head condescendingly, and continued to soak a
sardine in olive-oil and take it between his knife and fork as Frank
began to speak. The fine-feeling Frank felt nettled at this contempt,
and immediately chastised Hamm for his want of politeness.

"I take your nod for an affirmative answer to my question," said he.
"You will allow me to observe that your view of the position and
purpose of the clergy must lead to the most absurd consequences."

The assessor turned an ashy color. He threw himself back on the sofa
and looked at the speaker with scornful severity.

"My view is that of every enlightened statesman of the nineteenth
century," said he proudly. "How can you, a mere novice in state
matters, come to such a conclusion."

"I come to it by sound thinking," said Frank haughtily. "If the clergy
are only the servants of the state, they are bound in the exercise of
their functions to follow the instructions of the state."

"Very natural," said the official.

"If the government think a change in the church necessary, say the
separation of the school from the church, the abolition of festivals,
the appointing of infidel professors to theological chairs, the
compiling of an enlightened catechism--and all these relate to the
spirit of the times or the supposed welfare of the state--then the
clergy must obey."

"That is self-evident," said the assessor.

"You see I comprehend your idea of the supreme power of the state,"
continued Frank. "The state is supreme. The church must be deprived of
all independence. She must not constitute a state within a state. If it
seems good to a minister to abolish marriage as a sacrament, or the
confessional, or to subject the teaching of the clergy to a revision by
the civil authority, because a majority of the chambers wish it, or
because the spirit of the age demands it, then the opposition of the
clergy would be illegal and their resistance disobedience."

"Naturally--naturally," said the official impatiently. "Come, now, let
us have the proof of your assertion."

"Draw the conclusions from what I have said, Herr Assessor, and you
have the most striking proof of the absurdity and ridiculousness of
your gagged state church," said Frank haughtily.

"How so, how so?" cried Hamm inquiringly.

"Simply thus: If the priest must preach according to the august
instructions of the state and not according to the principles of
religious dogma, he would then preach Badish in Baden, Hessish in
Hesse, Bavarian in Bavaria, Mecklenburgish in Mecklenburg; in short,
there would be as many sects as there are states and principalities.
And these sects would be constantly changing, as the chambers or
ministerial instructions would command or allow. All religion would
cease; for it would be no longer the expression of the divine will and
revelation, but the work of the chambers and the princes. Such a
religion would be contemptible in the eyes of every thinking man. I
would not give a brass button for such a religion."

"You go too far, Herr Frank," said Hamm. "Religion has a divine title,
and this glory must be retained."

"Then the clergy must be free."

"Certainly, that is clear," said the assessor as he arose, and, with a
smiling face, bowed lowly. Angela had entered the hall, and in
consequence of Hamm's greeting was obliged to come into the room. She
might have returned from a walk, for she wore a straw hat and a light
shawl was thrown over her shoulders. She led by the hand her little
sister Eliza, a charming child of four years.

The sisters remained standing near the door. Eliza looked with
wondering eyes at the stranger, whose movements were very wonderful to
the mind of the little one, and whose pale face excited her interest.

Angela's glance seemed to have blown away all the official dust that
remained in the soul of Hamm. The assessor was unusually agreeable. His
face lost its obstinate expression, and became light and animated. Even
its color changed to one of life and nature.

To Richard, who liked to take notes, and whose visit to Siegwart's had
no other object, the change that could be produced in a bureaucrat by
such rare womanly beauty was very amusing. He had arisen and stepped
back a little. He observed the assessor carefully till a smile between
astonishment and pity lit up his countenance. He then looked at Angela,
who stood motionless on the same spot. It seemed to require great
resignation on her part to notice the flattering speech and obsequious
attentions of the assessor. Richard observed that her countenance was
tranquil, but her manner more grave than usual. She still held the
little one by the hand, who pressed yet closer to her the nearer the
wonderful man came. Hamm's voice rose to a tone of enthusiasm, and he
took a step or two toward the object of his reverence, when a strange
enemy confronted him. Some swallows had come in with Angela. Till now
they were quiet and seemed to be observing the assessor; but when he
approached Angela, briskly gesticulating, the swallows raised their
well-known shrill cry of anxiety, left their perches and fluttered
around the official. Interrupted in the full flow of his eloquence, he
struck about with his hands to frighten them. The swallows only became
the noisier, and their fluttering about Hamm assumed a decidedly
warlike character. They seemed to consider him as a dangerous enemy of
Angela whom they wished to keep off. Richard looked on in wonder,
Siegwart shook his head and stroked his beard, and Angela smiled at the
swallows.

"These are abominable creatures," cried Hamm warding them off. "Why,
such a thing never happened to me before. Off with you! you troublesome
wretches."

The birds flew out of the room, still screaming; and their shrill cries
could be heard high up in the air.

"The swallows have a grudge against you," said Siegwart. "They
generally treat only the cats and hawks in this way."

"Perhaps they have been frightened at this red ribbon," returned Hamm.
"I regret, my dear young lady, to have frightened your little pets.
When I come again, I will leave the object of their terror at home."

"You should not deprive yourself of an ornament which has an honorable
significance on account of the swallows, particularly as we do not know
whether it was really the red color that displeased them," said she.

"You think, then, Miss Angela, that there is something else about me
they dislike?"

"I do not know, Herr Assessor."

"Oh! if I only knew the cause of their displeasure," said Hamm
enthusiastically. "You have an affection for the swallows, and I would
not displease any thing that you love."

She answered by an inclination, and was about to leave the room.

"Angela," said her father, "here is Herr Frank, to whom you are under
obligations."

She moved a step or two toward Richard.

"Sir," said she gently, "you returned some things that were valuable to
me; were it not for your kindness, they would probably have been lost.
I thank you."

A formal bow was Frank's answer. Hamm stood smiling, his searching
glance alternating between the stately young man and Angela. But in the
manner of both he observed nothing more than reserve and cold
formality.

Angela left the room. The assessor sat down on the sofa and poured out
a glass of wine.

Eliza sat on her father's knee. Richard observed the beautiful child
with her fine features and golden silken locks that hung about her
tender face. The winning expression of innocence and gentleness in her
mild, childish eyes particularly struck him.

"A beautiful, lovely child," said he involuntarily, and as he looked in
Siegwart's face he read there a deep love and a quiet, fatherly
fondness for the child.

"Eliza is not always as lovely and good as she is now," he returned.
"She has still some little faults which she must get rid of."

"Yes, that's what Angela said," chattered the little one. "Angela said
I must be very good; I must love to pray; I must obey my father and
mother; then the angels who are in heaven will love me."

"Can you pray yet, my child," said Richard.

"Yes, I can say the 'Our Father' and the 'Hail Mary.' Angela is
teaching me many nice prayers."

She looked at the stranger a moment and said with childish simplicity,

"Can you pray too?"

"Certainly, my child," answered Frank, smiling; "but I doubt whether my
prayers are as pleasing to God as yours."

"Angela also said we should not lie," continued Eliza. "The good God
does not love children who lie."

"That is true," said Frank. "Obey your sister Angela."

Here the young man was affected by a peculiar emotion. He thought of
Angela as the first instructor of the child; placed near this little
innocent, she appeared like its guardian angel. He saw clearly at this
moment the great importance of first impressions on the young, and
thought that in after life they would not be obliterated. He expressed
his thoughts, and Siegwart confirmed them.

"I am of your opinion, Herr Frank. The most enduring impressions are
made in early childhood. The germ of good must be implanted in the
tender and susceptible heart of the child and there developed. Many,
indeed most parents overlook this important principle of education.
This is a great and pernicious error. Man is born with bad
propensities; they grow with his growth and increase with his strength.
In early childhood, they manifest themselves in obstinacy, wilfulness,
excessive love of play, disobedience, and a disposition to lie. If
these outgrowths are plucked up and removed in childhood by careful,
religious training, it will be much easier to form the heart to habits
of virtue than in after years. Many parents begin to instruct their
children after they have spoiled them. Is this not your opinion, Herr
Assessor?"

Hamm was aroused by this sudden question. He had not paid any attention
to the conversation, but had been uninterruptedly stroking his
moustache and gazing abstractedly into vacancy.

"What did you ask, my dear Siegwart? Whether I am of your opinion?
Certainly, certainly, entirely of your opinion. Your views are always
sound, practical, and matured by great experience, as in this case."

"Well, I can't say you were always of my opinion," said Siegwart
smiling; "have we not just been sharply disputing about the
Peter-pence?"

"O my dear friend! as a private I agree with you entirely on these
questions; but an official must frequently defend in a system of
government that which he privately condemns."

Frank perceived Hamm's object. We wished to do away with the
unfavorable impressions his former expressions might have made on the
proprietor. The reason of this was clear to him since he had discovered
the assessor's passion for Angela.

"I am rejoiced," said Siegwart, "that we agree at least in that most
important matter, religion."

Frank remembered his father's remark, "The Siegwart family is intensely
clerical and ultramontane." It was new and striking to him to see the
question of religion considered the most important. He concluded from
this, and was confirmed in his conclusions by the leading spirit of the
Siegwart family, that, in direct contradiction to modern ideas,
religion is the highest good.

"Nevertheless," said Siegwart, "I object to a system of government that
is inimical to the church."

"And so do I," sighed the assessor.

Richard took his departure. At home, he wrote a few hasty lines in his
diary and then went into the most retired part of the garden. Here he
sat in deep thought till the servant called him to dinner.

"Has Klingenberg not gone out yet to-day?"

"No, but he has been walking up and down his room for the last two
hours."

Frank smiled. He guessed the meaning of this walk, and as they both
entered the dining-room together his conjecture was confirmed.

The doctor entered somewhat abruptly and did not seem to observe
Richard's presence. His eyes had a penetrating, almost fierce
expression and his brows were knit. He sat down to the table
mechanically, and ate what was placed before him. It is questionable
whether he knew what he was eating, or even that he was eating. He did
not speak a word, and Frank, who knew his peculiarities, did not
disturb him by a single syllable. This was not difficult, as he was
busily occupied with his own thoughts.

After the meal was over, Klingenberg came to himself. "My dear Richard,
I beg your pardon," said he in a tone of voice which was almost tender.
"Excuse my weakness. I have read this morning a scientific article that
upsets all my previous theories on the subject treated of. In the whole
field of human investigation there is nothing whatever certain, nothing
firmly established. What one to-day proves by strict logic to be true,
to-morrow another by still stronger logic proves to be false. From the
time of Aristotle to the present, philosophers have disagreed, and the
infallible philosopher will certainly never be born. It is the same in
all branches. I would not be the least astonished if Galileo's system
would be proved to be false. If the instruments, the means of acquiring
astronomical knowledge, continue to improve, we may live to learn that
the earth stands still and that the sun goes waltzing around our little
planet. This uncertainty is very discouraging to the human mind. We
might say with Faust,

                "'It will my heart consume
                  That we can nothing know.'"

"In my humble opinion," said Frank, "every investigator moves in a
limited circle. The most profound thinker does not go beyond these set
limits; and if he would boldly overstep them, he would be thrown back
by evident contradiction into that circle which Omnipotence has drawn
around the human intellect."

"Very reasonable, Richard; very reasonable. But the desire of knowledge
must sometimes be satiated," continued the doctor after a short pause.
"If the human mind were free from the narrow limits of the deceptive
world of sense, and could see and know with pure spiritual eyes, the
barriers of which you speak would fall. Even the Bible assures us of
this. St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, says, 'We see now through a
glass in an obscure manner, but then face to face; now I know in part,
but then I shall know as I am known.' I would admire St. Paul on
account of this passage alone if he never had written another. How
awful is the moral quality of the human soul taken in connection with
its future capacity for knowledge. And how natural, how evident, is the
connection. The human mind will receive knowledge from the source of
all knowledge--God, in proportion as it has been just and good. For
this reason our Redeemer calls the world of the damned 'outer
darkness,' and the world of the blessed, the 'kingdom of light.'"

"We sometimes see in that way even now," said Frank after a pause. "The
wicked have ideas very different from those of the good. A frivolous
spirit mocks at and derides that which fills the good with happiness
and contentment. We might, then, say that even in this life man knows
as he is known."

The doctor cast an admiring glance at the young man. "We entirely
agree, my young friend; wickedness is to the sciences what a poisonous
miasma and the burning rays of the sun are to the young plants. Yes,
vice begets atheism, materialism, and every other abortion of thought."

Klingenberg arose.

"We will meet again at three," said he with a friendly nod.

Richard took from his room _Vogt's Physiological Letters_, went into
the garden, and buried himself in its contents.




                               CHAPTER V.

                       THE PROGRESSIVE PROFESSOR.


When Frank returned from the walk, he found a visitor at Frankenhoehe.

The visitor was an elegantly dressed young man, with a free,
self-important air about him.

He spoke fluently, and his words sounded as decisive as though they
came from the lips of infallibility. At times this self-importance was
of such a boastful and arrogant character as to affect the observer
disagreeably.

"It is now vacation, and I do not know how to enjoy it better than by a
visit to you," said he.

"Very flattering to me," answered Frank. "I hope you will be pleased
with Frankenhoehe."

"Pleased?" returned the visitor, as he looked through the open window
at the beautiful landscape. "I would like to dream away here the whole
of May and June. How charming it is! An empire of flowers and vernal
delights."

"I am surprised, Carl, that you have preserved such a love for nature.
I thought you considered the professor's chair the culminating point of
attraction."

Carl bowed his head proudly, and stood with folded arms before the
smiling Frank.

"That is evidently intended for flattery," said he. "The professor's
chair is my vocation. He who does not hold his vocation as the acme of
all attraction is indeed a perfect man. Besides, it will appear to you,
who consider everything in the world, not excepting even the fair sex,
with blank stoicism--it will appear even to you that the rostrum is
destined to accomplish great things. Ripe knowledge in mighty
pulsations goes forth from the rostrum, and permeates society. The
rostrum governs and educates the rising young men who are destined to
assume leading positions in the state. The rostrum overthrows
antiquated forms of religious delusion, ennobles rational thought,
exact science, and deep investigation. The rostrum governs even the
throne; for we have princes in Germany who esteem liberty of thought
and progress of knowledge more than the art of governing their people
in a spirit of stupidity."

Frank smiled.

"The glory of the rostrum I leave undisputed," said he. "But I beg of
you to conceal from the doctor your scientific rule of faith. You may
get into trouble with the doctor."

"I am very desirous of becoming acquainted with this paragon of
learning--you have told me so much about him; and I confess it was
partly to see him that I made this visit. Get into trouble? I do not
fear the old syllogism-chopper in the least. A good disputation with
him is even desirable."

"Well, you are forewarned. If you go home with a lacerated back, it
will not be my fault."

"A lacerated back?" said the professor quietly. "Does the doctor like
to use _striking_ arguments?"

"Oh! no; but his sarcasm is as cutting as the slash of a sword, and his
logical vehemence is like the stroke of a club."

"We will fight him with the same weapons," answered Carl, throwing back
his head. "Shall I pay him my respects immediately?"

"The doctor admits no one. In his studio he is as inaccessible as a
Turkish sultan in his harem. I will introduce you in the dining-room,
as it is now just dinner-time."

They betook themselves to the dining-room, and soon after they heard
the sound of a bell.

"He is just now called to table," said Richard. "He does not allow the
servant to enter his room, and for that reason a bell has been hung
there."

"How particular he is!" said the professor.

A door of the ante-room was opened, quick steps were heard, and
Klingenberg hastily entered and placed himself at the table, as at a
work that must be done quickly, and then observed the stranger.

"Doctor Lutz, professor of history in our university," said Frank,
introducing him.

"Doctor Lutz--professor of history," said Klingenberg musingly. "Your
name is familiar to me, if I am not mistaken; are you not a
collaborator on Sybel's historical publication?"

"I have that honor," answered the professor, with much dignity.

They began to eat.

"You read Sybel's periodical?" asked the professor.

"We must not remain entirely ignorant of literary productions,
particularly the more excellent."

Lutz felt much flattered by this declaration.

"Sybel's periodical is an unavoidable necessity at present," said the
professor. "Historical research was in a bad way; it threatened to
succumb entirely to the ultramontane cause and the clerical party."

"Now Sybel and his co-laborers will avert that danger," said the
doctor. "These men will do honor to historical research. The
ultramontanists have a great respect for Sybel. When he taught in
Munich, they did not rest till he turned his back on Isar-Athen. In my
opinion, Sybel should not have gone to Munich. The stupid Bavarians
will not allow themselves to be enlightened. So let them sit in
darkness, the stupid barbarians who have no appreciation for the
progress of science."

The professor looked astonished. He could not understand how an admirer
of Sybel's could be so prejudiced. Frank was alarmed lest the professor
might perceive the doctor's keen sarcasm--which he delivered with a
serious countenance--and feel offended. He changed the conversation to
another subject, in which Klingenberg did not take part.

"You have represented the doctor incorrectly," said the professor,
after the meal. "He understands Sybel and praises his efforts--the best
sign of a clear mind."

"Klingenberg is always just," returned Frank.

On the following afternoon, Lutz joined in the accustomed walk. As they
were passing through the chestnut grove, a servant of Siegwart's came
up breathless, with a letter in his hand, which he gave to Frank.

"Gentlemen," said Frank after reading the letter, "I am urgently
requested to visit Herr Siegwart immediately. With your permission I
will go."

"Of course, go," said Klingenberg. "I know," he added with a roguish
expression, "that you would as lief visit that excellent man as walk
with us."

Richard went off in such haste that the question occurred to him why he
fulfilled with such zeal the wishes of a man with whom he had been so
short a time acquainted; but with the question Angela came before his
mind as an answer. He rejected this answer, even against his feelings,
and declared to himself that Siegwart's honorable character and
neighborly feeling made his haste natural and even obligatory. The
proprietor may have been waiting his arrival, for he came out to meet
him. Frank observed a dark cloud over the countenance of the man and
great anxiety in his features.

"I beg your forgiveness a thousand times, Herr Frank. I know you go
walking with Herr Klingenberg at this hour, and I have deprived you of
that pleasure."

"No excuse, neighbor. It is a question which would give me greater
pleasure, to serve you or to walk with Klingenberg."

Richard smiled while saying these words; but the smile died away, for
he saw how pale and suddenly anxious Siegwart had become. They had
entered a room, and he desired to know the cause of Siegwart's changed
manner.

"A great and afflicting misfortune threatens us," began the proprietor.
"My Eliza has been suddenly taken ill, and I have great fears for her
young life. Oh! if you knew how that child has grown into my heart." He
paused for a moment and suppressed his grief, but he could not hide
from Frank the tears that filled his eyes. Richard saw these tears, and
this paternal grief increased his respect for Siegwart.

"The delicate life of a young child does not allow of protracted
medical treatment, of consultation or investigation into the disease or
the best remedies. The disease must be known immediately and efficient
remedies applied. There are physicians at my command, but I do not dare
to trust Eliza to them."

"I presume, Herr Siegwart, that you wish for Klingenberg."

"Yes--and through your mediation. You know that he only treats the sick
poor; but resolutely refuses his services to the wealthy."

"Do not be uneasy about that. I hope to be able to induce Klingenberg
to correspond with your wishes. But is Eliza really so sick, or does
your apprehension increase your anxiety?"

"I will show you the child, and then you can judge for yourself." They
went up-stairs and quietly entered the sick-room. Angela sat on the
little bed of the child, reading. The child was asleep, but the noise
of their entrance awoke her. She reached out her little round arms to
her father, and said in a scarcely audible whisper,

"Papa--papa!"

This whispered "papa" seemed to pierce the soul of Siegwart like a
knife. He drew near and leant over the child.

"You will be well to-morrow, my sweet pet. Do you see, Herr Frank has
come to see you?"

"Mamma!" whispered the child.

"Your mother will come to-morrow, my Eliza. She will bring you
something pretty. My wife has been for the last two weeks at her
sister's, who lives a few miles from here," said Siegwart, turning to
Frank. "I sent a messenger for her early this morning."

While the father sat on the bed and held Eliza's hand in his, Frank
observed Angela, who scarcely turned her eyes from the sick child. Her
whole soul seemed taken up with her suffering sister. Only once had she
looked inquiringly at Frank, to read in his face his opinion of the
condition of Eliza. She stood immovable at the foot of the bed, as
mild, as pure, and as beautiful as the guardian angel of the child.

Both men left the room.

"I will immediately seek the doctor, who is now on his walk," said
Frank.

"Shall I send my servant for him?"

"That is unnecessary," returned Frank. "And even if your servant should
find the doctor, he would probably not be inclined to shorten his walk.
Our gardener, who works in the chestnut grove, will show me the way the
doctor took. In an hour and a half at furthest I will be back."

The young man pressed the outstretched hand of Siegwart, and hastened
away.

In the mean time the doctor and the professor had reached a narrow,
wooded ravine, on both sides of which the rocks rose almost
perpendicularly. The path on which they talked passed near a little
brook, that flowed rippling over the pebbles in its bed. The branches
of the young beeches formed a green roof over the path, and only here
and there were a few openings through which the sun shot its sloping
beams across the cool, dusky way, and in the sunbeams floated and
danced dust- insects and buzzing flies.

The learned saunterers continued their amusement without altercation
until the professor's presumption offended the doctor and led to a
vehement dispute.

Klingenberg did not appear on the stage of publicity. He left boasting
and self-praise to others, far inferior to him in knowledge. He
despised that tendency which pursues knowledge only to command, which
cries down any inquiry that clashes with their theories. The doctor
published no learned work, nor did he write for the periodicals, to
defend his views. But if he happened to meet a scientific opponent, he
fought him with sharp, cutting weapons.

"I do not doubt of the final victory of true science over the
falsifying party spirit of the ultramontanes," said the professor.
"Sybel's periodical destroys, year by year, more and more the crumbling
edifice which the clerical zealots build on the untenable foundation of
falsified facts."

Klingenberg tore his cap from his head and swung it about vehemently,
and made such long strides that the other with difficulty kept up with
him. Suddenly he stopped, turned about, and looked the professor
sharply in the eyes.

"You praise Sybel's publication unjustly," said he excitedly. "It is
true Sybel has founded a historical school, and has won many imitators;
but his is a school destructive of morality and of history--a school of
scientific radicalism, a school of falsehood and deceitfulness. Sybel
and his followers undertake to mould and distort history to their
purposes. They slur over every thing that contradicts their theories.
To them the ultramontanes are partial, prejudiced men--or perhaps asses
and dunces; you are unfortunately right when you say Sybel's school
wins ground; for Sybel and his fellows have brought lying and
falsification to perfection. They have in Germany perplexed minds, and
have brought their historical falsifications to market as true ware."

The professor could scarcely believe his own ears.

"I have given you freely and openly my judgment, which need not offend
you, as it refers to principles, not persons."

"Not in the least," answered Lutz derisively. "I admit with pleasure
that Sybel's school is anti-church, and even anti-Christian, if you
will. There is no honor in denying this. The denial would be of no use;
for this spirit speaks too loudly and clearly in that school. Sybel and
his associates keep up with the enlightenment and liberalism of our
times. But I must contradict you when you say this free tendency is
injurious to society; the seed of free inquiry and human enlightenment
can bring forth only good fruits."

"Oh! we know this fruit of the new heathenism," cried the doctor.
"There is no deed so dark, no crime so great, that it may not be
defended according to the anti-Christian principles of vicious
enlightenment and corrupt civilization. Sybel's school proves this with
striking clearness. Tyrants are praised and honored. Noble men are
defamed and covered with dirt."

"This you assert, doctor; it is impossible to prove such a
declaration."

"Impossible! Not at all. Sybel's periodical exalts to the seventh
heaven the tyrant Henry VIII. of England. You extol him as a
conscientious man who was compelled by scruples of conscience to
separate from his wife. You commend him for having but one mistress.
You say that the sensualities of princes are only of 'anecdotal
interest.' Naturally," added the doctor contemptuously, "a school that
cuts loose from Christian principles cannot consistently condemn
adultery. Fie! fie! Debauchees and men of gross sensuality might sit in
Sybel's enlightened school. Progress overthrows the cross, and erects
the crescent. We may yet live to see every wealthy man of the new
enlightenment have his harem. Whether society can withstand the
detestable consequences of this teaching of licentiousness and contempt
for Christian morality, is a consideration on which these progressive
gentlemen do not reflect."

"I admit, doctor," said Lutz, "that the clear light of free, impartial
science must needs hurt the eyes of a pious believer. According to the
opinions of the ultramontanes, Henry VIII. was a terrible tyrant and
bloodhound. Sybel's periodical deserves the credit of having done
justice to that great king."

"Do you say so?" cried the doctor, with flaming eyes. "You, a professor
of history in the university! You, who are appointed to teach our young
men the truth! Shame on you! What you say is nothing but stark
hypocrisy. I appeal to the heathen. You may consider religion from the
stand-point of an ape, for what I care; your cynicism, which is not
ashamed to equalize itself with the brute, may also pass. But this
hypocrisy, this fallacious representation of historical facts and
persons, this hypocrisy before my eyes--this I cannot stand; this must
be corrected."

The doctor actually doubled up his fists. Lutz saw it and saw also the
wild fire in the eyes of his opponent, and was filled with apprehension
and anxiety.

Erect and silent, fiery indignation in his flushed countenance, stood
Klingenberg before the frightened professor. As Lutz still held his
tongue, the doctor continued,

"You call Henry VIII. a 'great king,' you extol and defend this 'great
king' in Sybel's periodical. I say Henry VIII. was a great scoundrel, a
blackguard without a conscience, and a bloodthirsty tyrant. I prove my
assertion. Henry VIII. caused to be executed two queens who were his
wives--two cardinals, twelve dukes and marquises, eighteen barons and
knights, seventy-seven abbots and priors, and over sixty thousand
Catholics. Why did he have them executed? Because they were criminals?
No; because they remained true to their consciences and to the religion
of their fathers. All these fell victims to the cruelty of Henry
VIII., whom you style a 'great king.' You glorify a man who for
blood-thirstiness and cruelty can be placed by the side of Nero and
Diocletian. That is my retort to your hypocrisy and historical
mendacity."

The stern doctor having emptied his vials of wrath, now walked on
quietly; Lutz with drooping head followed in silence.

"Sybel does not even stop with Henry VIII.," again began the doctor.
"These enlightened gentlemen undertake to glorify even Tiberius, that
inhuman monster. They might as well have the impudence to glorify
cruelty itself. On the other hand, truly great men, such as Tilly, are
abandoned to the hatred of the ignorant."

"This is unjust," said the professor hastily. "Sybel's periodical in
the second volume says that Tilly was often calumniated by party
spirit; that the destruction of Magdeburg belongs to the class of
unproved and improbable events. The periodical proves that Tilly's
conduct in North Germany was mild and humane, that he signalized
himself by his simplicity, unselfishness, and conscientiousness.

"Does Sybel's periodical say all this?"

"Word for word, and much more in praise of that magnanimous man," said
Lutz. "From this you may know that science is just even to pious
heroes."

Klingenberg smiled characteristically, and in his smile was an
expression of ineffable contempt.

He stopped before the professor.

"You have just quoted what impartial historical research informs us of
Tilly, in the second and third volumes. It is so. I remember perfectly
having read that favorable account. Now let me quote what the same
periodical says of the same Tilly in the seventeenth volume. There we
read that Tilly was a hypocrite and a blood-hound, whose name cannot be
mentioned without a shudder; furthermore, we are told that Tilly burned
Magdeburg, that he waged a ravaging war against men, women, children,
and property. You see, then, in the second and third volumes that Tilly
was a conscientious, mild man and pious hero; in the seventeenth
volume, that he was a tyrant and blood-hound. It appears from this with
striking clearness that the enlightened progressionists do not stick at
contradiction, mendacity, and defamation."

The professor lowered his eyes and stood embarrassed.

"I leave you, 'Herr Professor,' to give a name to such a procedure.
Besides, I must also observe that the strictly scientific method, as it
labels itself at present, does not stop at personal defamation. As
every holy delusion and religious superstition must be destroyed in the
hearts of the students, this lying and defamation extends to the
historical truths of faith. It is taught from the professors' chairs,
and confirmed by the journals, that confession is an invention of the
middle ages; while you must know from thorough research that confession
has existed up to the time of the apostles. You teach and write that
Innocent III. introduced the doctrine of transubstantiation in the
thirteenth century; while every one having the least knowledge of
history knows that at the council of 1215 it was only made a duty to
receive the holy communion at Easter, that the fathers of the first
ages speak of transubstantiation--that it has its foundation in
Scripture. You know as well as I do that indulgences were imparted even
in the first century; but this does not prevent you from teaching that
the popes of the middle ages invented indulgences from love of money,
and sold them from avarice. Thus the progressive science lies and
defames, yet is not ashamed to raise high the banner of enlightenment;
thus you lead people into error, and destroy youth! Fie! fie!"

The doctor turned and was about to proceed when he heard his name
called. Frank hastened to him, the perspiration running from his
forehead, and his breast heaving from rapid breathing. In a few words
he made known Eliza's illness, and Siegwart's request.

"You know," said Klingenberg, "that I treat only the poor, who cannot
easily get a physician."

"Make an exception in this case, doctor, I beg of you most earnestly!
You respect Siegwart yourself for his integrity, and I also of late
have learned to esteem the excellent man, whose heart at present is
rent with anxiety and distress. Save this child, doctor; I beg of you
save it."

Klingenberg saw the young man's anxiety and goodness, and benevolence
beamed on his still angry face.

"I see," said he, "that no refusal is to be thought of. Well, we will
go." And he immediately set off with long strides on his way back.
Richard cast a glance at the professor, who followed, gloomy and
spiteful. He saw the angry look he now and then turned on the hastening
doctor, and knew that a sharp contest must have taken place. But his
solicitude for Siegwart's child excluded all other sympathy. On the way
he exchanged only a few words with Lutz, who moved on morosely, and was
glad when Klingenberg and Richard separated from him in the vicinity of
Frankenhoehe.

Ten minutes later they entered the house of Siegwart. The doctor stood
for a moment observing the child without touching it. The little one
opened her eyes, and appeared to be frightened at the strange man with
the sharp features. Siegwart and Angela read anxiously in the doctor's
immovable countenance. As Eliza said "Papa," in a peculiar, feverish
tone, Klingenberg moved away from the bed. He cast a quick glance at
the father, went to the window and drummed with his fingers on the
glass. Frank read in that quick glance that Eliza must die. Angela must
also have guessed the doctor's opinion, for she was very much affected;
her head sank on her breast and tears burst from her eyes.

Klingenberg took out his notebook, wrote something on a small slip of
paper, and ordered the recipe to be taken immediately to the
apothecary. He then took his departure.

"What do you think of the child?" said Siegwart, as they passed over
the yard.

"The child is very sick; send for me in the morning if it be
necessary."

Frank and the doctor went some distance in silence. The young man
thought of the misery the death of Eliza would bring on that happy
family, and the pale, suffering Angela in particular stood before him.

"Is recovery not possible?"

"No. The child will surely die to-night. I prescribed only a soothing
remedy. I am sorry for Siegwart; he is one of the few fathers who hang
with boundless love on their children--particularly when they are
young. The man must call forth all his strength to bear up against it."

When Frank entered his room, he found Lutz in a very bad humor.

"You have judged that old bear much too leniently," began the
professor. "The man is a model of coarseness and intolerable bigotry."

"I thought so," said Frank. "I know you and I know the doctor; and I
knew two such rugged antitheses must affect each other unpleasantly.
What occasioned your dispute?"

"What! A thousand things," answered his friend ill-humoredly. "The
old rhinoceros has not the least appreciation of true knowledge. He
carries haughtily the long wig of antiquated stupidity, and does not
see the shallowness of the swamp in which he wallows. The genius of
Christianity is to him the sublime. Where this stops, pernicious
enlightenment--which corrupts the people, turns churches into
ball-rooms, and the Bible into a book of fables--begins."

"The doctor is not wrong there," said Frank earnestly. "Are they not
endeavoring with all their strength to deprive the Bible of its divine
character? Does not one Schenkel in Heidelberg deny the divinity of
Christ? Is not this Schenkel the director of a theological faculty? Do
not some Catholic professors even begin to dogmatize and dispute the
authority of the holy see?"

"We rejoice at the consoling fact that Catholic _savants_ themselves
break the fetters with which Rome's infallibility has bound in
adamantine chains the human mind!" cried Lutz with enthusiasm.

"It appears strange to me when young men--scarcely escaped from the
school, and boasting of all modern knowledge--cast aside as old,
worthless rubbish what great minds of past ages have deeply pondered.
The see of Rome and its dogmas have ruled the world for eighteen
hundred years. Rome's dogmas overthrew the old world and created a new
one. They have withstood and survived storms that have engulfed all
else besides. Such strength excites wonder and admiration, but not
contempt."

"I let your eulogy on Rome pass," said the professor. "But as Rome and
her dogmas have overthrown heathenism, so will the irresistible
progress of science overthrow Christianity. Coming generations will
smile as complacently at the God of Christendom as we consider with
astonishment the great and small gods of the heathen."

"I do not desire the realization of your prophecy," said Frank
gloomily; "for it must be accompanied by convulsions that will
transform the whole world, and therefore I do not like to see an
anti-Christian tendency pervading science."

"Tendency, tendency!" said Lutz, hesitating. "In science there is no
tendency; there is but truth."

"Easy, friend, easy! Be candid and just. You will not deny that the
tendency of Sybel's school is to war against the church?"

"Certainly, in so far as the church contends against truth and thorough
investigation."

"Good; and the friends of the church will contend against you in so far
as you are inimical to the spirit of the church. And so, tendency on
one side, tendency on the other. But it is you who make the more noise.
As soon as a book opposed to you appears,--'Partial!' you say with
contemptuous mien; 'Odious!' 'Ecclesiastical!' 'Unreadable!' and it is
forthwith condemned. But it appears to me natural that a man should
labor and write in a cause which is to him the noblest cause."

"I am astonished, Richard! You did not think formerly as you now do.
But I should not be surprised if your intercourse with the doctor is
not without its effects." This the professor said in a cutting tone.
Frank turned about and walked the room. The observation of his friend
annoyed him, and he reflected whether his views had actually undergone
any change.

"You deceive yourself. I am still the same," said he. "You cannot
mistrust me because I do not take part with you against the doctor."

Carl sat for a time thinking.

"Is my presence at the table necessary?" said he. "I do not wish to
meet the doctor again."

"That would be little in you. You must not avoid the doctor. You must
convince yourself that he does not bear any ill-will on account of that
scientific dispute. With all his rough bluntness, Klingenberg is a
noble man. Your non-appearance at table must offend him, and at the
same time betray your annoyance."

"I obey," answered Lutz. "Tomorrow I will go for a few days to the
mountains. On my return I will remain another day with you."

Frank's assurance was confirmed. The doctor met the guest as if nothing
unpleasant had happened. In the cool of the evening he went with the
young men into the garden, and spoke with such familiarity of Tacitus,
Livy, and other historians of antiquity that the professor admired his
erudition.

Frank wrote in his diary:


"May 20th.--After mature reflection, I find that the views which I
believed to be strongly founded begin to totter. What would the
professor say if he knew that not the doctor, but a country family, and
that, too, ultramontane, begin to shake the foundation of my views?
Would he not call me weak?"


He laid down the pen and sat sullenly reflecting.


"All my impressions of the ultramontane family be herewith effaced," he
wrote further. "The only fact I admit is, that even ultramontanes also
can be good people. But this fact shall in no wise destroy my former
convictions."




                              CHAPTER VI.

                   THE ULTRAMONTANE WAY OF THINKING.


On the following morning, no message was sent for the doctor. The child
had died, as Klingenberg foretold. Frank thought of the great
affliction of the Siegwart family--Angela in tears, and the father
broken down with grief. It drove him from Frankenhoehe. In a quarter of
an hour he was at the house of the proprietor.

A servant came weeping to meet him.

"You cannot speak to my master," said she. "We had a bad night. My
master is almost out of his mind; he has only just now lain down. Poor
Eliza! the dear, good child." And the tears burst forth again.

"When did the child die?"

"At four o'clock this morning; and how beautiful she still looks in
death! You would think she is only sleeping. If you wish to see her,
just go up to the same room in which you were yesterday."

After some hesitation, Frank ascended the stairs and entered the room.
As he passed the threshold, he paused, greatly surprised at the sight
that met his view. The room was darkened, the shutters closed, and
across the room streamed the broken rays of the morning sun. On a
white-covered table burned wax candles, in the midst of which stood a
large crucifix; there was also a holy-water vase, and in it a green
branch. On the white cushions of the bed reposed Eliza, a crown of
evergreens about her forehead, and a little crucifix in her folded
hands. Her countenance was not the least disfigured; only about her
softly closed eyes there was a dark shade, and the lifelike freshness
of the lips had vanished. Angela sat near the bed on a low stool; she
had laid her head near that of her sister, and in consequence of a
wakeful night was fast asleep. Eliza's little head lay in her arms, and
in her hand she held the same rosary that he had found near the statue.
Frank stood immovable before the interesting group.

The most beautiful form he had ever beheld he now saw in close contact
with the dead. Earnest thoughts passed through his mind. The
fleetingness of all earthly things vividly occurred to him. Eliza's
corpse reminded him impressively that her sister, the charming Angela,
must meet the same inevitable fate. His eyes rested on the beautiful
features of the sufferer, which were not in the least disfigured by
bitter or gloomy dreams, and which expressed in sleep the sweetest
peace. She slept as gently and confidingly near Eliza as if she did not
know the abyss which death had placed between them. The only disorder
in Angela's external appearance was the glistening curls of hair that
hung loose over her shoulders on her breast.

At length Frank departed, with the determination of returning to make
his visit of condolence. After the accustomed walk with Klingenberg, he
went immediately back to Siegwart's.

When he returned home, he wrote in his diary:

"May 21st.--Surprising and wonderful!

"When my uncle's little Agnes died, my aunt took ill, and my uncle's
condition bordered on insanity; tortured by excruciating anguish, he
murmured against Providence. He accused God of cruelty and injustice,
because he took from him a child he loved so much, he lost all
self-control, and had not strength to bear the misfortune with
resignation. And now the Siegwart family are in the same circumstances;
the father is much broken down, much afflicted, but very resigned; his
trembling lips betray the affliction that presses on his heart, but
they make no complaints against Providence.

"'I thank you for your sympathy,' said he to me. 'The trial is painful;
but God knows what he does. The Lord gave me the dear child; the Lord
has taken her away. His holy will be done.' So spoke Siegwart. While he
said this, a perceptible pain changed his manly countenance, and he lay
like a quivering victim on the altar of the Lord. Siegwart's wife, a
beautiful woman, with calm, mild eyes, wept inwardly. Her mother's
heart bled from a thousand wounds; but she showed the same self-control
and resignation as Siegwart did to the will of the Most High.

"And Angela? I do not understand her at all. She speaks of Eliza as of
one sleeping, or of one who has gone to a place where she is happy. But
sometimes a spasm twitches her features; then her eyes rest on the
crucifix that stands amid the lighted candles. The contemplation of the
crucifix seems to afford her strength and vigor. This is a mystery to
me. I cannot conceive the mysterious power of that carved figure.

"Misery does not depress these people: it ennobles them. I have never
seen the like. When I compare their conduct with that of those I have
known, I confess that the Siegwart family puts my acquaintance as well
as myself to shame.

"What gives these people this strength, this calm, this resignation?
Religion, perhaps. Then religion is infinitely more than a mere
conception, a mere external rule of faith.

"I am beginning to suspect that between heaven and earth there exists,
for those who live for heaven, a warm, living union. It appears to me
that Providence does not, indeed, exempt the faithful from the common
lot of earthly affliction; but he gives them strength which transcends
the power of human nature.

"I have undertaken the task of putting Angela to the test, and what do
I find? Admiration for her--shame for myself; and also the certainty
that my views of women must be restricted."

He had scarcely written down these thoughts, when he bit impatiently
the pen between his teeth.

"We must not be hasty in our judgments," he wrote further. "Perhaps it
is my ignorance of the depth of the human heart that causes me to
consider in so favorable a light the occurrences in the Siegwart
family.

"Perhaps it is a kind of stupidity of mind, an unrefined feeling, a
frivolous perception of fatality, that gives these people this quiet
and resignation. My judgment shall not be made up. Angela may conceal
beneath the loveliness of her nature characteristics and failings which
may justify my opinion of the sex, notwithstanding."

With a peculiar stubbornness which struggles to maintain a favorite
conviction, he closed the diary.

On the second day after Eliza's death, the body was consigned to the
earth. Frank followed the diminutive coffin, which was carried by four
little girls dressed in white. The youthful bearers had wreaths of
flowers on their heads and blue silk ribbons about their waists, the
ends of which hung down.

After these followed a band of girls, also dressed in white and blue.
They had flowers fixed in their hair, and in their hands they carried a
large wreath of evergreens and roses. The whole community followed the
procession--a proof of the great respect the proprietor enjoyed among
his neighbors. Siegwart's manner was quiet, but his eyes were inflamed.
As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the larks sang in the air,
and the birds in the bushes around joined their sweet cadences with the
not plaintive but joyful melodies which were sung by a choir of little
girls. The church ceremonies, like nature, breathed joy and triumph,
much to Richard's astonishment. He did not understand how these songs
of gladness and festive costumes could be reconciled with the open
grave. He believed that the feelings of the mourners must be hurt by
all this. He remained with the family at the grave till the little
mound was smoothed and finished above it. The people scattered over the
graveyard, and knelt praying before the different graves. The cross was
planted on Eliza's resting-place, and the girls placed the large wreath
on the little mound. Siegwart spoke words of consolation to his wife as
he conducted her to the carriage. Angela, sunk in sadness, still
remained weeping at the grave. Richard approached and offered her his
arm. The carriage proceeded toward Salingen and stopped before the
church, whose bells were tolling. The service began. Again was Richard
surprised at the joyful melody of the church hymns. The organ pealed
forth joyfully as on a festival. Even the priest at the altar did not
wear black, but white vestments. Frank, unfamiliar with the deep spirit
of the Catholic liturgy, could not understand this singular funeral
service.

After service the family returned. Frank sat opposite to Angela, who
was very sad, but in no way depressed. He even thought he saw now and
then the light of a peculiar joy in her countenance. Madame Siegwart
could not succeed in overcoming her maternal sorrow. Her tears burst
forth anew, and her husband consoled her with tender words.

Frank strove to divert Angela from her sad thoughts. As he thought it
would not be in good taste to speak of ordinary matters, he expressed
his surprise at the manner of the burial.

"Your sister," said he, "was interred with a solemnity which excited my
surprise, and, I confess, my disapprobation. Not a single hymn of
sorrow was sung, either at the grave or in the church. One would not
believe that those white-clad girls with wreaths of flowers on their
heads were carrying the soulless body of a beloved being to the grave.
The whole character of the funeral was that of rejoicing. How is this,
Fraeulein Angela; is that the custom here?"

She looked at him somewhat astonished.

"That is the custom in the whole Catholic Church," she replied. "At the
burial of children she excludes all sadness; and for that reason masses
of requiem in black vestments are never said for them; but masses of
the angels in white."

"Do you not think the custom is in contradiction to the sentiments of
nature--to the sorrowful feelings of those who remain?"

"Yes, I believe so," she answered tranquilly. "Human nature grieves
about many things over which the spirit should rejoice."

These words sounded enigmatically to Richard.

"I do not comprehend the meaning of your words, Fraeulein Angela."

"Grief at the death of a relative is proper for us, because a beloved
person has been taken from our midst. But the church, on the contrary,
rejoices because an innocent, pure soul has reached the goal after
which we all strive--eternal happiness. You see, Herr Frank, that the
church considers the departure of a child from this world from a more
exalted point of view, and comprehends it in a more spiritual sense,
than the natural affection. While the heart grows weak from sadness,
the church teaches us that Eliza is happy; that she has gone before us,
and that we will be separated from her but for a short time; that
between us there is a spiritual union which is based on the communion
of saints. Faith teaches me that Eliza, rescued from all afflictions
and disappointments, is happy in the kingdom of the blessed. If I could
call her back, I would not do it; for this desire springs from egotism,
which can make no sacrifices to love."

Her eyes were full of tears as she said these last words. But that
peculiar joy which Richard had before observed, and the meaning of
which he now understood, again lighted up her countenance. He leaned
back in the carriage, and was forced to admit that the religious
conception of death was very consoling, even grand, when compared with
that conception which modern enlightenment has of it.

The carriage moved slowly through the silent court-yard, which lay as
gloomy under the clouds as though it had put on mourning for the dead.
The chickens sat huddled together in a corner, their heads sadly
drooping. Even the garrulous sparrows were silent, and through the
linden tops came a low, rustling sound like greetings from another
world.

Assisted by Richard's hand, Angela descended from the carriage. Her
father thanked him for his sympathy, and expressed a wish to see him
soon again in the family circle. As Richard glanced at Angela, he
thought he read in her look a confirmation of all her father said.
Siegwart's invitation was unnecessary. The young man was attracted more
strongly to the proprietor's house as Angela's qualities revealed
themselves to his astonished view more clearly. But Frank would not
believe in the spotlessness and sublime dignity of a Christian maiden.
He did not change his former judgment against the sex. His stubbornness
still persisted in the opinion that Angela had her failings, which, if
manifested, would obscure the external brilliancy of her appearance,
but which remained hidden from view. Continued observation alone would,
in Frank's opinion, succeed in disclosing the repulsive shadows.

Perhaps a proud determination to justify his former opinions lay less
at the bottom of this obstinate tenacity than an unconscious stratagem.
The young man anticipated that his respect for Angela would end in
passionate affection as soon as she stood before him in the full,
serene power of her beauty. He feared this power, and therefore
combated her claims.

The professor had returned from his excursion into the mountains, and
related what he had seen and heard. "Such excursions on historic
grounds," said he, "are interesting and instructive to the historical
inquirer. What historical sources hint at darkly become distinct, and
many incredible things become clear and intelligible. Thus, I once read
in an old chronicle that the monks during choral service sung with such
enchanting sweetness that the empress and her ladies and knights who
were present burst into tears. I smiled at this passage from the
garrulous old chronicler, and thought that the fabulous spirit of the
middle ages had descended into the pen of the good man. How often have
I heard Mozart's divine music, how often have I been entranced by the
stormy, thrilling fantasies of Beethoven! But I was never moved to
tears, and I never saw even delicate ladies weep. Two days ago, I
wandered alone among the ruins of the abbey of Hagenroth. I stood in
the ruined church; above was the unclouded sky, and high round about me
the naked walls. Here and there upon the walls hung patches of plaster,
and these were painted. I examined the paintings and found them of
remarkable purity and depth of sentiment. I examined the painted
columns in the nave and choir, and found a beautiful harmony. I admired
the excellence of the colors, on which it has snowed, rained, and
frozen for three hundred and twenty years. I then examined the fallen
columns, the heavy capitals, the beauty of the ornaments, and from
these significant remnants my imagination built up the whole structure,
and the church loomed up before me in all its simple grandeur and
charming finish. I was forced to recognize and admire those artists who
knew how to produce such wonderful and charming effects by such simple
combinations. I thought on that passage of the chronicle, and I believe
if, at that moment, the simple, pure chant of the monks had echoed
through the basilica, I also would have been moved to tears. If the
monks knew, thought I, how to captivate and charm by their
architecture, why could they not do the same with music?"

"The stupid monks!" said Richard.

"If you had spoken those words at my side in that tone as I stood amid
those ruins, they would have sounded like malicious envy from the mouth
of the spirit of darkness."

"Your admiration for the monks is indeed a great curiosity," said
Frank, smiling. "Sybel's congenial friend a eulogist of the monks! That
indeed is as strange as a square circle."

"If I admire the splendor of heathenism, must I not also admire the
fascinating, still depth of Christian childhood? In heathenism as well
as in Christianity human genius accomplishes great and sublime things."

"That, in its whole extent, I must dispute," said Frank. "Where is the
splendor and greatness of heathenism? The heathen built palaces of
great magnificence, but crime stalked naked about in them. When the
lord of the palace killed his slaves for his amusement, there was no
law to condemn him. When lords and ladies at their epicurean feasts
would step aside into small apartments, there by artificial means to
empty their gorged stomachs, they did not offend either against heathen
decency or its law of moderation. The marble columns proudly supported
gilded arches; but when beneath those arches a human victim bled under
the knife of the priests, this was in harmony with the genius of
heathenism. The amphitheatres were immense halls, full of art and
magnificence, in which a hundred thousand spectators could sit and
behold with delight the lions and tigers devour slaves, or the
gladiators slaughtering each other for their amusement. No. True
greatness and real splendor I do not find in heathenism. Where heathen
greatness is, there terrible darkness, profound error, and horrible
customs abound. Christianity had to contend for three hundred years to
destroy the abominations of heathenism."

"I will not dispute about it now," said Lutz. "You shall not destroy by
your criticism the beautiful impressions of my excursion. I also met
the Swedes on my tour. About thirty miles from here there is, among the
hills, a valley. The peasants call the place the 'murder-chamber.' I
suspected that the name might be associated with some historical event,
and, on inquiry, I found such to be the case. In the Thirty Years' War,
when Gustavus Adolphus, the pious hero, passed through the German
provinces murdering and robbing, the inhabitants of the neighborhood
fled with their wives, children, and property to this remote valley.
They imagined themselves hid in these woods and defiles from the
wandering Swedes, but they deceived themselves. Their hiding-place
was discovered, and every living thing--Cows, calves, and oxen
excepted--was put to the sword. 'The blood of the massacred,' said my
informer, 'flowed down the valley like a brook; and for fifty years the
neighborhood was desolate, because the Swedes had destroyed every
thing.' Such masterpieces of Swedish blood-thirstiness are found in
many places in Germany; and as the people celebrate them in song and
story, it is certain that the pious hero has won for himself
imperishable fame in the art of slaughter."

"Do you not wish to have the 'murder-chamber' appear in Sybel's
periodical?"

"No; fable must be carefully separated from history; and in this case I
want the inclination for the subject."

"Fabulous! I find in the 'murder-chamber' nothing but the true Swedish
nature of that time."

The professor shrugged his shoulders.

"Gustavus Adolphus may wander for ever about Germany as the 'pious
hero,' if for no other purpose than to annoy the ultramontanes."

Frank thought of the Siegwart family.

"I believe we are unjust in our judgments of the ultramontanes," said
he. "I visit every day a family which my father declares not only to be
ultramontane, but even clerical, and on account of it will not
associate with them. But I saw there only the noble, good, and
beautiful." And he reported circumstantially what he knew of the
Siegwart family.

"You have observed carefully; and in particular no feature of Angela
has escaped you. This Angela," he continued jocosely, "must be an
incarnate ideal of the other world, since she has excited the interest
of my friend, even though she wears crinoline."

"But she does not wear crinoline," said Frank.

"Not!" returned the professor, smiling. "Then it is just right. The
Angel of Salingen belongs to the nine choirs of angels, and was sent to
the earth in woman's form to win my proud, woman-hating friend to the
fair sex."

"My conversion to the highest admiration of women is by no means
impossible; at least in one case," answered Richard, in the same
earnest tone.

"I am astonished!" said the professor. "My interest is boundless. Could
I not see this wonderful lady?"

"Why not? It is eight o'clock. At this hour I am accustomed to make my
visit."

"Let us go, by all means," urged Lutz.

On the way Frank spoke of Angela's charitable practices, of her love
for the poor, her pious customs, and of her deep religious sentiment,
which manifested itself in every thing; of her activity in household
matters, of her modesty and humility. All this he said in a tone of
enthusiasm. The professor listened with attention and smiled.

As they went through the gate into the large court-yard, they saw
Angela standing under the lindens. She held a large dish in her hand.
About her pressed and crowded the representatives of all races and
nations of that multitude which material progress has raised from
slavish degradation. From Angela's hand rained golden corn among the
chattering brood, who, pressed by a ravenous appetite, hungrily shoved,
pushed, and upset each other. Even the chivalrous cocks had forgotten
their propriety, and greedily snatched up the yellow fruit without
gallantly cooing and offering the treasure to the females. Nimble ducks
glided between the legs of the turkeys and snatched up, quick as
lightning, the grains from their open bills. This did not please the
turkeys, who gobbled and struck their sharp bills into the bobbing
heads of the ducks. A solitary turkey cock alone scorned to participate
in the hungry pleasures of the common herd. He spread his wings stiffly
like a crinoline around his body, strutted about the yard, uttered a
gallant guttural gobble, and played the fine lady in style.

Near the gate stood the stalls. They all had double doors, so that the
upper part could be opened while the lower half remained closed. As the
two friends passed, they saw a massive head protruding through the open
half of one of those doors. The head was red, and was set upon the
powerful shoulders of a steer who had broken loose from his fastening
to take a walk about the yard. When he saw the strangers, he began to
snort, cock his ears, and shake his head, while his fiery eyes rolled
wildly in his head.

"A handsome beast," said Frank, as he stopped. "How wide his forehead,
how strong his horns, how powerful his chest!"

"His head," said Lutz, "would be an expressive symbol for the
evangelist Luke."

The steer was not pleased with these compliments. Bellowing angrily he
rushed against the door, which gave way. Slowly and powerfully came
forth from the darkness of the stall the colossal limbs of the
dangerous beast. The friends, unexpectedly placed in the power of this
terrible enemy, stood paralyzed. They beheld the colossus lashing his
sides with his tail, lowering his head threateningly, and maliciously
stealing toward them like a cat stealing to a mouse till she gets
within a sure spring of it. The steer had evidently the same design on
strangers. He thought to crush them with his iron forehead and amuse
himself with tossing up their lifeless bodies. They saw this, clearly
enough, but there was no time for flight. The red steer in his mad
onset would certainly overtake and run them down. Luckily, the
professor remembered from the Spanish bull-fights how they must meet
these beasts, and he quickly warned his friend.

"If he charges, slip quickly to one side."

Scarcely had the words escaped his trembling lips, when the steer gave
a short bellow, lowered his head, and, quick as an arrow, rushed upon
Frank. He jumped to one side, but slipped and fell to the ground. The
steer dashed against a wagon that was standing near, and broke several
of the spokes. Maddened at the failure of his charge, he turned quickly
about and saw Frank lying on the ground, and rejoiced over his helpless
victim. Richard commended his soul to God, but had enough presence of
mind not to move a limb; he even kept his eyes closed. The steer
snuffed about, and Frank felt his warm breath. The steer evidently did
not know how to begin with the lifeless thing, until he took it into
his head to stick his horns into the yielding mass. The young man was
lost--now the steer lowered his horns--now came the rescue.

Angela had only observed the visitor as the bellowing steer rushed at
him. All this took but a minute. The servants were not then in the
yard; and before they could be called, Richard would be gored a dozen
times by the sharp weapons of the steer. The professor trembled in
every limb; he neither dared to cry for help, lest he might remind the
steer of his presence, nor to move from the place. He seemed destined
to be compelled to see his friend breathe out his life under the
torturing stabs.

Before this happened, however, Angela's voice rang imperatively through
the yard. The astonished steer raised his head, and when he saw the
frail form coming toward him with the dish in her hand, he gave forth a
friendly low, and had even the good grace to go a few steps to meet
her.

"Falk, what are you about?" said she reproachfully. "You are a terrible
beast to treat visitors so."

Falk lowed his apology, and, as he perceived the contents of the dish,
he awkwardly sank his mouth into it. Angela scratched his jaws, at
which he was so delighted that he even forgot the dish and held still
like a child. The professor looked on this scene with amazement--the
airy form before the murderous head of the steer. As Master Falk began
even to lick Angela's hand, the professor was very near believing in
miracles.

"So now, be right good, Falk!" said she coaxingly; "now go back where
you belong. Keep perfectly quiet, Herr Frank; do not move, and it will
be soon over."

She patted the steer on the broad neck, and holding the dish before
him, led him to the stall, into which he quickly disappeared.

Frank arose.

"You are not hurt?" asked Lutz with concern.

"Not in the least," answered Frank, taking out his pocket handkerchief
and brushing the dust from his clothes. The professor brought him his
hat, which had bounced away when he fell, and placed it on the head of
his trembling friend.

Angela returned after housing the steer. Frank went some steps toward
her, as if to thank her on his knees for his life; but he concluded to
stand, and a sad smile passed over his countenance.

"Fraeulein Angela," said he, "I have the honor of introducing to you my
friend, Herr Lutz, professor at our university."

"It gives me pleasure to know the gentleman," said she. "But I regret
that, through the negligence of Louis, you have been in great danger.
Great God! if I had not been in the yard." And her beautiful face
became as pale as marble.

Richard observed this expression of fright, and it shot through his
melancholy smile like rays of the highest delight; but for his
preserver he had not a single word of thanks. Lutz, not understanding
this conduct, was displeased at his friend, and undertook himself to
return her thanks.

"You have placed yourself in the greatest danger, Fraeulein Angela,"
said he. "Had I been able when you went to meet the steer, I would have
held you back with both hands; but I must acknowledge that I was
palsied by fear."

"I placed myself in no danger," she replied. "Falk knows me well, and
has to thank me for many dainties. When father is away, I have to go
into the stalls to see if the servants have done their work. So all the
animals know me, and I can call them all by name."

They went into the house.

"It is well that my parents are absent to-day, and that the accident
was observed by no one; for my father would discharge the Swiss who has
charge of the animals, for his negligence. I would be sorry for the
poor man. I beg of you, therefore, to say nothing of it to my father. I
will correct him for it, and I am sure he will be more careful in
future."

While she spoke, the eyes of the professor rested upon her, and it is
scarcely doubtful that in his present judgment the splendor of the
rostrum was eclipsed. Frank sat silent, observing. He scarcely joined
in the conversation, which his friend conducted with great warmth.

"This occurrence," said Lutz, on his way home, "appears to me like an
episode from the land of fables and wonders. First, the steer fight;
then the overcoming of the beast by a maiden; lastly, a maid of such
beauty that all the fair ones of romance are thrown in the shade. By
heaven, I must call all my learning to my aid in order to be able to
forget her and not fall in love up to the ears!"

Frank said nothing.

"And you did not even thank her!" said Lutz vehemently. "Your conduct
was more than ungallant. I do not understand you."

"Nothing without reason," said Frank.

"No matter! Your conduct cannot be justified," growled the professor.
"I would like to know the reason that prevented you from thanking your
preserver for your life?"

Richard stopped, looked quietly into the glowing countenance of his
friend, and proceeded doubtingly,

"You shall know all, and then judge if my offensive conduct is not
pardonable."

He began to relate how he met Angela for the first time on the lonely
road in the forest, how she then made a deep impression on him, what he
learned of her from the poor man and from Klingenberg, and how his
opinion of womankind had been shaken by Angela; then he spoke of his
object in visiting the Siegwart family, of his observations and
experience.

"I had about come to the conclusion, and the occurrence of to-day
realizes that conclusion, that Angela possesses that admirable virtue
which, until now, I believed only to exist in the ideal world. If there
is a spark of vanity in her, I must have offended her. She must have
looked resentfully at me, the ungrateful man, and treated me sulkily.
But such was not the case; her eyes rested on me with the same
clearness and kindness as ever. My coarse unthankfulness did not offend
her, because she does not think much of herself, because she makes no
pretensions, because she does not know her great excellence, but
considers her little human weaknesses in the light of religious
perfection--in short, because she is truly humble. She will bury this
dauntless deed in forgetfulness. She does not wish the little and great
journals to bring her courage into publicity. Tell me a woman, or even
a man, who could be capable of such modesty? Who would risk life to
rescue a stranger from the horns of a ferocious steer without
hesitation, and not desire an acknowledgment of the heroic deed? How
great is Angela, how admirable in every act! I was unthankful; yes, in
the highest degree unthankful. But I placed myself willingly in this
odious light, in order to see Angela in full splendor. As I said," he
concluded quietly, "I must soon confess myself besieged--vanquished on
the whole line of observation."

"And what then?" said the professor.

"Then I am convinced," said Richard, "that female worth exists, shining
and brilliant, and that in the camp of the ultramontanes."

"A shaming experience for us," replied the professor. "You make your
studies practical, you destroy all the results of learned investigation
by living facts. To be just, it must be admitted that a woman like what
you have described Angela to be only grows and ripens on the ground of
religious influences and convictions."

"And did you observe," said Richard, "how modestly she veiled the
splendor of her brave action? She denied that there was any danger in
the presence of the steer, although it is well known that those beasts
in moments of rage forget all friendship. Angela must certainly have
felt this as she went to meet the horns of the infuriated animal to
rescue me."

Frank visited daily, and sometimes twice a day, the Siegwart family; he
was always received with welcome, and might be considered an intimate
friend. The family spirit unfolded itself clearer and clearer to his
view. He found that every thing in that house was pervaded by a
religious influence, and this without any design or haughty piety. The
assessor was destined to receive a striking proof of this.

One afternoon a coach rolled into the court-yard. The family were at
tea. The Assessor von Hamm entered, dressed entirely in black; even the
red ribbon was wanting in the button-hole.

"I have learned with grief of the misfortune that has overtaken you,"
said he after a very formal reception. "I obey the impulse of my heart
when I express my sincere sympathy in the great affliction you have
suffered in the death of the dear little Eliza."

The tears came into the eyes of Madame Siegwart. Angela looked straight
before her, as if to avoid the glance of the assessor.

"We thank you, Herr von Hamm," returned the proprietor. "We were
severely tried, but we are reasonable enough to know that our family
cannot be exempted from the afflictions of human life."

Hamm sat down, a cup was set before him, and Angela poured him out a
cup of fragrant tea. The assessor acknowledged this service with his
sweetest smile, and the most obliged expression of thanks.

"You are right," he then said. "No one is exempt from the stroke of
fate. Man must submit to the unavoidable. To the ancients, blind fate
was terrific and frightful. The present enlightenment submits with
resignation."

If a bomb had plunged into the room and exploded upon the table, it
could not have produced greater confusion than these words of the
assessor. Madame Siegwart looked at him with astonishment and shook her
head. The proprietor, embarrassed, sipped his tea. Angela's blooming
cheeks lost their color. Hamm did not even perceive the effect of his
fatal words, and Frank was scarcely able to hide his secret pleasure at
Hamm's sad mishap.

"We know no fate, no blind, unavoidable destiny," said Siegwart, who
could not forgive the assessor his unchristian sentiment. "But we know
a divine providence, an all-powerful will, without whose consent the
sparrow does not fall from the house-top. We believe in a Father in
heaven who, counts the hairs of our heads, and whose counsels rule our
destiny."

Hamm smiled.

"You believe then, Herr Siegwart, that divine providence, or rather
God, has aimed that blow at you?"

"Yes; so I believe."

"Pardon me. I think you judge too hard of God. It is inconsistent with
his paternal goodness to afflict your beloved child with such
misfortune."

"Misfortune? It is to be doubted whether Eliza's death is a misfortune.
Perhaps her early departure from this world is precisely her happiness;
and then we must reflect that God is master of life and death. It is
not for us to call the Almighty to account, even if his divine
ordinances should be counter to our wishes."

"I respect your religious convictions, Herr Siegwart. Permit me,
however, to observe that God is much too exalted to have an eye to all
human trifles. He simply created the natural law; this he leaves to its
course. All the elements must obey these laws. Every creature is
subject to them; and when Eliza died, she died in consequence of the
course of these laws, but not through God's express will. Do you not
think that this view of our misfortunes reconciles us with the
conceptions we have of God's goodness?"

"No; I do not believe it, because such a view contradicts the Christian
faith," replied Siegwart earnestly. "What kind of a God, what kind of a
Father would he be who would let every thing go as it might? He would
be less a father than the poorest laborer who supports his family in
the sweat of his brow."

"And the whole army of misfortunes that daily overtake the human
family? Does this army await the command of God?"

"Do not forget, Herr Assessor, that the most of these misfortunes are
deserved; brought on by our sins and passions. If excesses would cease,
how many sources of nameless calamities would disappear! For the rest,
it is my firm conviction that nothing happens or can happen in the
whole universe without the express will of God, or at least by his
permission."

The official shook his head.

"This question is evidently of great importance to every man," said
Frank. "Man is often not master of the course of his life; for it is
developed by a chain of circumstances, accidents, and providential
interferences that are not in man's power. I understand very well that
to be subject to blind chance, to an irrevocable fate, is something
disquieting and discouraging to man. Equally consoling, on the other
hand, is the Christian faith in the loving care of an all-powerful
Father, without whose permission a hair of our head cannot be touched.
But things of such great injustice, of such irresistible power, and of
such painful consequences happen on earth, that I cannot reconcile them
with divine love."

While Frank spoke, Angela's eyes rested on him with the greatest
attention; and when he concluded, she lowered her glance, and an
earnest, thoughtful expression passed over her countenance.

"There are accidents that apparently are not the result of man's
fault," said Siegwart. "Torrents sweep over the land and destroy all
the fruit of man's industry. Perhaps these torrents are only the
scourges which the justice of God waves over a lawless land. But I
admit that among the victims there are many good men. Storms wreck
ships at sea, and many human lives are lost. Avalanches plunge from the
Alps and bury whole towns in their resistless fall. It is such
accidents as these you have in view."

"Precisely--exactly so. How will you reconcile all these with the
fatherly goodness of God?" cried Hamm triumphantly.

The proprietor smiled.

"Permit me to ask a question, Herr Assessor. Why does the state make
laws?"

"To preserve order."

"I anticipated this natural reply," continued the proprietor. "If
malefactors were not punished, thieves and desperadoes, their bad
practices being permitted, would have full play. Then all order would
vanish; human society would dissolve into a chaos of disorder. God also
created laws which are necessary for the preservation of the natural
order. Storms destroy ships. If there were no storms, all growth in the
vegetable kingdom would cease. Poisonous vapors would fill the air, and
every living thing must miserably die. Avalanches destroy villages. But
if it did not snow, the torrents would no longer run, the streams would
dry up and the wells would disappear, and man and beast would die of
thirst. You see, gentlemen, God cannot abolish that law of nature
without endangering the whole creation."

"That explains some, but not all," replied Hamm. "God is all-powerful;
it would be but a trifle for him to protect us by his almighty power
from the destructive forces of the elements. Why does he not do so?"

"The reason is clear," answered Angela's father: "God would have
constantly to work miracles. Miracles are exceptions to the workings of
the laws of nature. Now, if God would constantly suppress the power,
and unceasingly interrupt the laws of nature, then there would be no
longer a law of nature. The supernatural would have devoured the
natural. The Almighty would have destroyed the present creation."

"No matter," said the official. "God might destroy the natural forces
that are inimical to man; for all that exists is only of value because
of its use to man."

"Then nothing whatever would remain. All would be lost," said Siegwart.
"We speak and write much about earthly happiness that soon passes away.
We glorify the beauty of creation; but we forget that God's curse rests
on this earth, and it does not require great penetration to see this
curse in all things."

"You believe, then, in the future destruction of the earth?" asked
Hamm.

"Divine revelation teaches it," said Siegwart. "The Holy Scriptures
expressly say there will be a new earth and a new heaven; and the Lord
himself assures us that the foundations of the earth will be overturned
and the stars shall fall from the heavens."

"The stars fall from the heavens!" cried Hamm, laughing. "If you could
only hear what the astronomers say about that."

"What the astronomers say is of no consequence. They did not create the
heavenly bodies, and cannot give them boundaries; besides, we need not
take the falling of the stars literally. This expression may signify
their disappearance from the earth, perhaps the abolition of the laws
by which they have heretofore been moved, and the reconstruction of
those relations which existed between heaven and earth prior to the
fall. God will then do what you now demand of him, Herr von Hamm,"
concluded Siegwart, smiling. "He will destroy the inimical power of
nature, so that the new earth will be free from thorns, tears, and
lamentations."

Thus they continued to dispute, and the debate became so animated that
even Angela entered the list in favor of providence.

"I believe," said she with charming blushes, "that the miseries of this
earthly life can only be explained and understood in view of man's
eternal destiny. God spares the sinner through forbearance and mercy;
he sends trials and misfortunes to the good for their purification. God
demanded of Abraham the sacrifice of his only son; but when Abraham
showed obedience to the command, and consented to make that boundless
sacrifice, he was provided with another victim to offer sacrifice to
God."

"Fraeulein Angela," exclaimed Hamm enthusiastically, "you have solved
the problem. Your comprehensive remark reconciles even the innocent
sufferers with repulsive decrees. O Fraeulein!"--and the assessor fell
into a tone of reverie--"were it permitted me to go through life by the
side of a partner who possesses your spirit and your conciliatory
mildness!"

Angela looked down blushing. She was embarrassed, and dared not raise
her eyes. Her first glance, after a few moments, was at Richard.


Frank wrote in his diary:

"Even the preaching tone becomes her admirably. Morality and religion
flow from her lips as from a pure fountain that vivifies her soul."


As yet he had not surrendered to Angela.

Frank sprang from an obstinate Westphalian stock; and that the
Westphalians have not exchanged their stiff necks for those of
shepherds, is sufficiently proved by their stubborn fight with the
powers who menaced their liberties. Had Frank been a good-natured
South-German or even Municher, he would long since have bowed head and
knees to the "Angel of Salingen." But he now maintained the last
position of his antipathy to women against Angela's superior powers.

He visited the Siegwart family not twice, but thrice, even four times a
day. He appeared suddenly and unexpectedly before Angela like a spy who
wished to detect faults.

Just as he was going over the court, on one occasion, a tall lad came
up to him. The boy came from the same fatal door through which Master
Falk had rushed out upon Richard with such bad intentions. The servant
held his hat in his right hand, and with his left fumbled the bright
buttons on his red vest.

"Herr Frank, excuse me; I have something to say to you. I have wanted
to speak to you for the last three days, but could not because my
master was always in the way. But now, as my master is in the fields, I
can state my trouble, if you will allow me."

"What trouble have you?"

"I am the Swiss through whose fault the steer came near doing you a
great injury. It is inexplicable to me, even now, how the animal got
loose. But Falk is very cunning. I cannot be too watchful of him. His
head is full of schemes; and before you can turn around, he has played
one of his tricks. The chain has a clasp with a latch, and how he broke
it, he only knows."

"It is all right," replied Frank. "I believe you are not to blame."

"I am not to blame about the chain. But I am for the door being open,
Miss Angela said; and she is perfectly right. Therefore, I beg your
pardon and promise you that nothing of the kind shall happen in
future."

"The pardon is granted, on condition that you guard the steer better."

"Miss Angela said that too; and she required me to ask your pardon,
which I have done."

Angela stood in the garden, hidden behind the rose-bushes, and heard,
smiling, the conversation.

As Frank passed over the yard, she came from the garden carrying a
basketful of vegetables. At the same time a harvest-wagon, loaded with
rapes and drawn by four horses, came into the yard.

"Your industry extends to the garden also, Miss Angela," said Frank,
"Now I know no branch of housekeeping that you cannot take a part in."

"My work is, however, insignificant," she returned. "In a large house
there is always a great deal to do, and every one must try to be
useful."

"Your garden deserves all praise," continued Richard, eyeing the
contents of the baskets. "What magnificent peas and beans!"

For the first time Frank observed in her face something like flattered
vanity, and he almost rejoiced at this small shadow on the celestial
form before him. But the supposed shadow was quickly changed into light
before his eyes. "Father brought these early beans into the
neighborhood; they are very tender and palatable. Father likes them,
and I am glad to be able to make him a salad this evening. He will be
astonished to see his young favorites of this year, eight days earlier
than formerly. There he comes; he must not see them now." She covered
them with some lettuce.

And this was the shadow of flattered vanity! Childish joy, to be able
to astonish her father with an agreeable dish.

The loaded wagon stopped in the yard; the horses snorted and pawed the
ground impatiently. The servants opened the barn-doors, and Frank saw
on all sides activity and haste to house the valuable crop.

Siegwart shook hands with the visitor.

"The first blessing of the year," said the proprietor. "The rapes have
turned out well. We had a fine blooming season, and the flies could not
do much damage."

"I have often observed those little flies in the rape-fields," said
Frank. "You can count millions of them; but I did not know that they
injured the crop."

They both went into the house, where a bottle of Munich beer awaited
them. Soon after, the servants went through the hall, and Frank heard
Angela's voice from the kitchen, where she was busily occupied. The
servants brought bread, plates, cheese, and jugs of light wine to the
servants' room.

"Neighbor," said Siegwart, "I invite you to-morrow afternoon at four
o'clock to a family entertainment--providing it will be agreeable to
you."

The invitation was accepted.

"You must not expect much from the entertainment. It will, at least, be
new to you."

Frank was much interested in the character of this ultramontane
entertainment. He thought of a May party, a coronation party; but
rejected this idea, for Siegwart promised a family entertainment, and
this could not be a May party. He thought of all kinds of plays, and
what part Angela would take in them. But the play also seemed
improbable, and at last the subject of the invitation remained an
interesting mystery to him, the solution of which he awaited with
impatience.

An hour before the appointed time Richard left Frankenhoehe, after
Klingenberg had excused him from the daily walk. He took a roundabout
way along the edge of the forest; for he knew that the Siegwart family
would be at divine service, and he did not wish to arrive at the house
a moment before the time. Sunday stillness rested on all. The mountains
rose up a deep blue; the vari- fields were partly yellow; the
vineyards alone were of a deep green, and when the wind blew through
them it wafted with it the pleasant odors of the vine-blossoms.

Madame Siegwart was just returning home from Salingen between her two
children. Henry, a youth of seventeen and the future proprietor of the
property, had the same manners as his father. He walked leisurely on
the road-side, examining the blooming wheat and ripening corn. When he
discovered nests of vine weevils, he plucked them off and crushed the
eggs of the hated enemies of all wine-growers. Angela remained
constantly at her mother's side, and as she accidentally raised her
eyes to where Richard stood, he made a movement as though he was caught
disadvantageously.

A short distance behind them came Siegwart, surrounded by some men.
They often stopped and talked in a lively manner. Frank thought that
these men were also invited, and hoped to become acquainted with the
_elite_ of Salingen. He was, however, disappointed; for a short
distance from Siegwart's house the men turned back to Salingen. They
had only accompanied the proprietor part of the way. The servants of
Siegwart also came hastening along the road, first the men-servants,
and some distance behind them the maid-servants. Frank had observed
this separation before, and thought it must be in consequence of the
strict orders of the master. Frank considered this narrow-minded, and
thought of finding fault with it, in true modern spirit. But then he
considered the results of his observations, which had extended to the
servants. He often admired the industry and regular conduct of these
people. He never heard any oath or rough expressions of passion; every
one knew his work, and performed it with care and attention. He
observed this regular order with admiration, particularly when he
thought of the disobedience, dissatisfaction, and untrustworthiness of
the generality of servants. Siegwart must possess a great secret to
keep these people in agreement and order; therefore he rejected his
former opinion of narrow-mindedness, and believed the proprietor must
have good reason for this separation of the sexes.

Frank remained for a time under the shadow of an oak, looked at his
watch, and finally descended the shortest way. He was expected by
Siegwart, and immediately conducted to the large room. The arrangement
of the room showed at a glance its use. There was a small altar at one
side, and religious pictures hung on the walls. There was also a
harmonium, and on the windows hung curtains on which were painted
scenes from sacred history. In the middle of the room there was a desk,
on which lay a book. To the right of the desk sat the men-servants, to
the left the maids, the Siegwart family in the centre. A smile passed
over Frank's countenance at the present religious entertainment--for
him, at least, a new sort of recreation. At his entrance the whole
assembly rose. He greeted Angela and her mother, pressed warmly the
hand of Henry, and took the seat allotted to him.

Angela ascended the pulpit, sat down and opened the book. She read the
life of the servant St. Zitta, whom the church numbers among the
saints. Angela read in a masterly manner. The narrative tone of her
soft, melodious voice ran like a quickening stream through the soul.
Some passages she pronounced with plastic force, and into the delivery
of others she breathed warm life. All listened with great attention.
Zitta's childhood passed in quick review, then her hard lot with a
master difficult to please. The servants listened with astonishment.
They heard with pious attention of Zitta's pure conduct, of her
fidelity and humility, of her industry and self-denial. They all felt
personally their own deficiency in comparison with this shining model.
When Angela closed the book, Frank saw that the servants were deeply
impressed. Meditatively they left the room, as though they had heard a
striking sermon.

"Ah!" thought Frank. "Now I know one of the means by which Siegwart
influences his people."

"Now comes the second part of the entertainment," said the proprietor,
taking Richard's arm. "We will now go into the garden."

On the way thither Frank saw under the lindens a long table set with
food and wine, and at it sat the servants. Richard heard their
conversation in passing. They talked of St. Zitta and recounted the
striking facts of her life.

Near the garden wall grew a vine-arbor, which caught the cool air as it
passed and loaded it with pleasant odors. Thousands of the flowers of
the blooming vine appeared between the indented leaves. Each of these
diminutive flowers breathed forth a fragrance which for sweetness of
odor could not be surpassed.

A young brood of goldfinches, who had taken possession of the arbor,
now cleared off. They flew up on the dwarf trees, or hid among the
roses, which of all colors and kinds grew in the garden. The hungry
young ones cried incessantly, and tested severely the parental duty of
support. But the old ones were not ashamed of this duty. Here and there
they caught flies and other insects, and carried them to the young
ones, who stood with outstretched wings and flabby bills wide open.
Then the old ones would fly away again, light on the branches--mostly
on bean-stalks--make quick dodges, wave their tails, smack their
tongues, and seize as quick as lightning a harmless passing fly. The
sparrows did not behave so harmlessly. They pecked at the bright
shining cherries that hung in full clusters on the swaying branches.
Others of this sharp-billed gentry hopped about on the strawberry-beds,
and disfigured the large berries as they tore off great pieces of the
soft meat. One of them had even the boldness to hop about on the
decorated table that stood at the upper end of the arbor, to strike his
sharp bill into the buttered bread, make an examination of the
preserves, ogle the slices of ham, and admire the black bottles that
stood on the ground. He also took to flight as the company arrived. The
vine-blossoms seemed to send forth a sweeter fragrance as Angela,
bright and beaming, approached, leaning on the arm of her mother.

"Do you have this edifying reading every Sunday?" asked Richard.

"Regularly," answered the proprietor. "It is an old custom of our
family, and I find it has such good results that I will not have it
abolished. The servants are not obliged to be present. They are free
after vespers, each one to employ himself as best suits him. But it
seldom happens that a servant or a maid is absent. They like to hear
the legends, and you may have remarked that they listen with great
attention to the reading."

"I have observed it," said Frank. "Miss Angela is also such an
excellent reader that only deaf people would not attend."

She smiled and blushed a little at this praise.

"I consider it a strict obligation of employers to have a supervision
over the conduct of the servants," said Madame Siegwart. "Many, perhaps
most, servants are treated like the slaves in old heathen times. They
work for their masters, are paid for it, and there the relation between
master and servant ends. This is why they neglect divine service on
Sundays and feast-days; their moral wants are not satisfied, their
natural inclinations are not purified by restraints of a higher order.
The servants sit in the taverns, where they squander their wages, and
the maids rove about and gossip. This is a great injustice to the
servants, and full of bad consequences. It cannot be questioned that
masters should shield their servants from error and keep them under
moral discipline."

"Precisely my opinion," returned Frank. "If servants are frequently
spoiled and general complaint is made of it, the masters are greatly in
fault. I have long since admired the conduct of your servants. I looked
upon Herr Siegwart as a kind of sorcerer, who conjured every thing
under his charge according to his will. Now a part of the sorcery is
clear to me."

"Well, you were favorable in your judgment," said the proprietor,
laughing. "So you considered me a magician; others consider me an
ultramontanist, and that is something still worse."

Richard smiled and blushed slightly.

"You no doubt have heard this honorable title applied to me, Herr
Frank?"

"Yes, I have heard of it."

"And I scarcely deceive myself in supposing," continued Siegwart
good-humoredly, "that your father has spoken to you of his neighbor,
the ultramontane."

"You do not deceive yourself at all," answered Frank. "I consider it a
great honor to have become better acquainted with the ultramontane."

"I have often wished to speak to you," continued the proprietor, "of
the reason which called forth your father's displeasure with me. I
suppose, however, that you have heard it."

"My father never spoke of it, and I am eager to know the unfortunate
cause."

"It is as follows. About ten years ago your father, with some other
gentlemen, wished to establish a great factory in this neighborhood.
The land on which it was to stand is a marsh lying near a pond, the
water of which was to be made of use to the factory. I tried with all
my power to prevent this design, and even for social and religious
reasons. Our neighborhood needed no factory. There are but few very
poor people, and these support themselves sufficiently well among the
farmers. Experience proves that factories have a bad effect on the
people in their neighborhood. Our people are firm believers. The
peasants keep conscientiously the Sundays and festivals. In all their
cares for the earthly they do not forget the eternal life. This
religious sentiment spreads happiness and peace over our quiet
neighborhood. The factory, which knows no Sunday, and the operatives,
who are sometimes very bad men, would have brought a harsh discordance
into the quiet harmony of the neighborhood. I considered these and
other injurious influences, and offered a higher price for the swamp
than your father and his friends. As there was no other convenient
place about, the enterprise had to be given up. Since that time your
father is offended with me because I made his favorite project
impossible. This is the way it stands. That it is painful to me, I need
not assure you. But according to my principles and views I could not do
otherwise. Now judge how far I am to be condemned."

"I speak freely," said Frank. "You have acted from principles that one
must respect, and which my father would have respected if he had known
them."

The proprietor could have observed that he had, in a long letter,
justified himself to Herr Frank. But he suppressed the observation, as
he felt it would be painful to his son.

"Father," said Henry, "hunger and thirst are appeased. Can I ride out
for an hour?"

"Yes, my son; but not longer. Be back by supper-time."

The young man promised, and, after a friendly bow to Frank, hastened
from the garden. The little circle continued some time in friendly
chat. The servants under the lindens became noisy and sang merry songs.
The maids sat around the tea-table in the kitchen and praised St.
Zitta.

The cook appeared in the arbor and announced that Herr von Hamm was in
the house, and wished to speak on important business to Herr and Madame
Siegwart.

"What can he want?" said the proprietor in surprise. "Excuse me, Herr
Frank; the business will soon be over. I beg you to remain till we
return. Angela, prevent him from going."

Angela, smiling, looked after her retiring parents and then at Richard.

"I must keep you, Herr Frank. How shall I begin?"

"That is very easy, Fraeulein. Your presence is sufficient to realize
your father's wish. A weak child of human nature cannot resist one who
can conquer steers."

"Now you make a steer-catcher of me. Such a thing never happened in
Spain; for there the steers are not so cultivated and docile as they
are with us."

She took out her knitting.

"This is Sunday, Miss Angela!"

"Do you consider knitting unlawful after one has fulfilled one's
religious duties?"

"The case is not clear to me," said Frank, smiling secretly at the
earnestness of the questioner. "My casuistic knowledge is not
sufficient to solve such a question reasonably."

"The church only forbids servile work," said she. "I consider knitting
and sewing as something better than doing nothing."

"I am rejoiced that you are not narrow-minded, Fraeulein. But this
little stocking does not fit your feet?"

"It is for little bare feet in Salingen," she replied, laying the
finished stocking on the table and stroking it with both hands as a
work of love.

"I have heard of your beneficence," said Frank. "You knit, sew, and
cook for the poor people. You are a refuge for all the needy and
distressed. How good in you!"

"You exaggerate, Herr Frank. I do a little sometimes, but not more than
I can do with the house-work, which is scarcely worth mentioning. I
make no sacrifice in doing it; on the contrary, the poor give me more
than I give them; for giving is to every one more pleasant than
receiving."

"To every one, Fraeulein?"

"To every one who can give without denying herself."

"But you are accustomed also to visit the sick, and the hovels of
poverty are certainly not attractive."

"Indeed, Herr Frank, very attractive," she answered quickly. "The
thanks of the poor sick are so affecting and elevating that one is paid
a thousand times for a little trouble."

Frank let the subject drop. Angela did not give charities from pride or
the gratification of vanity, as he had been prepared to assume, but
from natural goodness and inclination of the heart. He looked at the
beautiful girl who sat before him industriously sewing, and was almost
angry at his failure to detect a fault in her pure nature.

"Do you always adorn the statue of the Virgin on the mountain?" said he
after a pause.

"No; not now. The month of our dear Lady is over. I always think with
pleasure of the happy hours when in the convent we adorned her altar
with beautiful flowers."

"You must have a great reverence for Mary, or you would not ascend the
mountain daily."

"I admire the exalted virtues of Mary, and think with sorrow of her
painful life on earth; and then, a weak creature needs much her
powerful protection."

"Do you expect, Miss Angela, by such attention as you show the statue
to obtain protection of the saint?"

"No, I do not believe that. The adorning of the pictures of saints
would be idle trifling if the heart wandered far from the spirit of the
saints. Our church teaches, as you know, that the real, true veneration
of the saints consists in imitating their virtues."

Frank sat reflecting. The examination and probation were thoroughly
disgusting to him. Siegwart appeared in the garden, and came with quick
steps to the arbor. His countenance was agitated and his eyes glowed
with indignation. Without speaking a word, he drank off a glass of
wine. Frank saw how he endeavored not to exhibit his anger.

"Has Herr von Hamm departed?" asked Richard.

"Yes, he is off again," said the proprietor. "Angela, your mother has
something to say to you."

"Now guess what the assessor wanted?" said Siegwart, after his daughter
had left the arbor.

"Perhaps he wanted the Peter-pence collection," said Frank, smiling.

"No. Herr von Hamm wanted nothing more or less than to marry my
daughter!"

Frank was astonished. Although he long since saw through Hamm's
designs, he did not expect so sudden and hasty a step.

"And in what manner did he demand her?"

"It is revolting," said the proprietor, much offended. "Herr von Hamm
graciously condescends to us peasants. He showed that it would be a
great good fortune for us to give our daughter to the noble, the
official with brilliant prospects."

"Herr von Hamm does not think little of himself," said Richard drily.

"How did the man ever come to ask my daughter? He and Angela! What
opposites!"

"Which, of course, you made clear to him."

"I reminded the gentleman that identity of moral and religious
principles alone could render matrimonial happiness possible. I
reminded him that Angela was an ultramontane, whose opinions would
daily annoy him, while his modern opinions must deeply offend Angela.
This I set before him briefly. Then I told him frankly and freely that
I did not wish to make either him or Angela unhappy, and at this he
went away angrily."

"You have done your duty," said Frank. "I am also of opinion that
similar convictions in the great principles of life alone insure the
happiness of married life."

When Richard came home, he wrote in his diary:


"June 4.--Unconditional surrender. What I supposed only to exist in the
ideal world is realized in the daughter of an ultramontane. Angela,
compared to our crinolines, our flirts, our insipid coquettes--how
brilliant the light, how deep the shadow!

"My visits to that family have no longer a purpose. I feel they must be
discontinued for the sake of my peace. I dare not dream of a happiness
of which I am unworthy. But my future life will feel painfully the want
of a happiness the possibility of which I did not dream. This is a
punishment for presuming to penetrate the pure, glorious character of
the Angel of Salingen."


He buried his face in his hands, and leaned on the table. He remained
thus a long time; when he raised his head, his face was pale, and his
eyes were moist with tears.




                              CHAPTER VII.

                            POISONOUS FOOD.


"Herr Frank has not been here for four days," said Siegwart as he
returned one day from the field. "He will not come to-day, for it is
already nine o'clock, I hope the young man is not ill."

Angela started.

"Ill? May God forbid!"

"At least, I know no other reason that could prevent him from coming.
He has become a necessity to me; I seem to miss something."

Angela concealed her uneasiness in true womanly fashion. She busied
herself about the room, dusted the furniture, arranged the vases, and
trimmed the flowers; but one could see that her mind was not in the
work.

"Would it not be well, father, to send and inquire after his health?"

"It would if we were certain that he was ill. I only made a conjecture.
However, if he does not come to-morrow, I will send Henry over.

"We owe him this attention; he is sensible, modest, and very
intelligent. We find at present in the cities and first families few
young men of so little assumption and so much goodness and manliness."

Angela pricked her finger. She had incautiously wandered into the
thicket, as if she did not know that roses have thorns.

"Many things tell of his kind-heartedness," she replied, with averted
face. "He sends five dollars every week to the old blind woman in
Salingen; he often takes the money himself, and comforts the
unfortunate creature. The blind woman is full of enthusiasm about him.
He bought the cooper a full set of tools, that he might be able to
support his mother and seven little sisters."

"Very praiseworthy," said the father.

As Siegwart came home in the evening, Angela met him in the yard. She
carried a basket and was about to go into the garden.

"Herr Frank is not unwell," said he; "I saw him in the field and went
through the vineyard to meet him; but when he discovered my intention,
he turned about and hastened toward the house. That surprises me."

Angela went into the garden. She stood on the bed and gazed at the
lettuce. The empty basket awaited its contents, and in it lay the knife
whose bright blade glistened before the idle dreamer. She stood thus
meditating, lost in thought for a long time, which was certainly not
her custom.


Herr Frank had returned from the city, and was roughly received by the
doctor.

"Have you spoken to your son?" said he sharply.

"No! I have just alighted from the carriage," answered Frank in
astonishment.

The doctor walked up and down the room, and Frank saw his face growing
darker.

"You disturb me, good friend. How is Richard?"

"Bad, very bad! And it is all your fault. You gave Richard those
materialistic books which I threw out of the window. He has read the
trash--not read, but studied it; and now we have the consequences."

"Pardon me, doctor. I did not give my son those books. He was passing
the window when you threw them out, and took them to his room."

"You knew that! Why did you leave him the miserable trash?"

"I had no idea of the danger of these writings. Explain yourself
further, I entreat."

"You must first see your son. But I bind it on your conscience to use
the greatest precaution. Do not show the least surprise. We have to
deal with a dangerous disorder. Do not say a word about his changed
appearance. Then come back to me again."

Greatly disturbed, the father passed to the room of his son. Richard
sat on the sofa gazing at the floor. His cheeks had lost their bloom,
his face was emaciated, and his eyes deeply sunken. Vogt's
_Physiological Letters_ lay open near him. He did not rise quickly and
joyfully to kiss his father, as was his custom. He remained sitting,
and smiled languidly at him. Herr Frank, grieved and perplexed, sat
down near him, and took occasion to pick up the book:

"How are you, Richard?"

"Very well, as you see."

"You are industrious. What book is this?"

"A rare book, father--a remarkable book. One learns there to know what
man is and what he is not. Until now, I did not know that cats, dogs,
monkeys, and all animals were of our race. Now I know; for it is
clearly demonstrated in that book."

"You certainly do not believe such absurdities?"

"Believe? I believe nothing at all. Faith ends where proof begins."

Herr Frank read the open page.

"All this sounds very silly," said he. "Vogt asserts that man has no
soul, and proves it from the fact that men become idiotic. If the
functions of the brain are disturbed, the soul ceases, says Vogt. He
therefore concludes that the spirit consists in the brain. The man must
have been crazy when he wrote that. I am no scholar; but I see at the
first glance how false and groundless are Vogt's inferences. Every
reasonable man knows that the brain is the instrument of the mind,
which enables it to participate in the world of sense; now, when the
instrument is destroyed, the participation of the mind with the outward
world must cease. Although a man may be an expert on the violin, he
cannot play if the strings are broken or out of tune. But the player,
his ideas, the art, still remain. In like manner the spirit remains,
although it can no longer play on the injured or discordant fibres of
the brain."

"You must read the whole book, father, and then those others there."

"But, Richard, you must not read books that rob man of all dignity."

"Of course not. I should do as the ostrich. When he is in danger, he
sticks his head into the bushes not to see the danger. A prudent plan.
But I cannot close my eyes to the light, even if that light should
destroy my human respect."

Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank returned to the doctor.

"Great God! in what a condition is my poor Richard!" said the oppressed
father.

"He will, I hope, be rescued. My stay at Frankenhoehe was to end with
the month of May; but I cannot forsake a young man whom I love, in this
helpless state of mental delirium."

"I do not understand the condition of my son; and your words give me
great anxiety. Have the goodness to tell me what is the matter with
Richard, and how it came about."

"It would be very difficult to make your son's condition clear to you.
In you there is only business, lucrative undertakings, speculative
combinations. The bustle of the money market is your world. You have no
idea of the power of an intellectual struggle. You know the thoughtful,
intellectual nature of your son; and here I begin. In the first place,
I will remind you that Richard wishes to be governed by the power of
deduction. With him fantasies and passions retreat before this force,
although usually in men of his years, and even in men with gray hair,
clearness of mind and keen penetration are often swept away by the
current of stormy passions. Richard's aversion to women is the result
of cool reflection and inevitable inference, and therefore on this
question I do not dispute his views. I know it would be useless, and I
know that the study of a pure feminine nature would overcome this
prejudice. The same force of logical inferences places Richard in this
unhappy condition. He read the writings of the materialist. There he
found the physiological proofs that man is a beast. From these proofs
Richard drew all the terrible consequences contained in those
destructive doctrines. As the intellectual life predominates in him,
and as he has a strong repugnance to materialistic madness, his nature
must be stirred in its profoundest depths. If Richard succumbs, he will
act in his habitual consistent manner. All moral basis lost, morality
would be foolishness to him, since it is useless for beasts to curb the
passions by moral laws. As with immortality disappears man's eternal
destiny, it would be foolish to 'fight the giant fight of duty.' If he
is convinced that man is a beast, he will live like a beast--although
he might cloak his conduct with the varnish of decency--and thus
suddenly would the sensible Richard stand before his astonished father
a ruined man. This is one view; there is still another," said the
doctor hesitatingly. "I remember in the course of my practice a suicide
who wrote on a slip of paper, 'What do I here? Eat, drink, sleep,
worry, and fret; much suffering, little joy; therefore--' and the man
sent a bullet through his head. This suicide thought logically. This
earthly life is insupportable; it is foolishness to a man who thinks
and is at the same time a materialist."

"What prospects--horrible!" cried Herr Frank, wringing his hands.
"Accursed be those books; and I am the cause of this misfortune!"

"The involuntary cause," said Klingenberg consolingly. "You now have a
firm conviction of the devastating effects of those bad books. But how
many are there who consider every warning in this connection an
exhibition of prejudice or narrow-mindedness! How few readers are so
modest as to admit that they want the scientific culture to refute a
bad book, to separate the poison from the honey of sweet phrases and
winning style! How few can see that they cannot read those bad books
without detriment! No one would sit on a cask of powder and touch it
off for amusement; and yet those hellish books are more dangerous than
a cask full of powder. To me this is incomprehensible. Poisonous food
is always injurious; yet thousands and millions drink greedily from
this poisonous stream of bad reading which deluges all grades of
society."

"I will do immediately what must be done," said Herr Frank as he
hastily rose.

"What will you do?"

"Take from my son those execrable books."

"By no means," said Klingenberg. "This would be a psychological
mistake. Richard would buy the same books again at the book-shop, and
read them secretly. A man who has the resolution of your son must be
won by honorable combat. Authority would here be badly applied.
Therefore I forbid you to interfere. You know nothing of the matter.
Treat him kindly, and have forbearance with his sensitiveness. That is
what I must require of you."

Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank left the doctor. Overwhelming himself
with reproaches, he wandered restlessly about the house and garden. He
saw Richard standing at the open window with folded arms, dreamy and
pale, his hair in disorder like a storm-beaten wheat-field--truly a
painful sight for the father. He went up to his room, where the small
library stood in its beautiful binding. A servant stood near him with a
basket. The works of Eugene Sue, Gutzkow, and like spirits fell into
the basket.

"All to the fire!" commanded Herr Frank.

The doctor had compared bad literature to poisonous food. The
comparison was not inapt; at least, it gave Richard the appearance of a
man in whose body destructive poison was working. He was listless and
exhausted; in walking, his hands hung heavily by his side. His eyes
were directed to the ground, as if he were seeking something. If he saw
a snail, he stopped to examine the crawling creature. He sought to know
why the snail crawls about, and, to his astonishment, found that the
snail always followed an object; which is not always the case with man,
animal of the moment, who goes about without an object. If a
caterpillar accidentally got under his foot, he pushed it carefully
aside and examined if it had been hurt. It seemed to him logical that
creeping and flying things had the same claims to forbearance and
proper treatment as man, since according to Vogt and Buechner's striking
proofs, all creeping and flying things are not essentially different
from man.

He paid particular attention to the spiders. If he came to a place
where their web was stretched, he examined attentively the artistic
texture; he saw the firmly fastened knot on the twig which held the web
apart, the circular meshes, the cunning arrangement to catch the
wandering fly. He was convinced that such a spider would be a thousand
times more intelligent than Herr Vogt and Herr Buechner, with half as
big a head as those wise naturalists. The enterprising spirit of the
ants excited not less his admiration. He always found them busy and in
a bustle, to which a market-day could not be compared. Even London and
Paris were solitary in comparison to the throng in an ant-hill. They
dragged about large pieces of wood, as also leaves and fibres, to
construct their house, which was laid out with design and finished with
much care. If he pushed his cane into the hill, there forthwith arose a
great revolution. The inhabitants rushed out upon him, nipped him with
their pincers, and showed the greatest rage against the invader of
their kingdom, while others with great celerity placed the eggs in
safety. He observed that the ants gave no quarter, and considered every
one a mortal enemy who disturbed their state.

The young man sat on a stone and examined a snail that crawled slowly
from the wet grass. It carried a gray house on its back, and beslimed
the way as it went, and stretched out its horns to discover the best
direction. Its delicate touch astonished Frank. When obstacles came in
its way which it did not see nor touch, it would perceive them by means
of a wonderful sensibility.

How stupid did Richard appear to himself, beside a horned, blind snail.
How many men only discover obstacles in their way when they have run
their heads against them, and how many wish to run their heads through
walls without any reason! He arose and looked toward Angela's home. He
was dejected, and heaved a sigh.

"All is of no avail. The activity of the animal world affords no
diversion, the benumbing strokes of materialism lose their effect. The
rare becomes common, and does not attract attention. There walks an
angel in the splendor of superior excellence, and I endeavor in vain to
distract my mind from her by studying the animals. I follow willingly
the professors' exact investigations, into the labyrinth of their
studied arguments to make it appear that I am only an animal, that all
our sentiment is only imagination and fallacy. It is all in vain. Can
these gentlemen teach me how we can cease to have admiration for the
noble and exalted? Here man forcibly breaks through. Here self,
irresistible and disgusted with error, brings the nobility of human
nature to consciousness, and all the wisdom of boasted materialism
becomes idle nonsense."

"Thank God! I see you again, my dear neighbor," said Siegwart
cordially. "Where have you kept yourself this last week? Why do you no
longer visit us? My whole house is excited about you. Henry is angry
because he cannot show you the horses he bought lately. My wife bothers
her head with all kinds of forebodings, and Angela urged me to send and
see if you were ill."

A new life permeated Frank's whole being at these last words; his
cheeks flushed and his languid eyes brightened up.

"I know no good reason as an apology, dear friend. Be assured, however,
that the apparent neglect does not arise from any coolness toward you
and your esteemed family." And he drew marks in the sand with his cane.

"Perhaps your father took offence at your visits to us?"

"Oh! no. No; I alone am to blame."

Siegwart gave a searching glance at the pale face of the young man who,
broken-spirited, stood before him, and whose mental condition he did
not understand, although he had a vague idea of it.

"I will not press you further," said he cheerfully. "But, as a
punishment, you must now come with me. I received yesterday a fresh
supply of genuine Havanas, and you must try them."

He took Richard by the arm, and the latter yielded to the friendly
compulsion. They went through the vineyard. Frank broke from a twig a
folded leaf.

"Do you know the cause of this?"

"Oh! yes; it is the work of the vine-weevil," answered Siegwart. "These
mischief-makers sometimes cause great damage to the vineyards. Some
years I have their nests gathered and the eggs destroyed to prevent
their doing damage."

"You consider every thing with the eyes of an economist. But I admire
the art, the foresight, and the intelligence of these insects."

"Intelligence--foresight of an insect!" repeated Siegwart, astonished.
"I see in the whole affair neither intelligence nor foresight."

"But just look here," said Richard, carefully unfolding the leaf. "What
a degree of considerate management is necessary to fix the leaf in such
order. The ribs of this leaf are stronger than the force of the beetle.
Yet he wished to fold the eggs in it. What does he do? He first pierces
the stem with his pincers; in consequence of this, the leaf curls up
and becomes soft and pliable to the frail feet of the insect. This is
the first act of reflection. The piercing of the stem had evidently as
its object to cause the leaf to roll up. Then he begins to work with a
perfection that would do honor to human skill. The leaf is rolled up in
order to put the eggs in the folds. Here is the first egg; he rolls
further--here is the second egg, some distance from the first, in order
to have sufficient food for the young worm--again an act of reflection;
lastly, he finishes the roll with a carefully worked point, to prevent
the leaf from unfolding--again an act of reflection."

Siegwart heard all this with indifference. What Richard told him he had
known for years. His employment in the fields revealed to his observing
mind wonderful facts in nature and in the animal world. The wisdom of
the vine-weevil gave him ho difficulty. He looked again in Frank's
deep-sunken eyes and noticed a peculiar expression, and in his
countenance great anxiety.

He concluded that the work of the vine-weevil must have some connection
with the young man's condition.

"You see actions of reflection and design where I see only unconscious
instinct."

Frank became nervous.

"The common evasion of superficial examination!" cried he. "Man must be
just even to the animals. Their works are artistic, intelligent, and
considerate. Why then deny to animals those powers which operate with
intelligence and reflection?"

"I do not for a moment dispute this power of the animals," replied the
proprietor quickly. "You find mind in the animals?" interrupted Frank
hastily. "This conviction once reached, have you considered the
consequences that follow?"--and he became more excited. "Have you
considered that with this admission the whole world becomes a fabulous
structure, without any higher object? If the spider is equal to man,
then its torn web that flutters in the wind is worth as much as the
crumbling fragments of art which remain from classic antiquity. Virtue,
the careful restraining of the passions, is stark madness. The
disgusting ape, lustful and brutish, is as good as the purest virgin
who performs severe penances for her idle dreams. It is with justice
that the criminal scoffs at the good as bedlamites who, with fanatical
delusion, strive for castles in the air. Every outcast from society,
sunk and saturated in the basest vices, is precisely as good as the
purest soul and the noblest heart; for all distinction between right
and wrong, good and evil, is destroyed."

Angela's father gazed with solicitude into the perplexed look and
distorted countenance of the young man.

"You deduce consequences, Herr Frank, that could not be drawn from
my admissions," said he mildly. "There is no conscious power in
animals--no reflecting soul. The animal works with the power that is in
it, as light and heat in the fire, as in the lightning the destructive
force, as the exciting and purifying effects in the storm. The animal
does not act freely, like man; but from necessity--according to
instinct and laws which the Almighty has imposed, upon it."

"A gratuitous assumption! A shallow artifice," exclaimed Frank. "The
animal shows understanding, design, and will; we must not deny him
these faculties."

"If the lightning strikes my house and discovers with infallible
certainty all the metal in the walls, even where the sharpest eye could
not detect it, must you recognize mental faculties in the lightning in
discovering the metal?"

Frank hemmed and was silent.

"What a botcher is the most learned chemist compared with the
root-fibres of the smallest plant," continued Siegwart. "Every plant
has its own peculiar life; this I observe every day. All plants do not
flourish alike in the same soil. They only flourish where they find the
necessary conditions for their peculiar life; where they find in the
air and earth the conditions necessary for their existence. Set ten
different kinds of plants together in a small plat of ground. The
different fibres will always seek and absorb only that material in the
earth which is proper to their kind; they will pass by the useless and
injurious substances. Now, where is the chemist who with such
certainty, such power of discrimination, and knowledge of substances,
can select from the inert clod the proper material? A chemist with such
knowledge does not exist. Now, must you admit that the fibres possess
as keen an understanding and as deep a knowledge of chemistry as the
man who is versed in chemistry?"

"That would be manifest folly."

"Well," concluded Siegwart quietly, "if the vine-weevil weaves its
wrapper, the spider its web, the bird builds its nest, and the beaver
his house, they all do it in their way, as the root-fibres in theirs."

Richard remained silent, and they passed into the house.

Angela and her mother looked with astonishment and sympathy on their
friend.

Soon in the mild countenance of Madam Siegwart there appeared nearly
the same expression as in the first days after the death of Eliza--so
much did the painful appearance of the young man afflict her. Angela
turned pale, her eyes filled, and she strove to hide her emotion. Frank
only looked at her furtively. Whatever he had to say to her, he said
with averted eyes. Siegwart expended all his powers of amusement; but
he did not succeed in cheering the young man. He continued depressed,
embarrassed, and sad, and constantly avoided looking at Angela. When
she spoke he listened to the sound of her voice, but avoided her look.
Presently a low barking was heard in the room and Hector, who had
growlingly received Frank at his first visit, but who in time had
become an acquaintance of his, lay stretched at full length dreaming.
Scarcely did Richard notice the dreaming animal when he exclaimed,

"The dog dreams! See how his feet move in the chase, how he opens his
nostrils, how he barks, how his limbs reach for the game! The dog
dreams he is in the chase."

"I have often observed Hector's dreams," said Siegwart coolly.

Frank continued,

"Have you considered the consequences that follow from the dreams of
the dog? Dreams show a thinking faculty," said he hastily. "Animals,
then, think like men; thoughts are the children of the mind; therefore,
animals have minds. Animals and men are alike."

Angela started at these words. Her mother shook her head.

"You conclude too hastily, my dear friend," said Siegwart coolly. "You
must first know that animals dream like men. Men think, reflect, and
speak in dreams. The dreams of animals are very different from those
mental acts."

"How will you explain it?" said Richard excitedly.

"Very easily. Hector is now in the chase. The dog's sense of smell is
remarkable. By means of the fragrant wind Hector smells the partridges
miles away. He acts then just as in the dream; feet, nose, and limbs
come into activity. Suppose that in the surrounding fields there is a
covey of partridges. The air would indicate them to Hector's smelling
organs; these organs act, as in the waking state, on the brain of the
animal; the brain acts on the other organs. Where is there thought?
Have we not a purely material effect? The cough, the appetite, the
sneezing, the aversion--what have all these to do with mind or thought?
Nothing at all. The dream of the dog is an entirely muscular process,
the mere co-working of the muscular organs; as with us, digestion, the
flowing of the blood, the twitching of the muscles--facts with which
the mind has nothing to do."

"Your assertion is based on the assumption that partridges are near,"
said Richard; "and I will be obliged to you if, with Hector's
assistance, you convince me of this fact."

"That is unnecessary, my dear friend. Suppose there are no partridges
in the neighborhood. The same affection of the brain which would be
produced by the smell of the partridges could be produced by accident.
If it is accidental, it will have the same effect in the sleeping
condition of the dog.[2] Affections accidentally arise in man the
causes of which are not known. We are uneasy, we know not why; we are
discouraged without any knowledge of the cause. We are joyful without
being able to give any reason for it. The mind can rise above all these
dispositions, affections, and humors; can govern, cast out, and
disperse them. Proof enough that a king lives in man--the breath of
God, which is not taken from the earth, and to which all matter must
yield if that power so wills."

The dog stretched his strong legs without any idea of the important
question to which he had given occasion.

"Herr Frank," began Madam Siegwart earnestly, "I have learned to
respect you, and have often wished that my son, at your years, would be
like you. I see now with painful astonishment that you defend opinions
which contradict your former expressions, and the sentiments we must
expect from a Christian. Will you not be so good as to tell me how you
have so suddenly changed your views?"

"Esteemed madam," answered Frank, with emotion, "I thank you for this
undeserved motherly sympathy; but I beg of you not to believe that the
opinions I expressed are my firm convictions. No, I have not yet fallen
so deep that for me there is no difference between man and beast. I can
yet continue to believe that materialism is a crime against mankind. On
the other hand, I freely acknowledge that my mind is in great trouble;
that every firm position beneath my feet totters; that I have been
tempted to hold doctrines degrading to the individual and destructive
to society. I have been brought into this difficulty by reading books
whose seductive proofs I am not able to refute. Oh! I am miserable,
very miserable; my appearance must have shown you that already."

He looked involuntarily at Angela; he saw tears in her eyes; he bowed
his head and was silent.

"I see your difficulties," said the proprietor. "They enter early or
late into the mind of every man. It is good, in such uncertainties and
doubts, to lean on the authority of truth. This authority can only be
God, who is truth itself, who came down from heaven and brought light
into the darkness. We can prove, inquire, and speculate; but the
keenest human intellect is not always free from delusion. As there is
in man a spiritual tendency which raises him far above the visible and
material, God has been pleased to lead and direct that tendency by
revelation, that man may not err. I consider divine revelation a
necessity which God willed when he created the mind. As the mind has an
instinctive thirst after truth, God must, by the revelation of truth,
satisfy this thirst Therefore is revelation as old as the human race.
It reached its completion and perfection by the coming of the Lord, who
said, 'I am the truth;' and this knowledge of the truth remains in the
church through the guidance of the Spirit of truth, till the latest
generation. This is only my ultramontane conviction," said Siegwart,
smiling; "but it affords peace and certainty."

Angela had gone out, and now returned with a basket, in which lay a
little dog, of a few days old, asleep. She set the basket carefully
down before Frank, so as not to awaken the sleeper.

"As you appreciate the full worth of striking proofs, I am glad to be
able to place one before you, in the shape of this little dog," said
she, appearing desirous of cheering her dejected friend. But Frank did
not receive from her cheerful countenance either strength or
encouragement, for he did not look up.

"This little dog is only eight days old," she continued; "its eyes are
not yet open; it can neither walk nor bark; it can only growl a little;
and it does nothing but sleep and dream. I have noticed its dreams
since the first day of its birth. You can convince yourself of its
dreaming." She stooped over the basket and her soft hair disturbed the
sleeper.

For a moment Frank saw and heard nothing.

"See," she continued, "how its little feet move, and how its body
jerks. Hear the low growl, and see the hairs round the mouth how they
twitch, how the nose shrinks and expands--all the same as in Hector.
The little thing knows nothing at all of the world--no more than a
child eight days old. We certainly, therefore, will not deceive
ourselves in assuming that all these movements are only muscular
twitchings; that neither the pup nor Hector dreams like a man."

Frank first looked at the dog in great surprise, and then gazed
admiringly on Angela.

"O fraulein! how I thank you."

She appeared most lovely in his eyes. He suddenly turned toward her
father.

"Your house is a great blessing to me. It appears that the pure
atmosphere of religious conviction which you breathe victoriously
combats all dark doubts, as light dissipates darkness."


Angela stood in her room. She knew that the spirit of unbelief pervaded
the world, taking possession of thousands and destroying all life and
effort. She saw Richard threatened by this spirit, and feared for his
soul. She became very anxious, and sank on her knees before the
crucifix and cried to heaven for succor.

Night was upon all things. The black clouds, lowering deep and heavy,
shut out all light from heaven. The wind swept the mountains, the
forest moaned, and thunder muttered in the distance. Klingenberg sat
before his folios. A fitful light glimmered from the room of Richard's
father. Richard himself came home late, took his supper, and retired
to his chamber; there he walked back and forth, thinking, contending
with himself, and speaking aloud. Before his door stood a dark
figure--immovable and listening.

It knocked at the door of the elder Frank. Jacob, a servant who had
grown gray in the service of the house, entered. Frank received him
with surprise, and awaited expectantly what he had to say.

"We are all wrong," said Jacob. "My poor young master has now spoken
out clearly. He is not sick because of the foolish trash in the books.
He is in love, terribly in love."

"Ah! in love?" said Herr Frank.

"You should just have heard how he complains and laments that he is not
worthy of her. 'O Angela, Angela!' he cried at least a hundred times,
'could I only raise myself to your level, and make myself worthy! But
your soul, so pure, your character, so immaculate and good, thrusts me
away. I look up to you with admiration and longing, as the troubled
pilgrim on earth looks up to the peace and grandeur of heaven.' This is
the way he talked. He is to be pitied, sir."

"So--so--in love, and with Siegwart's daughter," said Frank sadly. "The
tragedy will change into comedy. Even if they were not so
unapproachably high, but like other people on earth, my son should
never take an ultramontane wife."

"But if he loves her so deeply, sir?"

"Be still; you know nothing about it. Has he lain down?"

"Yes; or, at least, he is quiet."

"Continue to watch him. I must immediately make known to the doctor
this love affair. He will be surprised to find the philosopher changed
into a love-sick visionary."




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                                AVOWALS.


In the same deep valley where the brook rippled over the pebbles in its
bed, where the mountain sides rose up abruptly, where the moss hung
from the old oaks, where Klingenberg plucked the tender beard of the
young professor of history, took place the meditated attack of the
doctor on the poison of materialism which was destroying the body and
soul of Richard.

Slowly and carefully the doctor advanced, as against an enemy who will
defend his position to the last. But how was he astonished, when, being
attacked, Frank showed no disposition to defend that most highly
vaunted doctrine of modern science--materialism! This was almost as
puzzling to the doctor as the eternity of matter. Tired of skirmishing,
the doctor set to work to close with the enemy, and strike him down.

"I have looked only cursorily at the writings of the materialists: you
have studied them carefully; and you will oblige me much if you would
give me the foundation on which the whole structure of materialism
rests."

"The materialistic system is very simple," answered Frank.
"Materialists reject all existence that is not sensibly perceptible.
They deny the existence of invisible and supersensible things. There is
no spirit in man or anywhere else. Matter alone exists, because matter
alone manifests its existence."

"I understand. The materialist will only be convinced by seeing and
feeling. As a spirit is neither spiritual nor tangible, then there is
none. Is it not so, friend Richard?"

"You have included in one sentence the whole of materialism," said
Frank coolly.

"I cannot understand," said Klingenberg hesitatingly, "how the
materialists can make assertions which are untenable to the commonest
understandings. Why, thought can neither be seen nor felt; yet it is an
existence."

"Thought is a function of the brain."

"Then, it is incomprehensible how the sensible can beget the
supersensible. How matter--the brain--can produce the immaterial, the
spiritual."

Richard was silent.

"At every step in materialism I meet insurmountable difficulties,"
continued the doctor. "I know perfectly the organization of the human
body, as well as the function and purpose of each part. The physician
knows the purpose of the lungs, heart, kidneys, and stomach, and all
the noble and ignoble parts of the body. But no physician knows the
origin of the activity of the organism. The blood stops, the pulse no
longer beats, the lungs, kidneys, nerves, and all the rest cease their
functions. The man is dead. Why? Because the activity, the movement,
the force is gone. What, then, is this vivifying force? In what does it
consist? What color, what taste, what form has it? No physician knows.
The vivifying principle is invisible, intangible perfectly immaterial.
Yet it exists. Therefore the fundamental dogma of materialism is false.
There are existences which can neither be felt, tasted, nor seen."

"The vivifying principle is also in animals," said Richard.

"Certainly; and in them also intangible and mysterious. Materialism
cannot even stand before animal life; for even there the vivifying
principle is an immaterial existence."

"The materialist stumbles at the existence of human spirit, because he
cannot get a conception of it."

"How could this be possible?" cried the doctor. "The conception is a
picture in the mind, an apprehension of the senses. Spiritual being is
as unapproachable by the senses as the vivifying principle, of which
also man can form no conception. To deny existence because you cannot
have a conception of it, is foolish. The blind would have the same
right to deny the existence of colors, or the deaf that of music. And
who can have a conception of good, of eternity, of justice, of virtue?
No one. These are existences that do not fall under the senses. To be
logical, the materialist must conclude that there is nothing good,
nothing noble, no justice; for we have not yet seen nor felt nor smelt
these things. Virtuous actions we can, of course, see; but these
actions are not the cause but the consequence, not the thing working
but the thing wrought. As these actions will convince every thinking
man of the existence of virtue and justice, so must the workings of the
spirit prove its existence."

"Precisely," replied Frank. "Materialism only surprises and captivates
one like a dream of the night. It vanishes the moment it is seen. I
read the works of Vogt and Buechner only for diversion; my object was
perfectly gained."

"You read for diversion! What did you wish to forget?"

"Dark clouds that lowered over my mind."

"Have you secrets that I, your old friend and well-meaning adviser,
should not know?"

Frank was confused; but his great respect for the doctor forced him to
be candid.

"You know my views of women. When I tell you that Angela, the
well-known Angel of Salingen, has torn these opinions up by the roots,
you will not need further explanation."

"You found Angela what I told you? I am glad," said Klingenberg. And
his disputative countenance changed to a pleasant expression. "I
suspected that the Angel of Salingen made a deep impression on you. I
did not guess; I read it in large characters on your cheeks. Have you
made an avowal?"

"No; it will never come to that."

"Why not? Are you ashamed to confess that you love a beautiful young
lady? That is childish and simple. There is no place here for shame.
You want a noble, virtuous wife. You have Angela in view. Woo her; do
not be a bashful boy."

"Bashfulness might be overcome, but not the conviction that I am
unworthy of her."

"Unworthy! Why, then? Shall I praise you? Shall I exhibit your noble
qualities, and convince, you why you are worth more than any young man
that I know? You have not Angela's religious tone; but the strong
influence of the wife on the husband is well known. In two or three
years I shall not recognize in the ultramontane Richard Frank the
former materialist." And the doctor laughed heartily.

"It is questionable," said the young man, "whether Angela's inclination
corresponds to mine."

"The talk of every true lover," said the doctor pleasantly. "Pluck the
stars of Bethlehem, like Faust's Grethe, with the refrain, 'She loves,
she loves not--she loves.' But you are no bashful maiden; you are a
man. Propose to her. Angela's answer will show you clearly how she
feels."

The doctor was scarcely in his room when Richard's father entered.

"All as you foretold," said Klingenberg. "Your son is cured of his
hatred of women by Angela. The materialistic studies were not in
earnest; they were only a shield held up against the coming passion.
The love question is so absorbing, and the sentiment so strong, that
Richard left me near Frankenhoehe to hasten over there. I expect from
your sound sense that you will place no obstacles in the way of your
son's happiness."

"I regret," said Frank coldly, "that I cannot be of the same opinion
with you and Richard in this affair."

"Make your son unhappy?" said Klingenberg. "Do you consider the
possible consequences of your opposition?"

"What do you understand by possible consequences?"

"Melancholy, madness, suicide, frequently come from this. I leave
tomorrow, and I hope to take with me the assurance that you will
sacrifice your prejudice to the happiness of Richard."


Among the numerous inhabitants of Siegwart's yard was a hen with a
hopeful progeny. The little chicks were very lively. They ran about
after insects till the call of the happy mother brought them to her.
Escaped from the shell some few days before, they had instead of
feathers delicate white down, so that the pretty little creatures
looked as though they had been rolled in cotton. They had black, quick
eyes, and yellow feet and bills. If a hawk flew in the air and the
mother gave a cry, the little ones knew exactly what it meant, and ran
under the protecting wings of the mother from the hawk, although they
had never seen one--had never studied in natural history the danger of
the enemy. If danger were near, she called, and immediately they were
under her wings. The whole brood now stopped under the lindens. The
little ones rested comfortably near the warm body of the mother. Now
here, now there, their little heads would pop out between the feathers.
One smart little chirper, whose ambition indicated that he would be the
future cock of the walk, undertook to stand on the back of the hen and
pick the heads of the others as they appeared through the feathers.

Angela came under the lindens, carrying a vessel of water and some
crumbs in her apron for the little ones. She strewed the crumbs on the
ground, and the old hen announced dinner. The little ones set to work
very awkwardly. The old hen had to break the crumbs smaller between her
bill. Angela took one of the chickens in her hand and fondled it, and
carried it into the house. The hen went to the vessel to drink and the
whole brood followed. It happened that the one that stood on her back
fell into the water, and cried loudly; for it found that it had got
into a strange element of which it had no more idea than Vogt and
Buechner of the form of a spirit. At this critical moment Frank came
through the yard. He saw it fluttering about in the water, and stopped.
The old hen went clucking anxiously about the vessel. And although she
could without difficulty have taken the chicken out with her bill, yet
she did not do it. Richard observed this with great interest; but
showed no desire to save the little creature, which at the last gasp
floated like a bunch of cotton on the water.

Angela may have heard the noise of the hen, for she appeared at the
door. She saw Frank standing near the lindens looking into the vessel.
At the same time she noticed the danger of one of her little darlings,
and hastened out. She took the body from the water and held it sadly in
her hands.

"It is dead, the little dear," said she sadly. "You could have saved
it, Herr Frank, and you did not do it." She looked at Frank, and forgot
immediately, on seeing him, the object of her regrets. The young man
stood before her so dejected, so depressed and sad, that it touched her
heart. She knew what darkened his soul. She knew his painful struggle,
his great danger, and she could have given her life to save him. She
was moved, tears came into her eyes, and she hastened into the house.

Siegwart was reading the paper when his daughter hastened in such an
unusual way through the room and disappeared.

This astonished him.

"What is the matter, Angela?" he exclaimed.

There was no answer. He was about to go after her when Frank entered.

"I can give you some curious news of the assessor," said the proprietor
after some careless conversation. "The man is terribly enraged against
me and full of bad designs. The reason of this anger is known to you."
And he added, "Angela is in the next room, and she must know nothing of
his proposal."

Frank nodded assent.

"About ten paces from the last house in Salingen," continued Siegwart,
"I have had a pile of dirt thrown up. It was now and then sprinkled
with slops, to make manure of it. Herr Hamm has made the discovery that
the slops smell bad; that it annoys the inhabitants of the next house;
and he has ordered it to be removed."

Richard shook his head disapprovingly.

"Perhaps Herr Hamm will come to the conclusion that, in the interest of
the noses, all like piles must be removed from Salingen."

"But that is not all," said Siegwart. "It has been discovered that the
common good forbids my keeping fowls, because my residence is
surrounded by fields and vineyards, where the fowls do great damage.
The Herr Assessor has had the goodness, accompanied by the guards, to
examine personally the amount of destruction. So I have got
instructions either to keep my fowls confined or to make away with
them."

"Mean and contemptible!" said Frank.

Angela came into the room. Her countenance was smiling and clear as
ever; but her swollen eyes did not escape Richard's observation. She
greeted the guest, and sat down in her accustomed place near the
window. Scarcely had she done this, when Frank stood up, went toward
her, and knelt down before the astonished girl.

"Miss, I have greatly offended you, and beg your pardon."

Siegwart looked on in surprise--now at his daughter, who was perplexed;
now at the kneeling young man.

"For God's sake! Herr Frank, arise," said the confused Angela. She was
about to leave the seat, but he caught her hand and gently replaced
her.

"If I may approach so near to you, my present position is the proper
one. Hear me! I have deeply offended you. I could with ease have saved
a creature that was dear to you, and I did not do it. My conduct has
brought tears to your eyes--hurt your feelings. When you went away to
regain your composure, and to show your offender a serene, reconciled
countenance, it made my fault more distressing. Forgive me; do not
consider me hard and heartless, but see in me an unfortunate who
forgets himself in musing."

She looked into Frank's handsome face as he knelt before her, in such
sadness, lowering his eyes like a guilty boy, and smiled sweetly.

"I will forgive yon, Herr Frank, on one condition."

"Only speak. I am prepared for any penance."

"The condition is, that you burn those godless books that make you
doubt about the noblest things in man, and that you buy no more."

"I vow fulfilment, and assure you that the design of those books, which
you rightly call godless, is recognized by me as a crime against the
dignity of man--and condemned."

"This rejoices no one more than me," said she with a tremulous voice.

He stood up, bowed, and returned to his former place.

"But, my dear neighbor, how did this singular affair happen?" said the
proprietor.

Frank told him about the death of the chicken.

"The love of the hen for her chickens is remarkable. She protects them
with her wings and warns them of danger, which she knows by instinct.
How easy would it have been for the hen to have taken the young one
from the water with her bill--the same bill with which she broke their
food and gave it to them. But she did not do it, because it is strange
to her nature. This case is another striking proof that animals act
neither with understanding nor reflection. Acts beyond their instinct
are impossible to them. This would not be the case, if they had souls."


The old servant stood with an empty basket before the library of the
son, as he had stood before that of the father. Buechner, Vogt, and
Czolbe fell into the fire. Jacob shook his head and regretted the
beautiful binding; but the evil spirits between the covers he willingly
consigned to the flames.


Again the cars stopped at the station; again the two gentlemen stood at
the open window of the car to receive their returning friends. The
travellers took a carriage and drove through the street.

"Baron Linden has indeed gone headlong into misery," said Lutz
humorously. "Eight days ago the young pair swore eternal fidelity. It
was signed and sealed. Until to-day no could one know that they were on
the brink of misery."

Richard remembered his remark on the former occasion, and wondered at
his sudden change of opinion.

"I wish them all happiness," said he.

"Amen!" answered Lutz. "Richard, however, considers happiness in
matrimony possible. So we may hope that he will not always remain a
bachelor. How is the Angel of Salingen? Have you seen her since that
encounter with the steer?"

"The angel is well," said Richard, avoiding the glance of his friend.

"What do you mean by the 'Angel of Salingen'?" said the father.

"Thereby I understand the unmarried daughter of Herr Siegwart, of
Salingen, named Angela, who richly deserves to be called the 'Angel of
Salingen.'"

Frank knit his brows darkly and drummed on his knees.

"And the encounter with the steer?" continued he.

The professor related the occurrence.

"Ah! you did not tell me any thing of that," said the father, turning
to Frank. "An act of such great courage deserves to be mentioned."

The carriage passed into the court of a stately mansion. The servant
sprang from his seat and opened the carriage-door. The professor looked
at his watch.

"Herr Frank, will you allow your coachman to drive me to the
university? I must be at my post in ten minutes. I cannot go on foot in
that time."

"With pleasure, Herr Professor."

"Richard," said the other friend, "shall we meet at the opera tonight?"

"Scarcely. I must to-day enter upon my usual business."

"Come, if possible. The evening promises great amusement, for the
celebrated Santinilli dances."

The accustomed routine of business began for Richard. He sat in the
counting-room and worked with his habitual punctuality. Nevertheless
invidious spirits lured him toward Salingen, so that the figures
danced before his eyes, words had no meaning, and he was often lost in
day-dreams. The watchful father had observed this, and was perplexed.

Richard's plan of studies also underwent a change. He left the house
regularly at half-past five and returned at half-past six. The father,
desiring to know what this meant, set the faithful Jacob on the watch.

"Herr Richard," reported the spy, "hears mass at the Capuchins."

Frank drummed a march on his knees.

"So, so!" he hummed. "The ultramontanes understand proselytizing. They
have turned the head of my son. If I live long enough, I may yet see
him turn Capuchin, build a cloister, and go about begging."

When Herr Frank entered the counting-room, he found his son busy at
work. He stood up and greeted his father.

"I have observed, Richard," he began after a time, "that you go out
early every morning. What does it mean?"

"I have imposed upon myself the obligation of hearing mass every
morning."

"How did you come to take that singular obligation upon yourself?"

"From the conviction that religion is no empty idea, but a power that
can give peace and consolation in all conditions of life."

"It is evident that you have breathed ultramontane air. This
churchgoing is not forbidden--but no trifling or fanatical nonsense."

"It is my constant care, father, to give you no cause of uneasiness."

"I am rejoiced at this, my son; but I must observe that a certain
gloomy, reserved manner of yours disturbs me. Your conduct is
exemplary, your industry praiseworthy, your habits regular; but you
keep yourself too much shut up; you do not give evening parties any
more. You do not visit the concert-hall or theatre. This is wrong; we
should enjoy life, and not move about like dreamers."

"I have no taste for amusements," answered Richard. "However, if you
think a change would be good, I beg you to permit me to take a run out
to Frankenhoehe for a couple of days."

"And why to Frankenhoehe? I do not know any amusement there for you."

"I have planted a small vineyard, as you know, and I would like to see
how the Burgundies thrive."

Herr Frank was not in a hurry to give the permission. He thought and
drummed.

"You can go," he said resignedly. "I hope the mountain air will cheer
you up."


Herr Siegwart had remarked the same symptoms in his daughter that Herr
Frank had in his son; but Angela did not give way to discontent. She
was always the same obedient daughter. The poor and sick of Salingen
could not complain of neglect. But she was frequently absent-minded,
gave wrong answers to questions, and sought solitude. If Frank was
mentioned, she revived; the least circumstance connected with him was
interesting to her. Her sharp-sighted father soon discovered the inmost
thoughts and feelings of his daughter. He thought of Herr Frank's
ill-humor toward him, and was disposed to regret the hour that Richard
entered his house.


The Burgundies at Frankenhoehe were scarcely looked at. The young man
hastened to Salingen. He found the landscape changed in a few weeks.
The fields had clothed themselves in yellow. The wheat-stalks bent
gracefully under their load. Everywhere industrious crowds were in the
fields. The stalks fell beneath the reapers. Men bound the sheaves.
Wagons stood here and there. The sheaves were raised into picturesque
stacks. The sun beamed down hot, and the sweltering weather wrote on
the foreheads of the men, "Adam, in the sweat of thy brow thou shalt
eat thy bread."

In the proprietor's house all was still, the old cook sat beneath the
lindens, and with spectacles on her nose tried to mend a stocking which
she held in her hand. She arose and smiled on Richard's approach.

"They are all in the fields. We have much work, Herr Frank. The grain
is ripe, and we have already gathered fifty wagon-loads. I am glad to
see you looking so much better. The family will also be glad. They
think a great deal of you--particularly Herr Siegwart."

"Give them many kind greetings from me. I will come back in the
evening."

"Off so soon? Will you not say good-day to Miss Angela? She is in the
garden. Shall I call her?"

"No," said he after a moment's reflection; "I will go into the garden
myself."

After unlatching the gate, he would have turned back, for he became
nervous and embarrassed.

Angela sat in the arbor; her embroidery-frame leaned against the table,
and she was busily working. As she heard the creaking of footsteps on
the walk, she looked up and blushed. Frank raised his hat, and when the
young woman stood up before him in beauty and loveliness, his
nervousness increased, and he would gladly have escaped; but his spirit
was in the fetters of a strange power, and necessity supplied him with
a few appropriate remarks.

"I heard that the family were absent; but I did not wish to go away
without saluting you. Miss Angela."

She observed the bashful manner of the young man, and said kindly, "I
am glad to see you again, Herr Frank," and invited him to sit down. He
looked about for a seat; but as there was none, he had to sit on the
same bench with her.

"Do you remain long at Frankenhoehe?"

"Only to-day and to-morrow. Work requires dispatch, and old custom has
so bound me to my occupation that the knowledge of work to be done
makes me feel uneasy."

"Do you work every day regularly in the counting-room?"

"I am punctual to the hours, for the work demands regularity and order.
There are every day some hours for recreation."

"And what is the most pleasant recreation for you?"

"Music and painting. I like them the best. But of late," he added
hesitatingly, "unavoidable thoughts press on me, and many hours of
recreation pass in useless dreaming."

Angela thought of his former mental troubles and looked anxiously in
his eyes.

"Now, you have promised me," she said softly, "to forget all those
things in those bad books that disturbed your mind."

"The fulfilment of no duty was lighter or more pleasant to me than to
keep my promise to you, Angela."

His voice trembled. She leaned over her work and her cheeks glowed. The
delicate fingers went astray; but Frank did not notice that the colors
in the embroidery were getting into confusion. There was a long pause.
Then Frank remembered the doctor's final admonition, "Be not like a
bashful boy; put aside all false shame and speak your mind;" and he
took courage.

"I have no right to ask what disturbs and depresses you," said she, in
a scarcely audible voice and without moving her head.

"It is you who have the best right, Angela! You have not only saved my
life, but also my better convictions. You have purified my views, and
influenced my course of life. I was deeply in error, and you have shown
me the only way that leads to peace. This I see more clearly every day.
The church is no longer a strange, but an attractive place to me. All
this you have done without design. I tell you this because I think you
sympathize with me."

He paused; but the declaration of his love hovered on his lips.

"You have not deceived yourself as to my sympathy," she answered. "The
discovery that one so insignificant as myself has any influence with
you makes me glad."

"O Angela! you are not insignificant in my eyes. You are more than all
else on earth to me!" he cried. "You are the object of my love, of my
waking dreams. If you could give me your hand before the altar in
fidelity and love, my dearest wishes would be realized."

She slowly raised her head, her modest countenance glowed in a virginal
blush, and her eyes, which met Richard's anxious look, were filled with
tears. She lowered her head, and laid her hand in that of the young
man. He folded her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, and kissed
her forehead. The swallows flew about the arbor, twittered noisily, and
threatened the robber who was trying to take away their friend. The
sparrows, through the leaves of the vines, looked with wonder at the
table where Angela's head rested on the breast of her affianced.

They arose.

"We cannot keep this from our parents, Richard. My parents esteem you.
Their blessing will not be wanting to our union."

Suddenly she paused, and stood silent and pale, as though filled with a
sudden fear. Richard anxiously inquired the cause.

"You know your father's opinion of us," she said, disturbed.

"Do not be troubled about that. Father will not object to my
arrangements. But even if he does, I am of age, and no power shall
separate me from you."

"No, Richard; no! I love you as my life; but without your father's
consent, our union wants a great blessing. Speak to him in love; beg
him, beseech him, but do not annoy him on account of your selfishness."

"So it shall be. Your advice is good and noble. As long as this
difficulty exists, I am uneasy. I will therefore go back. Speak to your
parents; give them my kind greeting, and tell them how proud I shall
feel to be acknowledged as their son." He again folded her in his arms
and hastened away.

The old cook still sat under the lindens, and the stocking lost many a
stitch as Frank, with a joyous countenance, passed her without
speaking, without having noticed her. She shook wonderingly her old
gray head.

Angela sat in the arbor. Her work lay idly on the table. With a
countenance full of sweetness she went to her room, and knelt and
prayed.


Herr Frank looked up astonished, as Richard, late in the evening,
entered his chamber.

"Excuse me, father," said he joyfully and earnestly; "something has
happened of great importance to me, and of great interest to you. I
could not delay an explanation, even at the risk of depriving you of an
hour's sleep."

"Well, well! I am really interested," said Herr Frank, as he threw
himself back on the sofa. "Your explanation must be something
extraordinary, for I have never seen you thus before. What is it,
then?"

"For a right understanding of my position, it is necessary to go back
to that May-day on which we went to Frankenhoehe. Your displeasure at my
well-grounded aversion to women you will remember."

With childish simplicity he related the whole course of his inner life
and trials at Frankenhoehe. He described the deep impression Angela had
made upon him. He took out his diary and read his observations, his
stubborn adherence to his prejudices, and the victory of a virtuous
maiden over them. The father listened with the greatest attention. He
admired the depth of his son's mind and the noble struggle of
conviction against the powerful influence of error. But when Richard
made known what had passed between himself and Angela, Herr Frank's
countenance changed.

"I have told you all," said Richard, "with that openness which a son
owes to his father. From the disposition and character of Angela, as
you have heard them, you must have learned to respect her, and have
been convinced that she and I will be happy. Therefore, father, I beg
your consent and blessing on our union."

He arose and was about to kneel, when Herr Frank stopped him.

"Slowly, my son. With the exception of what happened to-day, I am
pleased with your conduct. You have convinced yourself of the injustice
of your opinion of women. You have found a noble woman. I am willing to
believe that Angela is a magnificent and faultless creature, although
she have an ultramontane father. But my consent to your union with
Siegwart's daughter you will never receive. Now, Richard, you can
without trouble find a woman that will suit you, and who is as
beautiful and as noble-minded as the Angel of Salingen."

"May I ask the reason of your refusal, father?"

"There are many reasons. First, I do not like the ultramontane spirit
of the Siegwart family. Angela it educated in this spirit. You would be
bound to a wife whose narrow views would be an intolerable burden."

"Pardon, father! The extracts from my diary informed you that I have
examined this ultramontane spirit very carefully, and that I was forced
at last to correct my opinions of the ultramontanes--to reject an
unjust prejudice."

"The stained glass of passion has beguiled you into ultramontane
sentiments; and further, remember that Siegwart is personally
objectionable to me." And he spoke of the failure of the factory
through Angela's father.

"Herr Siegwart has told me of that enterprise, and, at the same time,
gave me the reasons that induced him to prevent its realization. He
showed the demoralizing effects of factories. He showed that the
inhabitants of that neighborhood support themselves by farming; that
the religious sentiment of the country people is endangered by Sunday
labor and other evil influences that accompany manufacturing."

"And you approved of this narrow-mindedness of the ultramontane?" cried
Frank.

"Siegwart's conduct is free from narrow-mindedness. You yourself have
often said that faith and religion had much to fear from modern
manufactories. If Siegwart has made great sacrifices, if he has
interfered against his own interest in favor of faith and morality, he
deserves great respect for it."

"Has it gone so far? Do you openly take part with the ultramontane
against your father?"

"I take no part; I express frankly my views," answered Richard
tranquilly.

"The views of father and son are very different, and we may thank your
intercourse with the ultramontanes for it."

"Your acquaintance, father, with that excellent family is very
desirable. You would soon be convinced that you ought to respect them."

"I do not desire their acquaintance. It is near midnight; go to rest,
and forget the hasty step of to-day."

"I will never regret what has taken place with forethought and
reflection," answered Richard firmly. "I again ask your consent to the
happiness of your son."

"No, no! Once for all--never!" cried Frank hastily.

The son became excited. He was about to fly into a passion, and to show
his father that he was not going to follow blind authority like an
inexperienced child, when he thought of what Angela said, "Speak to
your father in love;" and his rising anger subsided.

"You know, father," he said hesitatingly, "that my age permits me to
choose a wife without reference to your will. As the consent is
withheld without valid reasons, I might do without it. But Angela has
urgently requested me not to act against your will, and I have promised
to comply with her wishes."

"Angela appears to have more sense than you. So she requested this
promise from you? I esteem the young lady for this sentiment, although
she be a child of Siegwart, who shall never have my son for a
son-in-law."

The young man arose.

"It only remains for me to declare," said he calmly, "that to Angela,
and to her alone, shall I ever belong in love and fidelity. If you
persevere in your refusal, I here tell you, on my honor, I shall never
choose another wife."

He made a bow and left the room. It was long past midnight, and Herr
Frank was still sitting on the sofa, drumming on his knees and shaking
his head.

"An accursed piece of business!" said he. "I know he will not break his
word of honor under any circumstances. I know his stubborn head. But
this Siegwart, this clerical ultramontane fellow--it is incompatible;
mental progress and middle-age darkness, spiritual enlightenment and
stark confessionalism--it won't do. Angela certainly is not her father.
She is an innocent country creature; does not wear crinoline, dresses
in blue like a bluebell, has not a dainty stomach, and has no toilette
nonsense. The nuns, together with perverted views of the world, may,
perhaps, have taught her many principles that adorn an honorable woman;
but--but--" And Herr Frank threw himself back grumbling on the sofa.

On the following day Richard wrote Angela a warm, impassioned letter.
The vow of eternal love and fidelity was repeated. In conclusion, he
spoke of his father's refusal, but assured her that his consent would
yet be given.

Many weeks passed. The letters of the lovers came and went regularly
and without interruption. She wrote that her parents had not hesitated
a moment to give their consent. In her letters Richard admired her
tender feeling, her dove-like innocence and pure love. He was firm in
his conviction that she would make him happy, would be his loadstar
through life. He read her letters hundreds of times, and these readings
were his only recreation. He spoke not another word about the matter to
his father. He kept away from all society. He devoted himself to his
calling, and endeavored to purify his heart in the spirit of religion,
that he might approach nearer to an equality with Angela. The father
observed him carefully, and was daily more and more convinced that a
spiritual change was coming over his son. Murmuringly he endured the
church-going, and vexedly he shook his head at Richard's composure and
perseverance, which he knew time would not change. The more quietly the
son endured, the more disquieted Herr Frank became. "Sacrifice your
prejudices to your son's happiness," he heard the doctor saying; and he
felt ashamed when he thought of this advice.

"What cannot be cured must be endured," he was accustomed to say for
some days, as often as he went into his room. "The queer fellow makes
it uncomfortable for me; this cannot continue; days and years pass
away. I am growing old, and the house of Frank must not die out."

One morning he gave Richard charge of the establishment. "I have
important business," said he. "I will be back to-morrow."

The father smiled significantly as he said this. Richard heard from the
coachman that Herr Frank took a ticket for the station near
Frankenhoehe. He knew the great importance to him of this visit, and
prayed God earnestly to move his father's heart favorably. His
uneasiness increased hourly, and rendered all work impossible. He
walked up and down the counting-room like a man who feared bankruptcy,
and expected every moment the decision on which depended his happiness
for life. He went into the hall where the desks of the clerks stood in
long rows. He went to the desks, looked at the writing of the clerks,
and knew not what he did, where he went, or where he stood.

The next day Herr Frank returned. Richard was called to the library,
where his father received him with a face never more happy or
contented.

"I have visited your bride," he began, "because I had a curiosity to
know personally the one who has converted my son to sound views of
womankind. I am perfectly satisfied with your taste, and also with
myself; for I have become reconciled with Siegwart, and find that he is
as willing to live with his neighbors in harmony as in discord. You now
have my blessing on your union. The marriage can take place when you
please; only it would please me if it came off as soon as possible."

Richard stood speechless with emotion, which so overcame him that tears
burst from his eyes. He embraced his father, kissed him tenderly, and
murmured his thanks.

"That will do, Richard," said Herr Frank, much affected. "Your
happiness moves me. May it last long. And I do not doubt it will; for
Angela is truly a woman the like of whom I have never met. Her
character is as clear and transparent as crystal; and her eyes possess
such power, and her smile such loveliness, that I fear for my freedom
when she is once in the house."


Crisp, cold weather. The December winds sweep gustily through the
streets of the city, driving the well-clad wanderer before them and
sporting with the weather-vanes. A carriage stops before the door of
the Director Schlagbein. Professor Lutz steps out and directs the
driver to await him.

Emil Schlagbein, Richard's unhappy married friend, had moved his
easy-chair near the stove and leaned his head against its back. He
looked as though despair had seized him and thrown him into it. Hasty
steps were heard in the ante-room, and Lutz stood before him.

"Still in your working-clothes, Emil? Up! the tea-table of the Angel of
Salingen awaits us."

"Pardon me; my head is confused, my heart is sad; grief wastes my life
away."

"War--always war; never peace!" said Lutz. "I fear, Emil, that
all the fault is not with your wife. You are too sensitive, too
particular about principles. Man must tolerate, and not be niggardly
in compliance. Take old Frank as a model. With Angela entered
ultramontanism into his house. Frank lives in peace with this
spirit--even on friendly terms. Angela reads him pious stories from the
legends of the saints. He goes with her to church, where he listens
with attention to the word of God. He hears mass as devoutly as a
Capuchin; not to say any thing of Richard, who runs a race with Angela
for the prize of piety. Could you not also make some sacrifice to the
whims of your wife?"

"Angela and Ida--day and night!" said the director bitterly. "The two
Franks make no sacrifice to female whims. They appreciate her exalted
views, they admire her purity, her unspeakable modesty, her shining
virtues. The two Franks acted reasonably when they adopted the
principles that produced such a woman. Angela never speaks to her
husband in defiance and bad temper. If clouds gather in the matrimonial
heaven, she dissipates them with the breath of love. Is the sacrifice
of a wish wanted? Angela makes it. Is her pure feeling offended by
Richard's faults? She kisses them away and raises him to her level.
My wife--is she not just the opposite in every thing? Is she not
quick-tempered, bitter, loveless, extravagant, and stiff-necked? Has
she a look--I will not say of love--but even of respect for me? Do not
all her thoughts and acts look to the pleasures of the toilette, the
opera, balls, and concerts? O my poor children! who grow up without a
mother, in the hands of domestics. How is any concession possible here?
Must not my position, my self-respect, the last remnant of manly
dignity go to the wall?"

"Your case is lamentable, friend! Your principles and those of your
wife do not agree. Concession to the utmost point of duty, joined with
prudent reform in many things, may, perhaps, bring back, harmony and a
good understanding between you. You praise Angela: follow her example.
She abominates the air of the theatre. The opera-glasses of the young
men levelled at her offend her deeply, and bring to her angelic
countenance the blush of shame. Her fine religious feeling is offended
at many words, gestures, and dances which a pious Christian woman
should not hear and see. Yet she goes to the opera because Richard
wishes it. Her husband will at last observe this heroism of love, and
sacrifice the opera to it. What Angela cannot obtain by prayers and
representations, she gains by the all-conquering weapons of love. In
like manner and for a like object yield to your wife. She is, at least,
not a firebrand. Love must overcome her stubbornness."

Schlagbein shook his head sadly.

"A father cannot do what is inconsistent with paternal duty," said he.
"Shall I join in the course of my wife? Whither does this course lead?
To the destruction of all family ties, to financial bankruptcy--to
dishonor. For home my wife has no mind, no understanding. My means she
throws carelessly into the bottomless pit of pleasure-seeking and love
of dress. She does not think of the future of her children. Every day
brings to her new desires for prodigality. If her wishes are fulfilled,
ruin is unavoidable. If they are not fulfilled, she sits ill-humored
and obstinate in her room, and leaves the care of the house to her
domestics, and the children to the nurses. How often have I consented
to her vain desire for show, only to see her extravagant wishes thereby
increased. She is without reason."

The unfortunate man's head sunk upon his breast. Lutz stood still
without uttering a word.

"Yes, Angela is a noble woman," continued Emil, "she is the spirit of
order, the angel of peace and love. Just hear Richard's father. He
revels in enthusiasm about her. 'My Richard is the happiest man in the
world,' said he to me lately. 'I myself must be thankful to him for his
prudent choice. Abounding in every thing, my house was empty and
desolate before Angela came; but now every thing shines in the sun of
her orderly housekeeping, of her tender care. Although served with
fidelity, I have been until the present almost neglected. But now that
the angel hovers over me, observes my every want, and with her smile
lights my old age, I am perfectly happy.' Has my wife a single
characteristic of this noble woman?"

"Angela is unapproachable in the little arts that win the heart and
drive away melancholy," said Lutz. "A few weeks ago, Herr Frank came
home one day from the counting-room all out of sorts. He sat silently
in his easy-chair drumming on his knee. Angela noticed his ill-humor.
She sought to dissipate it--to cheer him; but she did not succeed. She
then arose, and, going to him, said with unspeakable affection,
'Father, may I play and sing for you the "Lied der Kapelle?"' Herr
Frank looked in her face, and smiled as he replied, 'Yes, my angel'
When her sweet voice resounded in the next room in beautiful accord
with the accompaniment, which she played most feelingly, the old man
revived and joined in her song with his trembling bass."

"How often we have twitted Richard with his views of modern women,"
said Emil. "It was his cool judgment, perhaps, that saved him from a
misfortune like mine."

Just then a carriage stopped before the house. Emil went uneasily to
the window, and Lutz followed him. Bandboxes and trunks were taken from
the house. The professor looked inquiringly at his friend, whose hand
appeared to tremble as it rested on the window-glass.

"What does this mean, Emil?"

"My wife is going to her aunt's for an indefinite time. She leaves me
to enjoy the pleasures of Christmas alone. The children also remain
here; they might be in her way."

The professor pitied his unhappy friend.

"Emil," said he, almost angrily, "it is for you to determine how a man
should act in regard to the freaks and caprices of his wife. But you
should not steep yourself in gall, even though your wife turn into a
river of bitterness. Drive away sadness and be happy. Do not let your
present humor rob you of every thing. Forget what you cannot change."

A beautiful woman approached the carriage. Schlagbein turned away from
the sight. Lutz observed the departing wife and mother. She did not
look up at the window where her husband was. She got into the carriage
without even saying farewell. She sat in the midst of bandboxes,
surrounded by finery and tinsel; and as the wheels rolled over the
pavement, the director groaned in his chair.

"A happy journey to you, Xantippe!" cried the angry professor. "Emil,
be a man. Dress yourself; forget at the Angel of Salingen's your
domestic devil."

Schlagbein moved his head disconsolately.

"What have the wretched to do in the home of the happy? There I shall
only see more clearly that I suffer and am miserable."

Lutz, out of humor, threw himself into the carriage. With knitted brows
he buried himself in one of its corners. That professional head was
perplexed with a question which ordinary men would have quickly seen
through and settled. Frank's happiness and Schlagbein's misery stood as
two irrefutable facts before the mind of the professor. Now came the
question. Why this happiness, why this misery? The dashing Ida he had
known for years; also her enlightened views of life, and her flexible
principles, perfectly conformable to the spirit of progress. Whence,
then, the dissoluteness of her desires, the bitterness of her humor,
the heartlessness of the wife, the callousness of the mother?

The professor continued his musing. He gave a scrutinizing glance at
the marriages of all his acquaintances. Everywhere he found a clouded
sky, and, in the semi-darkness, lightning and thunder. Only one
marriage stood before him bright and clear in the sunlight of
happiness, in the raiment of peace, and that was ultramontane. That
ultramontane principles had produced this happiness and peace, the
professor's industrious mind saw with clearness. He raised his head and
said solemnly, "Marriage is an image of religion. It proceeds from the
lips of God, and is perfected at the altar. The marriage duties are
children of the religious sentiment, fetters of the divine law. Ida was
faithful and true so long as it agreed with the longings of her heart.
But with the cooling of affection died love and fidelity. She
recognizes no religious duty, because she has progressed to liberty and
independence. From this follows with striking clearness the
incompatibility of Christian marriage with the spirit of the age.
Marriage will be a thing of the past as soon as intellectual maturity
conquers in the contest with religion. Sound sense, liberty of emotion
and inclination will supplant the terrible marriage yoke."

The professor paused and examined his conclusion. It smiled upon him
like a true child of nature. It clothed itself in motley flesh, and
passed through green meadows and shady forests. It pointed
encouragingly to the beasts of the field and the birds of the air, long
in possession of intellectual maturity. Sensual marriages, intended to
last only for weeks or months, danced around the professor. Cannibal
hordes, who extended to him their brotherly paws and claws, pressed
about him. In astonishment, he contemplated his conclusion; it made
beastly grimaces, knavish and jeering, and he dashed into fragments the
provoking mockery.

In strong contrast to the animal kingdom, stood before him again the
Christian marriage. He cunningly tried to give his new conclusion human
shape; but here the carriage stopped, and the speculation vanished
before the clear light in the house of the "Angel of Salingen."



FOOTNOTE TO ANGELA.

[Footnote 2: This argument is not conclusive, nor is it at all
necessary. Animals have memory; and there is no more reason why their
waking sensations, emotions, and acts should not repeat themselves in
dreams than there is in the case of men. The difference between the
soul of man and the soul of the brute is constituted by the presence of
the gift of reason, or the faculty of knowing necessary and universal
truths in the former, and its absence in the latter.--Ed. Catholic
World.]





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Progressionists, and Angela., by
Conrad von Bolanden

*** 