This was the summer when Mr. Stephen Brice began to make his appearance
in public. The very first was rather encouraging than otherwise,
although they were not all so. It was at a little town on the outskirts
of the city where those who had come to scoff and jeer remained to
listen.
In writing that speech Stephen had striven to bear in mind a piece of
advice which Mr. Lincoln had given him. “Speak so that the lowest may
understand, and the rest will have no trouble.” And it had worked. At
the halting lameness of the beginning an egg was thrown,--fortunately
wide of the mark. After this incident Stephen fairly astonished his
audience,--especially an elderly gentleman who sat on a cracker-box in
the rear, out of sight of the stand. This may have been Judge Whipple,
although we have no proof of the fact.
Stephen himself would not have claimed originality for that speech. He
laughs now when it is spoken of, and calls it a boyish effort, which it
was. I have no doubt that many of the master's phrases slipped in, as
young Mr. Brice could repeat most of the Debates, and the Cooper Union
speech by heart. He had caught more than the phrasing, however. So
imbued was he with the spirit of Abraham Lincoln that his hearers caught
it; and that was the end of the rotten eggs and the cabbages. The event
is to be especially noted because they crowded around him afterward to
ask questions. For one thing, he had not mentioned abolition. Wasn't it
true, then, that this Lincoln wished to tear the negro from his master,
give him a vote and a subsidy, and set him up as the equal of the man
that owned him? “Slavery may stay where it is,” cried the young orator.
“If it is content there, so are we content. What we say is that it shall
not go one step farther. No, not one inch into a northern territory.”
On the next occasion Mr. Brice was one of the orators at a much larger
meeting in a garden in South St. Louis. The audience was mostly German.
And this was even a happier event, inasmuch as Mr. Brice was able to
trace with some skill the history of the Fatherland from the Napoleonic
wars to its Revolution. Incidentally he told them why they had emigrated
to this great and free country. And when in an inspired moment he
coupled the names of Abraham Lincoln and Father Jahn, the very leaves of
the trees above them trembled at their cheers.
And afterwards there was a long-remembered supper in the moonlit grove
with Richter and a party of his college friends from Jena. There was
Herr Tiefel with the little Dresden-blue eyes, red and round and jolly;
and Hauptmann, long and thin and sallow; and Korner, redbearded and
ponderous; and Konig, a little clean-cut man with a blond mustache
that pointed upward. They clattered their steins on the table and sang
wonderful Jena songs, while Stephen was lifted up and his soul carried
off to far-away Saxony,--to the clean little University town with
its towers and crooked streets. And when they sang the Trolksmelodie,
“Bemooster Bursche zieh' ich aus,--Ade!” a big tear rolled down the scar
on Richter's cheek.
“Fahrt wohl, ihr Strassen grad and krumm
Ich zieh' nicht mehr in euch herum,
Durchton euch nicht mehr mit Gesang,
Mit Larm nicht mehr and Sporenklang.”
As the deep tones died away, the soft night was steeped in the sadness
of that farewell song. It was Richter who brought the full force of it
home to Stephen.
“Do you recall the day you left your Harvard, and your Boston, my
friend?” he asked.
Stephen only nodded. He had never spoken of the bitterness of that, even
to his mother. And here was the difference between the Saxon and the
Anglo-Saxon.
Richter smoked his pipe 'mid dreamy silence, the tear still wet upon his
face.
“Tiefel and I were at the University together,” he said at length. “He
remembers the day I left Jena for good and all. Ah, Stephen, that is
the most pathetic thing in life, next to leaving the Fatherland. We
dine with our student club for the last time at the Burg Keller, a dingy
little tavern under a grim old house, but very dear to us. We swear for
the last time to be clean and honorable and patriotic, and to die for
the Fatherland, if God so wills. And then we march at the head of a slow
procession out of the old West Gate, two and two, old members first,
then the fox major and the foxes.”
“The foxes?” Stephen interrupted.
“The youngsters--the freshmen, you call them,” answered Richter,
smiling.
“And after the foxes,” said Herr Tiefel, taking up the story, “after the
foxes comes the empty carriage, with its gay postilion and four. It is
like a long funeral. And every man is chanting that song. And so we go
slowly until we; come to the Oil Mill Tavern, where we have had many
a schlager-bout with the aristocrats. And the president of our society
makes his farewell speech under the vines, and we drink to you with all
the honors. And we drank to you, Carl, renowned swordsman!” And Herr
Tiefel, carried away by the recollection, rose to his feet.
The others caught fire, and stood up with their mugs high in the air,
shouting:
“Lebe wohl, Carl! Lebe wohl! Salamander, salamander, salamander! Ein ist
ein, zwei ist zwei, drei ist drei! Lebe wohl!”
And so they toasted every man present, even Stephen himself, whom they
complimented on his speech. And he soon learned to cry Salamander,
and to rub his mug on the table, German fashion. He was not long in
discovering that Richter was not merely a prime favorite with his
companions, but likewise a person of some political importance in South
St. Louis. In the very midst of their merriment an elderly man whom
Stephen recognized as one of the German leaders (he afterwards became a
United States general) came and stood smiling by the table and joined in
the singing. But presently he carried Richter away with him.
“What a patriot he would have made, had our country been spared to us!”
exclaimed Herr Konig. “I think he was the best man with the Schlager
that Jena ever saw. Even Korner likes not to stand against him in mask
and fencing hat, all padded. Eh, Rudolph?”
Herr Korner gave a good-natured growl of assent.
“I have still a welt that he gave me a month since,” he said. “He has
left his mark on many an aristocrat.”
“And why did you always fight the aristocrats?” Stephen asked.
They all tried to tell him at once, but Tiefel prevailed.
“Because they were for making our country Austrian, my friend,” he
cried. “Because they were overbearing, and ground the poor. Because the
most of them were immoral like the French, and we knew that it must be
by morality and pure living that our 'Vaterland' was to be rescued. And
so we formed our guilds in opposition to theirs. We swore to live by the
standards of the great Jahn, of whom you spoke. We swore to strive for
the freedom of Germany with manly courage. And when we were not duelling
with the nobles, we had Schlager-bouts among ourselves.”
“Broadswords?” exclaimed Stephen, in amazement.
“Ja wohl,” answered Korner, puffing heavily. The slit in his nose was
plain even in the moonlight. “To keep our hands in, as you would say.
You Americans are a brave people--without the Schlager. But we fought
that we might not become effete.”
It was then that Stephen ventured to ask a question that, had been long
burning within him.
“See here, Mr. Korner,” said he, “how did Richter come by that scar? He
always gets red when I mention it. He will never tell me.”
“Ah, I can well believe that,” answered Korner. “I will recount that
matter,--if you do not tell Carl, lieber Freund. He would not forgive
me. I was there in Berlin at the time. It was a famous time. Tiefel will
bear me out.”
“Ja, ja!” said Tiefel, eagerly.
“Mr. Brice,” Herr Korner continued, “has never heard of the Count von
Kalbach. No, of course. We at Jena had, and all Germany. Many of us of
the Burschenschaft will bear to the grave the marks of his Schlager. Von
Kalbach went to Bonn, that university of the aristocrats, where he was
worshipped. When he came to Berlin with his sister, crowds would gather
to look at them. They were like Wodan and Freya. 'Donner'!” exclaimed
Herr Korner, “there is something in blood, when all is said. He was as
straight and strong as an oak of the Black Forest, and she as fair as a
poplar. It is so with the Pomeranians.
“It was in the year '47, when Carl Richter was gone home to Berlin
before his last semester, to see his father: One fine morning von
Kalbach rode in at the Brandenburg gate on a great black stallion. He
boasted openly that day that none of the despised 'Burschenschaft' dare
stand before him. And Carl Richter took up the challenge. Before night
all Berlin had heard of the temerity of the young Liberal of the Jena
'Burschenschaft'. To our shame be it said, we who knew and loved Carl
likewise feared for him.
“Carl chose for his second Ebhardt, a man of our own Germanian Club at
Jena, since killed in the Breite Strasse. And if you will believe me,
my friend. I tell you that Richter came to the glade at daybreak
smoking his pipe. The place was filled, the nobles on one side and
the Burschenschaft on the other, and the sun coming up over the trees.
Richter would not listen to any of us, not even the surgeon. He would
not have the silk wound on his arm, nor the padded breeches, nor the
neck covering--Nothing! So Ebhardt put on his gauntlets and peaked cap,
and his apron with the device of the Germanians.
“There stood the Count in his white shirt in the pose of a statue. And
when it was seen that Richter likewise had no protection, but was calmly
smoking the little short pipe, with a charred bowl, a hush fell upon
all. At the sight of the pipe von Kalbach ground his heel in the turf,
and when the word was given he rushed at Richter like a wild beast. You,
my friend, who have never heard the whistle of sharp Schlager cannot
know the song which a skilled arm draws from the blade. It was music
that morning: You should have seen the noble's mighty strokes--'Prim und
Second und Terz und Quart'. You would have marked how Richter met him
at every blow. Von Kalbach never once took his eyes from the blue smoke
from the bowl. He was terrible in his fury, and I shiver now to think
how we of the Burschenschaft trembled when we saw that our champion was
driven back a step, and then another. You must know that it is a lasting
disgrace to be forced over one's own line. It seemed as if we could not
bear the agony. And then, while we counted out the last seconds of the
half, came a snap like that of a whip's lash, and the bowl of Richter's
pipe lay smouldering on the grass. The noble had cut the stem as clean
as it were sapling twig, and there stood Richter with the piece still
clenched in his teeth, his eyes ablaze, and his cheek running blood. He
pushed the surgeon away when he came forward with his needles. The Count
was smiling as he put up his sword, his friends crowding around
him, when Ebhardt cried out that his man could fight the second
mensur,--though the wound was three needles long. Then Kalbach cried
aloud that he would kill him. But he had not seen Carl's eyes. Something
was in them that made us think as we washed the cut. But when we spoke
to him he said nothing. Nor could we force the pipe stems from his
teeth.
“Donner Schock!” exclaimed Herr Korner, but reverently, “if I live to a
hundred I never hope to see such a sight as that 'Mensur'. The word was
given. The Schlager flew so fast that we only saw the light and heard
the ring alone. Before we of the Burschenschaft knew what had happened
the Count von Kalbach was over his line and had flung his Schlager into
a great tree, and was striding from the place with his head hung and the
tears streamin down his face.”
Amid a silence, Herr Korner lifted his great mug and emptied it slowly.
A wind was rising, bearing with it song and laughter from distant
groups,--Teutonic song and, laughter. The moonlight trembled through the
shifting leaves. And Stephen was filled with a sense of the marvelous.
It was as if this fierce duel, so full of national significance to a
German, had been fought in another existence, It was incredible to him
that the unassuming lawyer he knew, so wholly Americanized, had been the
hero of it. Strange, indeed, that the striving life of these leaders of
European Revolution had been suddenly cut off in its vigor. There
came to Stephen a flash of that world-comprehension which marks great
statesmen. Was it not with a divine purpose that this measureless force
of patriotism and high ideal had been given to this youngest of the
nations, that its high mission might be fulfilled?
Miss Russell heard of Stephen's speeches. She and her brothers and Jack
Brinsmade used to banter him when he came a-visiting in Bellefontaine
Road. The time was not yet come when neighbor stared coldly upon
neighbor, when friends of long standing passed each other with averted
looks. It was not even a wild dream that white-trash Lincoln would be
elected. And so Mr. Jack, who made speeches for Breckenridge in the face
of Mr. Brinsmade's Union leanings, laughed at Stephen when he came to
spend the night. He joined forces with Puss in making clever fun of the
booby Dutch, which Stephen was wise enough to take good-naturedly. But
once or twice when he met Clarence Colfax at these houses he was aware
of a decided change in the attitude of that young gentleman. This
troubled him more than he cared to admit. For he liked Clarence, who
reminded him of Virginia--at once a pleasure and a pain.
It is no harm to admit (for the benefit of the Society for Psychical
Research) that Stephen still dreamed of her. He would go about his work
absently all the morning with the dream still in his head, and the girl
so vividly near him that he could not believe her to be travelling in
England, as Miss Russell said. Puss and Anne were careful to keep him
informed as to her whereabouts. Stephen set this down as a most natural
supposition on their part that all young men must have an interest in
Virginia Carvel.
How needless to add that Virginia in her correspondence never mentioned
Stephen, although Puss in her letters took pains to record the fact
every time that he addressed a Black Republican meeting: Miss Carvel
paid no attention to this part of the communications. Her concern for
Judge Whipple Virginia did not hide. Anne wrote of him. How he stood the
rigors of that campaign were a mystery to friend and foe alike.