The subsequent revolution in San Domingo drove hither also whites

who escaped with little more than life, and blacks whose fidelity

to their masters and to their religion withstood the shock of

those terrible times. Among the former were the parents of Bishop

Chanche; also, young Joubert, who, after becoming a priest, devoted

himself to the blacks, that he might overcome his horror for the

race that had massacred his parents; in furtherance of this lofty

act of self-renunciation, he formed a community of religious

women of color, whose first members were creoles of San Domingo.

The Oblate Sisters of Providence still flourish, and impart the

blessings of secular and religious education to the young of their

sex and color. Finally--for we must hasten to a close--it is a

noticeable fact that New England, which sent forth its Puritan

colonists to harass the Marylanders and persecute the Jesuits, is

now a portion of the Jesuit province of Maryland.

The great length to which this paper has expanded will preclude

the possibility of giving any space to the history of the missions

of France in Louisiana, and those extending from Canada into what

is now New York and into the regions west of that state. This

omission will be the more pardonable inasmuch as the history of

the French missions is better known to Catholic readers than much

of our other remote ecclesiastical history. There is one page,

however, in these annals, touching the Christian settlements on

our northeastern border, that we cannot pass over without notice.

The town in the British Provinces now known as Annapolis was the

point where Catholicity made its first foothold in any portion of

the region north of us, at least the first since the time of the

Northmen. Here, in 1608, two Jesuit missionaries arrived, who in

1613 were to be the pioneers of the Abnaki mission in Maine. The

Recollects, a branch of the Franciscans, began their labors in

Quebec in 1615. Other religious men, and some communities of pious

women, came to their assistance. Notwithstanding wars between the

various tribes, in the course of which the once powerful Hurons

were almost annihilated, the missionaries had gathered together,

by 1685, a number of Christian villages of Indians on the St.

Lawrence, of which three still exist. Thence, missionaries were

sent to the shores of Lake Superior, to the tribes south of the

lakes, to Arkansas, and to the lower Mississippi. The heroic lives,

the sufferings, and the death of Jogues, Brébeuf, and Lalemant,

and so many other holy men who consecrated their lives to these

missions, are almost familiar themes.

Of the Abnaki mission referred to above, and which was established

on Mount Desert Island at the mouth of the Penobscot, nothing

remained after a few years except a solitary cross guarding the

grave of a French lay-brother, who died from wounds received in

an attack made on the mission by the English from Virginia. The

fathers were carried off by them on this occasion, and narrowly

escaped being put to death by the authorities of Virginia. Thus, as

Mr. Shea remarks, the first Abnaki mission was crushed in its very

cradle by men who founded a colony in which the Gospel was never

announced to the aborigines.

In 1642, an Abnaki who had been rescued from death by a Christian

Indian, in one of the forays made by the pagan Iroquois on their

neighbors, extolled the virtues of the Christians so highly on

his return home that his people sent for black-gowns. Father

Druillettes was sent to them in 1646, and the wonderful change

effected by him in the few months of his stay excited even the

admiration of the English, whose countrymen in Massachusetts were

at this time enacting cruel laws against the religion and the order

to which F. Druillettes belonged. In 1650, he returned to the

Abnakis, and was received by them at Norridgewock, their principal

village, amidst volleys of firearms, and with every demonstration

of delight. A banquet was spread in every cabin, and he was forced

to visit all.

“We have thee at last,” they cried; “thou art our father, our

patriarch, our countryman. Thou livest like us, thou dwellest with

us, thou art an Abnaki like us. Thou bringest back joy to all the

country. We had thought of leaving this land to seek thee, for many

have died in thy absence. We were losing all hopes of reaching

heaven. Those whom thou didst instruct performed all that they had

learned, but their heart was weary, for it sought and could not

find thee.”

At the same time that Druillettes was planting the faith among

the Abnakis--who have preserved to this day the precious legacy

bequeathed to them--Rev. John Eliot of Roxbury, certainly a

well-meaning man and a credit to the times and to the people

among whom he lived, was endeavoring to christianize the Indians

of Massachusetts--an attempt which the cruelty and rapacity of

his countrymen would have rendered abortive, even if his barren

theology had been able to affect anything in their behalf. So

Drake, the Indian historian, admits that even among Eliot’s nominal

disciples there was not the least probability that one-fourth of

them were sincere believers in Christianity. Eliot himself said,

before his death, “There is a dark cloud upon the work of the

Gospel among the poor Indians.” In King Philip’s war even the

Indian ministers threw off all disguise and took up arms against

their white Christian neighbors. This last struggle against their

destroyers resulted in a total ruin of the Indians. The Puritan,

imagining himself the chosen of God, and regarding the Indians as

Amalekites and Canaanites whom he was to exterminate out of the

promised land, fell upon them with fire and sword.

Even the innocent son of King Philip, the last of the family of

Massasoit, was sold into slavery to Bermuda by the men whose

children have since lifted the finger of scorn at the population

of the South, among whom England forced the institution that lately

perished amid the throes of civil war--forced it by the aid, in

part, of the vessels and the means of the pious fathers of New

England. Father Druillettes, strange to say, visited Eliot, by whom

he was hospitably received and entertained, and who invited him to

pass the winter under his roof. But this visit to New England was

probably one of business, and the father was soon with his beloved

Indians again.

Father Rale was among the successors of Druillettes. An expedition

of New Englanders destroyed his church and village in 1705, but

the cession of the territory to England by France in 1713 restored

temporary peace to the Abnaki mission. A deputation of their

chiefs therefore visited Boston, and called upon the governor to

solicit means for the rebuilding of their church. As Protestantism

is always ready to interfere with religious enterprises which it

could never itself have succeeded in, this exponent of the religion

of New England offered to rebuild their church at his own expense

if they would dismiss their missionary and take a minister of his

own choice. The reply of the indignant spokesman of the Indians is

worth quoting:

“When you first came here,” said he, “you saw me long before the

French governors, but neither your predecessors nor your ministers

ever spoke to me of prayer or the Great Spirit. They saw my furs,

my beaver and moose skins, and of this alone they thought; these

alone they sought, and so eagerly that I have been unable to supply

them with enough. When I had much, they were my friends, and only

then. One day my canoe missed the route; I lost my path, and

wandered a long way at random, until at last I landed near Quebec,

in a great village of the Algonquins, where the black-gowns were

teaching. Scarcely had I arrived, when one of them came to see me.

I was loaded with furs, but the black-gown of France disdained

to look at them; he spoke to me of the Great Spirit, of heaven,

of hell, of the prayer which is the only way to reach heaven. I

heard him with pleasure, and was so delighted by his words that I

remained in the village near him. At last the prayer pleased me,

and I asked to be instructed: I solicited baptism, and received it.

Then I returned to the lodges of my tribe, and related all that had

happened. All envied my happiness, and wished to partake it; they

too went to the black-gown to be baptized. Thus have the French

acted. Had you spoken to me of the prayer as soon as we met, I

should now be so unhappy as to pray like you, for I could not have

told whether your prayer was good or bad. Now I hold to the prayer

of the French; I agree to it; I shall be faithful to it, even until

the earth is burned and destroyed. Keep your men, your gold, and

your minister: I will go to my French father.”

In the unsettled condition of the boundaries, the New Englanders

continued to make incursions upon the territory of the Abnakis.

In one of these expeditions, Father Rale barely escaped capture,

but his celebrated Abnaki dictionary was pounced upon and carried

off, and now forms one of the treasures of the library of Harvard

University. In 1724, he fell a victim to the persistence of his

enemies. Notwithstanding these cruelties, the Abnakis, in the war

of the Revolution, took part in the defence of the soil against

England with the people who had desolated their home and put to

death their beloved pastor. Orono, the Penobscot chief, bore a

commission throughout the Revolution, and distinguished himself

during the war as much by his bravery as by his attachment to his

religion, never consenting to frequent Protestant places of worship.

These sketches, grown so much more lengthy than we had expected,

and yet restrained with difficulty within their present bounds,

must now close. May they be read with the attention the _subject_

deserves, and thus serve to awaken the honest pride of our

fellow-Catholics in the past history of their church on the soil of

the United States. May our men of culture, stimulated by the appeal

that shall be made to them by the reading classes, spread far and

wide the affecting story of the church’s triumphs and reverses in

our land, with all the glorious details of the lives and deaths of

its heroes and martyrs! May this history grow to be a familiar one

to the generation that is rising and the generations that shall

succeed it. We love our country, and none dare question our love

but they who would have the statute-books bristle with laws against

us such as the genius of our institutions forbids and the fathers

of the Republic rejected. Let us show our love for it by mingling

the memories of all that is dear to us in the career of our

religion with all that is noble and inspiring in the civil history

of our land, our fair heritage of political and religious freedom.

NOTE.

THE MISSION ESTABLISHMENTS OF CALIFORNIA.--The plan of the

early missionaries in Florida and New Mexico had been to form

the converts into villages near the Spanish settlements, in

which they were trained to the usages of civilized life. In the

numerous Christian villages thus spread over the country, all

civil functions were exercised by the chiefs, the missionaries

confining themselves to those of a spiritual nature only. The

progress of the Indians under this system was slower than was

desirable, and experience led to an improvement in the manner of

conducting the missions that were subsequently established in

New Mexico and California. In the latter, the missionary went

in the first place attended by a small guard, with a colony of

Indian converts, herds of cattle, and a plentiful supply of

agricultural and other implements. Chiefly through the converted

Indians, the surrounding natives were drawn to the mission.

The next step was to proceed to the erection of the mission

building, a rectangular structure eighty or ninety yards square,

with a court-yard in the centre, which was adorned with trees

and fountains. The church and the pastor’s residence occupied

one side, and galleries surrounded the court, opening upon the

rooms of the missionaries, stewards, and travellers, the shops,

schools, store-rooms, infirmaries, and the granary.

A part of the buildings entirely separated from the rest, and

called the monastery, was reserved for the Indian girls, where

they were taught by native women to spin and weave, and received

such other instruction as was suited to their sex. The boys

learned trades, and those who excelled were promoted to the rank

of chiefs, thus giving a dignity to labor which impelled all to

embrace it. Once in the mission, the native was instructed in

Christianity, and constrained to labor. Many of the missionaries

being skilled in mechanical art, the Indians were formed to every

trade, and the surplus products of their industry were exported

yearly in exchange for necessary European goods. The Indians were

apportioned into sections, each under a chief who led his party

to church or to labor, and who was not backward in enforcing

promptness. Against this the Indian at first rebelled: but, as

all his wants were satisfied, he soon became attached to his

manner of life, and would draw others of his countrymen in, whom

he easily persuaded to submit to the routine.

Many learned Spanish thoroughly, and all acquired a knowledge

of the Christian religion, which they faithfully practised.

Thus they gained two great benefits--peace and comfort in this

life, and means of attaining happiness in the next. Those

who visited the missions were amazed to see that with such

petty resources--most frequently without the aid of white

mechanics--the missionaries accomplished so much, not only

in agriculture, but in architecture and mechanics; in mills,

machines, bridges, roads, and canals for irrigation; and

accomplished it all by transforming hostile and indolent savages

into laborious carpenters, masons, coopers, saddlers, shoemakers,

weavers, stone-cutters, brickmakers, and lime-burners. Around the

mission building arose the houses of the Indians and of a few

white settlers; at various distances were ranches or hamlets,

each with its chapel. In a little building near the mission-house

was a picket of five horsemen, who were at once soldiers and

couriers.

The regulations of the mission were uniform. At daybreak, the

_Angelus_ summoned all to the church for prayers and Mass, after

which they went to breakfast. Then all joined their respective

bands, and proceeded to their regular labors. At eleven, they

returned to dine, and rested till two, when labor recommenced,

and continued until the ringing of the _Angelus_ bell, an hour

before sunset. After prayers and beads, they supped, and spent

the evening in innocent amusements. Their food was the fresh

beef and mutton plentifully supplied by their herds and flocks,

cakes of wheat and Indian corn, peas, beans, and such vegetables

as they chose to raise. The missionaries themselves, bound by

vows of poverty, received only food and clothing. The Indians of

a mission were not all of the same tribe, but perfect harmony

prevailed, and when the season of work was over, many paid

visits to their countrymen, and seldom returned alone. Sometimes

a zealous Christian would visit his own tribe as an apostle, to

announce the happiness which was attainable under the mild rule

of the Gospel. In this way the missions constantly received new

accessions, for the good missionaries had the art of making labor

attractive. All the men and women in the mission were, moreover,

well and completely dressed.

It will be seen that this discipline was strict, and the Spanish

government, at the time of the forcible withdrawal of the

Jesuits, wished to bring odium upon them in connection with this

system of administration of their origination. The Franciscans,

however, who succeeded the Jesuits, continued the method of their

predecessors, convinced of its expediency. An attempt on the

part of the government to alter it, in the establishment of a

mission near the mouth of the Colorado, on its own principles,

a few years after the expulsion of the Jesuits, only resulted

in cruel outrages upon the Indians by those who were placed in

the temporal administration in lieu of the Franciscans. These

outrages provoked rebellion, and led to the massacre of the civil

functionaries, and of the religious as well. The government did

not repeat the experiment.

Forbes, the author of a work on California, after commending

the labors of the California Jesuits, says of their successors,

“The best and most unequivocal proof of the good conduct of the

Franciscan fathers is to be found in the unbounded affection and

devotion invariably shown towards them by their Indian subjects.

They venerate them not merely as friends and fathers, but with

a degree of devotedness approaching to adoration.” He adds,

“Experience has shown how infinitely more successful the Catholic

missionaries have been than the Protestant.” These and many other

testimonies from unprejudiced sources might be given to show

the state of happiness in which the Indians formerly lived. An

American traveller, Bartlett, who in 1854 visited the mission

of San Gabriel, to which at one time five thousand Indians were

attached, says, “Humanity cannot refrain from wishing that the

dilapidated mission of San Gabriel should be renovated and its

broken walls be rebuilt, its roofless houses be covered, and its

deserted halls be again filled with its ancient industrious,

happy, and contented population.”

Two classes of persons, therefore--as Marshal remarks in his

_History of Catholic Missions_--“have been instrumental in the

irreparable injury inflicted on the Indian tribes: Mexicans who

had forfeited their birthright as Catholics, and Protestants

who had never possessed it. Affecting to follow the precedents

of modern European policy, of which the chief maxim seems to be

the exclusion of all ecclesiastical influence in the government

of human society, the Mexican civil authorities resolved to

secularize all the missions. The result has been as in every land

where the same experiment has been tried, a swift relapse into

barbarism, from which the church alone has saved the world, the

immediate decay of material prosperity, and a vast augmentation

of human suffering.

“History might have taught the Mexicans to anticipate these

inevitable fruits. When England laid her hand on the possessions

of the church, which had been for centuries the patrimony of

the poor, she took her first step towards her present social

condition. Prisons and workhouses became the dismal substitutes

for monasteries, and jailers supplanted monks. England has not

profited much by the change. The new institutions are at least

ten times more costly than the old, and the benefits derived

from them have been in inverse proportion. They now receive only

prisoners, and disgorge only criminals; while a whole nation of

heathen poor, a burden on the present resources of the country

and a menace for her future destiny, have sunk down, as even

English writers will tell us, to the level of the most degraded

tribes of Africa or America, and are as utterly void of religion

or of the knowledge of God as the Sioux, the Carib, or the

Dahoman.”

FOOTNOTE:

[200] Those who are curious on this point are referred to the

_Mystic City of God_, by the Ven. Maria de Agreda, a Spanish

Carmelite nun.

THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

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

growling, 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 you 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

clear-headed 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 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, and he 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 _régime_ 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 _régime_ 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.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE SPANIARDS AT HOME.

There is something very pleasant in waking some morning in a

strange country, with strange faces around us, a strange language

ringing in our ears, strange costumes, strange institutions,

strange everything--something, we fancy, half akin to what Byron

felt when he woke one morning to find himself famous. It is

pleasant to step from New York to Cadiz, from the heart of the New

World into an historic city, that was as historic before our nation

was born as it is to-day; that has not cared to march overmuch with

the age, yet has never drifted backward, and still stands there, as

it did long ago, the “white-walled Cadiz,” rising sheer out of the

waters, with its long, straight streets and tall houses sleeping by

the golden bay.

It is pleasant, we say, to find ourselves here breathing awhile

from the heat of the strife that beats over there for ever and

knows no rest; to open our eyes upon “something new and strange”;

to miss for once the eternal stages and the rumble and the jingle

of the cars, and the multiplicity of signs, and names, and glaring

advertisements, crowding in upon us at all times and in all places.

It is not unpleasant even to miss our dames for awhile with their

exaggeration of wealth and extravagance, resting our eyes instead

on the modest black robes, nunlike in simplicity, crowned by the

bewitching mantilla of the beauties whom Byron sang.

As you look into the street, the feeling grows upon you that you

are gazing on a moving panorama pencilled by the old Spanish

painters. There pass the blooming señorita, fresh as a rosebud,

side by side with the duenna, yellow and puckered: how they

resemble _la Joven_ and _la Vieja_ of Goya. That little beggar-boy,

with those beautiful black eyes and a carnation in the olive cheek,

sprawling in his picturesque rags on the pavement, is surely a

brother to that of Murillo, so studiously engaged in performing an

operation on his person more necessary than elegant. Here saunters

a lazy soldier smoking his cigarette; there an old _padre_ totters

with bended head hidden under the large hat, snuff-box in hand, and

an old calf-skin volume under his arm; he has just stepped out of

his gilded frame. The trappings of the mules, the brown faces and

merry eye of the muleteer, were known to us long ago on canvas. Nor

are there wanting those pale ascetic countenances where religion,

and intellect, and inspiration are so marvellously blended: you

see them in the pulpit and on the altar, in the cloister and the

convent walls. In our last article,[201] we ventured to assert that

the Spaniards were the purest race in Europe; and not the meanest

proof of the truth of this assertion might be furnished by their

paintings. Those who pride themselves on the blue blood that runs

in their veins have their galleries filled with portraits of the

family, where you may trace the same lineaments handed down from

sire to son for generations, which no change of time or costume can

efface. The Spanish painters have furnished us with the portraits

of their nation, and a beggar to-day might point with pride to his

progenitor on the canvas of Murillo.

How different is the life here from ours!

There are only two meals, unless you choose to take what the

Spaniards call “lonch.” On rising, the boy brings you your bath,

and, if you care for it, as you are sure to do, a cup of coffee.

If you have business to transact, you go to your office: if not,

you take a book or a newspaper, and saunter into the garden, while

the morning is fresh and a thousand delicious odors are around you.

At half-past ten or eleven the household meet at breakfast, when

you pay your respects to the “señorita,” the dear little lady, as

the servants entitle your hostess, and inquire if she has passed

the night well. The breakfast is similar to the French _dejeuner_:

a variety of courses, with perhaps some delicious fruits, and a

cup of _cafe con leche_ at the end. While we are breakfasting, a

friend or relative of the family may enter, and, as he sits and

jokes, he produces his cigarette, ignites and smokes away as only

a Spaniard can, with an ease and a grace and a thorough enjoyment

that are enviable. This may startle our lady readers, but remember

we are in Spain; the dining-room is spacious and lofty, the windows

open, and the pure clear air flower-scented, or, if in season,

loaded with the breath of the orange blossom, gains rather than

loses by the transient odor so faintly discerned of the delicious

Havana leaf. The breakfast ended, your host hands a cigar around

to each of the gentlemen: the ladies remain to chat them out, and

then everybody goes about his business. And here let us answer

once for all a ridiculous question that has often been put to us.

Ladies when speaking of their Spanish sisters are apt to say: “Oh!

yes, I know they are very charming and graceful, and the mantilla

is a love of a costume, and so becoming to a dark complexion; but

tell me, now, is it not true that--they smoke?” The astonishment

of a Spanish gentleman on being asked by every foreigner he meets

if his wife and daughters--for to such the question really reduces

itself--indulge in “the weed,” is just as great as our own would be

on a similar query being put to us regarding our ladies.

We meet again at dinner at six or seven o’clock. Your host may

possess a French cook--we beg his pardon--artiste; if not, you will

have a Spanish dinner unflavored, since we must confess it, by

the too fragrant garlic, which is confined to the mountaineers up

in the Basque Provinces. You have some dishes cooked in oil, and

it is so pure and good that you very soon get to like it. There is

genuine “Vino de Jerez” on the table, undoctored for the market,

clear as amber, ambrosial as nectar, delicious in bouquet and

flavor. You will be astonished at the Spaniards taking so little

of it; many never touch it at all. They prefer claret or pure

water, the climate not admitting of stronger drinks. “_Borracho_,”

drunkard, in Spain, as in most southern countries of Europe, is

the vilest title you can give a man. There are splendid olives and

rare fruits, preserved, or as they dropped from the hand of nature.

More friends may call during dinner, ladies, perhaps, this time,

and your hostess never disturbs herself with the thought that they

have come to see what is on the table. “Señor don Rafael, beso a

Usted la mano,” says the lady to her visitor--“I kiss my hand to

you.” “Beso a Usted los pies, señorita,” responds the cavalier with

a bow--“I kiss your feet, my dear lady.” Dinner over, cigars are

again produced, and we all adjourn to the _patio_, it being too

warm for music or cards. The elders assemble and discuss the funds,

or times, or the state of the country. Politics are very rife at

present, and the fire and animation of the speakers, the variation

of their tones, the free and striking gesture--for with a Spaniard

the whole body speaks--are a pleasing novelty to us, accustomed

to a tamer mode of conversation. The ladies nestle together, and

are deep in the mysteries best known to themselves. The younger

gentlemen gradually detach themselves from their elders, and leave

the country to go to ruin, while they indulge in less momentous

but far more interesting topics with the ladies, and give vent to

their Andalusian wit.

The _patio_ is a feature in a Spanish house. It is a species of

court, large or small, according to the dimensions of the mansion,

paved with flags or marble, with perhaps a fountain playing in

the middle and cooling the atmosphere; in the marble basin silver

and gold fish leap, and a few rare plants freshen around it. High

overhead is a roof of glass, where a canvas screen keeps out

the sun when his rays are too powerful. The house, generally of

two stories in the south, but very lofty, is built around this

quadrangle, the upper floor reaching partly over it, supported

by pillars, sometimes richly wrought and adorned. Paintings

or engravings relieve the bare white walls. On the one side a

doorway, with a little convent grating to peer from, completely

shuts out the view of the street; on the other, an iron gate opens

to the garden, where you see the yellowing oranges clustering

bright in their dark-leaved recesses, and brilliant flowers and

odor-bearing shrubs gladden the eye and soothe the senses. From

the _patio_ we proceed to the _Alameda_ or _paseo_--park or

promenade as we should call them. Here all the world assembles,

seated in groups, sauntering up and down in little bands, small

knots standing a little aloof to discuss some grave topic--nobody

alone. Laughter resounds on all sides--laughter and the Castilian

tongue everywhere: ringing out in music from the mouths of the

dames, swelling and falling and adapting itself to every changing

emotion in the very emotional breasts of those men, rippling over

and enchanting our ears in the tiny mouths of these children. To

a stranger the scene is bewitching; the softness of the air and

the perfume that lingers on it; the animation in the countenances

and gestures of all; the grace of the ladies’ costume, the

ever-fluttering fan which only a Spanish woman knows how to

use; the sallies of wit in tones that mock the best comedian; a

free-heartedness and union among all, springing undoubtedly from

the religion which makes all men brethren. At the very entrance

of the _Alameda_ there is probably a tiny chapel of the _Virgen

Santissima_, with ever-burning light, where men and women pause to

drop a prayer as they go to and from their diversion. Imagine such

a thing in Central Park!

We are in Andalusia, and of all the lovely spots in this lovely

land we think it bears off the palm. Columbus, when the glories

of the Antilles burst upon him after that dreary and momentous

voyage, compared the climate more than once to an April day in

Andalusia. Everything it produces is of the best--corn, wine,

fruits, cattle. The bread is the most delicious and whitest we have

ever tasted or seen. The nights are most lovely. The sky deep and

clear; all the stars of heaven seem to cluster above us, and the

moon shines with a startling brilliancy on the white houses of the

sleeping town, on the brown cathedral that towers above all, on the

dark thick clustering leaves of the orange-trees, on the silent

streets, narrow and straggling, showing every stone and pebble on

the one side with minute distinctness, while the other is buried

in mysterious shadow. Not a sound is heard save the cry of the

_sereno_ calling out the hour as he passes his lonely rounds.

The Andaluz is the embodiment of his climate. A child of the sun,

of the clear free air, with wealth in his fields and the great

ocean smiling all around his coast, where the ships of all nations

come to lade and unlade, he yearns for the freedom which strangers

hold so carelessly, and is ready to fight and to die for it. So

Andalusia is the hotbed of revolution. As the Biscayan is famed

for his unyielding nature, the Gallego for his stupidity, so is

the Andaluz for his wit. He speaks rapidly and with many gestures,

clipping his words--a grave sin against the sonorous Castilian.

He is handsome, quick, fiery, with a keen eye for ridicule, but a

good nature that can never resist a joke even if it be at his own

expense. People say that he derives his comely form and graceful

extremities from the Moors, but he would not thank you to tell

him so. The Andaluza is worthy of such a partner, if she does not

surpass him. If he is a Republican, she is a Carlina, for Don

Carlos with her means religion, and religion means everything.

Byron has painted her, and very faithfully. His remarks on the

state of the country might be written to-day. He moralizes over the

barbarity of the bull-fights, too. They are dying out now in exact

proportion as man-fights are gaining ground with us. Of the two, we

must say we infinitely prefer the bull-fight. It is amusing to hear

Englishmen and Americans virtuously indignant on the immorality

and barbarism of such an exhibition, as they bury themselves next

moment in a three-column description of the latest feat of the

_fancy_, or the glorious contest for hours between two miserable

dogs or wretched cocks. We are lovers of fair play, manliness,

and good-fellowship. We do things in an honest, straightforward

fashion, and the hand that shakes another’s preparatory to

the combat quite takes the sting from the blow that maims his

fellow-man for life or beats that life out of him. So we look on

and applaud and make our bets on the contest, and curse the wretch

who has lost his own miserable life and our money.

But we are straying into civilization; let us go back to barbarism

and Andalusia. The vineyards are decidedly unpicturesque; the vines

low, the soil yellow. But the life at vintage season is

“Full of the warm South,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth.”

The agricultural laborers are very well paid in Spain, getting

as much as one dollar a day or even more. The work is terrible;

out the whole day under a burning sun, delving and cutting and

trenching a dusty soil, with a pick instead of a spade to penetrate

below the upper stratum of dust. They are tall wiry fellows, most

of them from the mountains, brown as the soil, and sinewy, with

dark eyes and crisp, close-cut black hair. A quarter of an hour

spent in merely looking on overpowers us; but they seem made for

the sun. The food that supports them under such toil is composed

chiefly of a single dish called _gazpacho_, and _gazpacho_ merits

special mention. Fill a large bowl with water and vinegar, we

do not know the exact proportions, but there is a great deal of

vinegar, and, so far as we recollect, oil is added. A quantity of

bread is thrown in to soak, and some herbs, with, perhaps, a slight

flavor of garlic; and there you have _gazpacho_, the staple food of

these men in the hot months. You eat a small piece of some light

meat and a salad before it; a piece of toast fried in oil is not

bad; drink a glass of water or two after; light the never-failing

cigarette, and you are cool and refreshed. It may not seem a very

delicate diet to us; but when the _Levante_, the hot desert wind

laden with the finest of the burning sands, comes choking the

atmosphere, and penetrating every crevice with a furnace heat all

the day and all the night, burning the blood in the veins till it

reaches fever-heat, and leaving you weak and utterly prostrate,

“with just strength enough to thank God that breathing is an

involuntary action”--as a gentleman aptly described to me the

effects of the _sirocco_, the Italian equivalent--then place before

a man in such a state of lassitude a steaming joint of roast beef

with the heavy incidentals, and he will turn from it with disgust.

At such moments the _gazpacho_ seems the most delicious dish under

the sun. The houses and furniture of these laborers are the neatest

and cleanest in the world. The same feeling runs through high and

low in Spain; their houses are models of freshness and purity.

And Jacobo or Perico turns out on the Sunday in linen fine as his

master’s, in jacket of velvet with buttons or bells of gold, a

crimson scarf round his waist, and patent-leather shoes shining on

his feet. He can joke and chat with his master with an easy freedom

that never passes beyond the bounds of respect and never sinks into

servility. As you pass him on the road alone or with any number

of his companions, they all lift their _sombreros_ with an inborn

grace, and a genial _buenos dias_ or _buenas tardes, señor_. But

the new order is trying, and with some success, to change all that;

though a stranger still meets in Spain with that rare yet most

Christian thing, unbought courtesy.

The Gallego is the very opposite of the Andaluz--a rude, simple

mountaineer, he is the hewer of wood and drawer of water to his

countrymen. He is honest and open as the day, with a childlike

affection for his master, and is particularly happy at a blunder.

Rare are the stories told in Andalusia of the Gallegos. We give

two, rather as indicating the estimation in which they are held

than as happy specimens of the Andalusian _broma_.

When the post was first introduced into Spain, the postmaster of

a small town in the north was astonished, one day, by a Gallego

bursting in on him with the query, delivered in stentorian tones:

“Is there a letter here for me from my father?”

“I do not know, sir; who is your father?”

This was too much for the Gallego; the idea of anybody in this

world being unacquainted with his parent was so overpowering that,

not being able to restrain his feelings, he rushed from the spot,

and was not heard of for some time afterwards. Meanwhile, a letter

arrived directed in a style of calligraphy that might have done

credit to Mr. Weller, Senior, addressed

To my Son

At San Juan.

Having sufficiently recovered from the violent shock given to

his feelings, the Gallego once more presented himself at the

post-office with the same question, “Is there a letter here from my

father?”

“Oh! yes,” said the official, immediately producing the

mysteriously addressed missive; “here, this is from your father.

Take this one,” and delivered it without the slightest doubt as to

the accuracy of its destination.

Another, on finding himself for the first time in a city, as he

stood gaping and wondering at the sights around him, suddenly heard

a shrill voice cry out, “I don’t want to go to school; the master

beats me.”

He looked around for the child, but the only object that met his

gaze was a parrot, mowing and chattering in a cage, and bobbing,

wriggling, and looking at the Gallego with its cunning old eye

forty different ways at once.

“I don’t want to go to school; the master beats me.”

The bewildered Gallego stared, and pondered, and, after a deep

consultation with himself, came to the conclusion that the voice

must proceed from the cage; from the strange specimen of humanity

before him, so marvellously resembling a bird; but a bird talking

the purest Castilian, though with something of a sharp accent, was

a clear impossibility. His simple, good-nature was hurt at the

idea of having wronged a fellow-creature even in his thoughts. So

turning he excused himself: “Pardon me, child; I thought it was a

bird.”

Of all traits in the national character, their universal civility

astonishes an American or Englishman, accustomed as we are to

the every-man-for-himself principle; yet how few we meet who do

not consider the Spaniards as a treacherous, revengeful, and

bloodthirsty race! Our own statistics, we fear, would furnish

but a sorry set-off against theirs for crime in every phase; and

particularly for the most cowardly, brutal, and premeditated

assaults and assassinations, ending too often with the escape

of the culprit. The quarrels in Spain between man and man arise

generally from some love affair or political difference, very

rarely from money. Two peasants are drinking in a tavern, the wine

excites their fiery blood; one has lost his _novia_, the other has

won her; a blow or an insult is given; they draw their knives, and

adjourn to fight--“just like gentlemen.” It is, in fact, a duel,

which common-sense has not yet been able to laugh out of Spain.

No pecuniary damages, won by the cold arguments that sway a court

of law, can heal the wound of honor in the chivalrous breast of

the Spaniard; and not a few examples have we lately had of lives

lost in this way. One was most tragic in its end as in all its

bearings; I allude to the duel between Don Enrique de Bourbon and

Montpensier. And surely never was presented on the stage a scene

more dramatic or striking. Don Enrique was by profession a naval

officer, high in the service of his royal relative, Queen Isabella,

a young, gallant, and efficient sailor, with a promising future

opening before him. He was happy in the love of a lady destined

as all understood to be his; when suddenly Montpensier stepped in

and won her, scarcely by force of personal attractions, for he

was already well advanced in years; but the marriage was a closer

link to the throne. Don Enrique vowed the death of the man who had

crossed his life at the threshold. But his schemes of vengeance

were baffled; an order came to quit the country, ostensibly for

having joined in conspiracy against the throne. Deprived at once

of his love, his command, and his country, life was closed to

him. From his retirement he sent challenge after challenge to

Montpensier, and vilified him even in the public press, as he could

not force a response from him; but to no purpose. Montpensier,

high in favor at court, secure in possession and in power, could

safely affect to despise the ravings of a madman. By-and-by came

the revolution which drove Isabella out. Now was Don Enrique’s

chance, and he hastened to seize it. As expulsion under the queen’s

reign was a virtue in the eyes of the new government, he applied

for restoration to his country and his rank in the navy. The first

request was granted, the second denied; as the government had

proclaimed an end to the Bourbon race, no member of that race

could take rank under them, unless he renounced his title. Here

again he traced the hand of Montpensier. If he could have nothing

else, at least he would have revenge, being now in the same city

with the man who had crossed him at every step of his career. He

sent his last challenge, publishing it at the same time in the

press, enumerating the occasions on which he had sent similar

messages, which had ever been met by the silence of fear. He heaped

insults upon him, apostrophizing him as a “pastillero frances,”

a fellow ready to soil his hands with the pettiest and meanest

intrigue. Montpensier was at the time a candidate for the Spanish

throne; for the kingship of a people in whose eyes honor was ever

dearer than life; further silence would ruin his prospects; so

at last he was forced out of his reserve, and, in a letter that

sounded well, accepted the challenge as one which a man of honor

could not pass over in silence, disclaiming at the same time any

antagonism to its author personally; if there was any justice in

what he said, it was the result of accident; in fact, leaving

people to understand that he never troubled his head about the man.

They met on a cold gray morning, and the chances of success leaned

decidedly on the side of Don Enrique. A young, bold man, to whom

deadly weapons had been playthings from his infancy, he was urged

on by a life of hate to slay the man who had blighted that life

and darkened its promising opening; his opponent was a middle-aged

man, near-sighted, who bore the reputation of a _littérateur_

rather than a fighter. Both felt that perhaps a crown as well as a

life hung on the trigger. Scarce was the word given to fire when

the bullet of Don Enrique brushed his foe, and Montpensier’s lost

itself in the air. A second shot, and they still stood face to face

uninjured. “Està afinando”--“He is getting closer,” whispered the

prince to his second, as he took the last pistol from his hand. The

words are remarkable as expressing the coolness of the man, whose

eye took in everything at such a moment, and perhaps something

more. At the next discharge, the bullet of the man who, whether

designedly or not, had met him and beaten him at all points,

pierced his breast; he sprang into the air, fell forward, and

rolled contorted on the ground, a corpse--a theme for novelist as

well as moralist: it looked like fatality.

But from such sad scenes we are happy to turn to others more worthy

of our attention and more characteristic of the nation at large.

The thing that of all others cannot fail to strike the visitor

is the intense religion displayed everywhere. “Ay, Maria!” “Por

Dios!”--“For God’s sake”--“Ay, Dios mio,” are the expressions that

buzz around our ears all day. The holy name is a household word

with them, pronounced at all times and on all occasions, but with

a reverence that never shocks. When they wish something done, they

say “Dios quiere”--“God grant it”; when they bid you good-by,

“Adios--Vaya Usted con Dios--Queda Usted con Dios--Que Dios te

guarda”--“Go with God--Rest with God--May God guard thee.” They

speak of the blessed sacrament as “Su Majestad”--“his majesty,”

of the Blessed Virgin always as “la Santissima Virgen”--“the most

Holy Virgin.” The graveyard is “el campo santo”--“the holy field”:

so like the old Catholic “God’s acre” that Longfellow loves. When

they wish to express intense horror of a thing, they make the sign

of the cross on their foreheads, lips, and breast, and then in

the air, as though to place that invincible sign between them and

the object of their abhorrence. The vast majority of the towns and

villages are named after the saints, and each one has its special

patron as well as the patron of the district. And that intense

faith in intercessory prayer to some special saint which holy

writers urge us to cultivate is born in them. On the festival of

Good Friday throughout Spain, the municipality and gentlemen of

the towns walk dressed in evening costume side by side with the

poor. Not a vehicle is to be seen in the street: all the world

is there to watch and pray. The new government, Prim’s, gave the

order for coaches to run as usual on Good Friday, in outrage of a

custom immemorial in the nation, and an honor to them as to all

Christendom of whatever creed. But the coachmen as well as their

masters proved better Christians than their rulers; and on the day

in question not a conveyance was to be seen, save a solitary coach,

which the populace immediately seized, compelling its occupant to

descend, who proved to be a scared member of the diplomatic body.

The celebration of Holy Week in Seville attracts the world thither.

The modern churches in Spain, particularly in Madrid, though

for the most part spacious and lofty, do not impress one with

their beauty. To those accustomed to associate their ideas of

religion with the Gothic style of architecture, the altars will

not be pleasing. Spiral pillars wriggle to the roof, inwrought

and gorgeously painted. The vases are filled with silver and gold

filigree work wrought to imitate flowers. There are many figures,

small or large, of _el niño Jesu_, or _la Santissima Virgen_, or

the saints, not always displaying the most finished art, decked

out with a costume of sober black or gorgeous color and texture,

glittering with gold and precious stones and ornaments of choice

and antique workmanship. Little thanksgiving offerings surround

them. Such things as these look like superstition to the cold eye

of a man to whom faith is folly and reverence ignorance. But there

is something powerful in the simple, earnest belief of the people

who pray before them, and are content to be thus reminded of the

great and good God and Virgin Mother, who are willing to receive

the offerings of the meanest; a reverend familiarity with God is

thus created which those people bear about with them. These men and

women go into the church _to pray_: their very costume is befitting

the sanctuary; and there is very little of that newspaper religion

which some of our weekly journals piously advocate by so carefully

announcing “where the best dresses and prettiest faces are to be

seen.” On the walls hang magnificent paintings. The treasures of

Murillo are in the cathedral of Seville. They were placed there

by his own hand, having been painted for their several positions

that the light might fall on them in such or such a manner. And

it is not unpleasant to think of the sun rising and falling day

after day as though in obedience to the great master who has passed

away, bringing out their beauties faithfully in accordance with

his wish. The construction of the cathedral itself is a triumph

of architecture. Not a stone has shifted from its place since it

was first laid there: there is no sinking or rising in the floor:

and to-day you may pass your cane over the surface and not a joint

offers the slightest obstruction.

The very names of the people are taken from religion and the

mysteries of religion in the same spirit with which they named

their discoveries after Santa Cruz, San Domingo, San José,

Trinidad. Among men’s Christian and surnames we continually find

Jesu, Jesu Maria, Juan de Dios, Santa Cruz, Salvador; among the

women, Concepcion, Dolores--a sweet name after the Mother of

Sorrows, Maria de los Angeles, and the like.

The very streets and the public places are christened in the same

way; and the ships baptized and launched with religious ceremonies,

a custom that prevails also in France.

They preserve the old gospel use of the word woman. That is the

title by which the husband addresses his wife as often as any

other. She calls him _hijo_, son, or _hombre_, man. “_Hija de mi

alma_,” daughter of my soul, is also very common. Ceremony is only

employed with strangers; _tu_, thou, is the form in which intimate

friends are always addressed. After becoming acquainted, you call

the lady of the house and her daughters, whether grown up or young,

by their maiden names simply. It is amusing to hear little ones who

can scarcely lisp address each as _señor_ and _señora_.

They have a fair supply of newspapers, and very able ones, in

Spain; though, as usual, those that enjoy the widest circulation

at present are devoted to the dissemination of false principles.

They are cried out in the streets not by newsboys as with us, but

principally by old blind men, who stand in the most public places

with a tablet of the latest news on their breasts, and having got

their lesson by rote spout away untiringly.

The club is becoming a very favorite institution, and is, in fact,

the stronghold and rendezvous of political parties. There is a very

famous one in Madrid, which numbers among its members such men

as Castelar, Moret, and others. They meet sometimes for public

discussion; and those great orators rise there to propound their

theories as earnestly as in the Cortes.

They have a code of intercourse worthy of imitation. When a Spanish

family takes up its quarters at a hotel or in a new place, the

neighbors, though perfect strangers, call, leave their cards, and

go away. If their acquaintance is desired, they are waited upon

and conversation ensues; if not, the stranger simply returns his

card in the same manner as the other was received; and no slight or

grievance is felt or intended.

The amusements are various. Apart from the opera, theatre, and

those common to all nations, they are very fond of an indoor game

called _volante_, which is simply battledoor and shuttlecock;

ladies and gentlemen play at it together. There is also a very

favorite game of cards, _tresillo_, to which we have no equivalent.

The climate compels the Spanish women to lead a more indoor life

than with us. The men are fond of riding, hunting, and shooting.

They sit as erect on horseback as statues; and the army officers

are very fond of displaying the motions rather than the speed of

their steeds. Mules are in great demand; for the roads in Spain,

except in the neighborhood of the great towns, are very bad; mere

bridle-paths most of them. Seated in a vehicle that would be a

treasure in an art museum for antiquity, construction, and shape,

with a team of six or eight of these animals to jolt you anywhere,

is a position more than pleasant. The jingle of the little bells

with which the harness is adorned, the cracking of the driver’s

whip, the tones in which he endeavors to animate the vicious

brutes, now cajoling them in accents that might win the heart of

a maiden, again pouring forth a volley of imprecations on their

heads and tails and pedigree, as though they were human, is a

study. You can never trust these animals, and it is always the

safer plan to give their hoofs what a sailor would call sea-room.

An archbishop, passing along the streets one day, suddenly came

upon a string of them, and as suddenly crossed to the other side of

the street. “O Señor Arzobispo,” said the muleteer, “you need not

be frightened. These are harmless _animalitos_.”

“Yes, I know they are harmless,” replied his grace, “and that is

the reason I cross here; if they were not, I should go to the next

street.”

This fact of the roads being so bad and the intercommunication

so deficient, coupled with tales of brigandage, gives strangers

the idea that travelling in Spain is very insecure. We might

pass from end to end of the land, unknown and unarmed, with far

greater safety than during a five minutes’ walk through many a

street in New York or London after nightfall. We had an instance

of brigandage and its treatment in Spain during Prim’s _régime_, a

time when the country was as convulsed as at present. Encouraged,

no doubt, by the lamentable success of a similar exploit in Greece,

some miscreants carried off a merchant from Gibraltar, and demanded

a round ransom as the forfeit of his life. Prim, without a moment’s

hesitation as to the nice question of treating with brigands, or

a thought of where the ransom was to come from, paid it, and sent

four of the civil guard to follow up the robbers, which they did

so successfully that they shot them all and retook their booty. We

have not heard of brigandage since in Spain, notwithstanding the

highly touched pictures presented, the other day, of an attack on

a railway train, accompanied by smoke and powder, and brigands in

the stage costume of centuries back.

This civil guard is an excellent institution. The body is recruited

from the best ranks of the soldiery. It is a distinction to be

admitted among them, which engenders an _esprit de corps_ that

makes them the terror of the wrong-doer and the right arm of order.

We ourselves might take a lesson from the incident mentioned above,

if we are to credit the reports of the Lowery gang.

They have but one great line of railroad in Spain, which runs

through the country from north to south. The train creeps along at

a steady thirty miles an hour, without a moment’s variation. To a

stranger, wishing to catch a glimpse of the country, this is highly

advantageous; as he is not whirled away at a rate that presents to

his anxious eye trees, houses, mountains, streams, in a phrenzied

panorama. For our present notions of commerce it may be too slow,

and a man in a hurry feels half inclined to get out and walk; but

as a set-off against this, the Spaniards pride themselves on not

having had a single accident accompanied by loss of life since the

railroad was first started. You are rolled through the fertile

plains and swelling uplands of Andalusia, rich in corn and wine

and oil; through fields, and orange and olive groves, dotted with

white towns and modest villages, where the church-tower ever soars

above all as a landmark. You pass Seville; and as its associations

crowd upon you, fain would you linger amid the gay society of the

lovely city smiling amid its groves and gardens; dreaming day by

day in _las delicias_; lost amid the treasures of art that make

every boy in the street an efficient critic, so accustomed is his

eye to the beautiful and the true. Famous spots and historic cities

greet you as you go. The Escurial looms up, a white, silent palace

with deserted windows, standing out in startling relief from a

semi-circle of bare mountains. Not a soul was to be seen around it;

the monks had been just expelled; not a sound to break the painful

silence that seemed to emanate from the gloomy pile. It stood there

as the great king left it, a type of himself, out of the world in a

grandeur of isolation; a something that ought to have passed away,

unknown in these days. Had a troop of cavaliers with pennon and

plume and glistening mail shone out a moment on the mountain-side,

it would have seemed in keeping with the place rather than strange.

There is almost a contrast between the ages as our little engine

puffs and snorts and fumes, fretting to “go ahead” and leave it,

staring out of its silent windows, unmoved, untouched by the age,

which busies itself with things and not with ideas.

Before arriving at Madrid, where the train stops for a few hours,

we pass through Aranjuez, the beautiful summer-palace of the late

queen; with its woods and magnificent vistas and lengthening

avenues, full of lovely recesses and places of cool shade. At last

we are in the heart of the kingdom.

Madrid, though not very large, is a brilliant city. Its _prado_

where fashion saunters is beautifully laid out. It has a splendid

museum, many churches, though none of them remarkable for beauty,

and the vast palace of royalty, rich in furniture and objects of

art. The houses and public buildings are lofty, the hotels many

and excellent. Fountains spout in the open squares; crowds are

buzzing through the streets or discussing at the _cafés_, for

politics absorb the life in Madrid. The weather is treacherous, and

many are carried off in a few hours by a _pulmonia_, for, as their

proverb says, “The air of Madrid will not cause a leaf to flutter

from the tree, but will kill a man.” Though the sky is clear and

blue, and the sun shines out royally, a breeze comes down from the

neighboring _sierras_, frost-laden, that pierces you through and

through, and searches all your bones, and the very marrow in them;

there is death in its breath. For all that, the Madrileños live a

very gay life; retiring to rest generally at the small hours, and

rising when they please. In the summer the city is empty, even

the shopkeepers flit; for the heat is then intolerable, and they

wander to San Sebastian or the south of France, or to their own

watering-places, which are numerous and inferior to none.

As the train bears us further north, the scene ever varying grows

more and more deserted. You close the curtains of the carriage

to keep out the heat during the day, while at night you may wake

amid frost and snow. The villagers and mountaineers crowd to the

carriage windows at every station; old men, and dark-eyed boys,

and graceful girls, with fruits and wines, and water, and milk.

“Quien quiere agua? Agua fresca? Quien quiere leche? Agua como

la nieve!”--“Who wants water--cool water? Who wants milk? Water

cool as snow,” is the shrill cry from many throats on all sides.

“Señorito, un quartito por el amor de Dios”--“A farthing, my dear

little sir, for the love of God.” “Teno lastima de, un pobrescito,

señorito mio, y Dios te lo pagara”--“Have pity on a poor little

one, and God will repay thee,” snivels an old beggar in pitiful

rags. If you listened to him for five minutes, he would treat

you to a sermon on the evil of poverty and the eternal rewards of

generosity, that would rival the most eloquent of preachers and

charm the money out of your pockets.