CHAPTER XII.

BROWN BREAD AND BONNYCLABBER.

Seraphin had not gone to the celebration. He remained at home on the

plea of not feeling well. He was stretched upon a sofa, and his soul

was engaged in a desperate conflict. What it was impossible for himself

to look upon, had been viewed by his father with composure: the

burlesque procession, the public derision of holy practices, the

mockery of the Redeemer of the world, in whose place had been put a

broken bottle on the symbol of salvation. He himself had been stunned

by the spectacle; and his father? Was it his father? Again, his father

had accompanied the brother and sister to the infamous celebration. Was

not this a direct confirmation of his own suspicions? His father had

become a fearful enigma to his soul! And what if, upon his return from

the festival, the father were to come and insist upon the marriage with

Louise, declaring her advanced notions to be an insufficient ground for

renouncing a pet project? A wild storm was convulsing his interior. He

could not bear it longer, he was driven forth. Snatching his straw hat,

he rushed from the house, ran through the alleys and streets, out of

the town, onward and still onward. The August sun was burning, and its

heat, reflected from the road, was doubly intense. The perspiration was

rolling in large drops down the glowing face of the young man, whom

torturing thoughts still kept goading on. Holt's whitewashed dwelling

became visible on the summit of a knoll, and gleamed a friendly welcome

as he came near it--a welcome which seemed opportune for one who hardly

knew whither he was hastening. The walnut-tree which could be seen from

afar was casting an inviting shade over the table and bench that seemed

to be confidingly leaning against its stem. A flock of chickens were

taking a sand-bath under the table, flapping their wings, ruffling

their feathers, and wallowing in the dust. Seated on the sunny hillock,

the cottage appeared quiet, almost lonesome but for a ringing sound

which came from the adjoining field and was made by the sickle passing

through the corn. A broad-brimmed straw hat with a blue band could be

noticed from the road moving on over the fallen grain, and presently

Mechtild's slender form rose into view as she pushed actively onward

over the harvest field. Hasty steps resounded from the road. She raised

her head, and her countenance first indicated surprise, then

embarrassment. Whom did her eyes behold rushing wildly by, like a

fugitive, but the generous rescuer of her family from the clutches of

the usurer Shund. His hat was in his hand, his auburn locks were

hanging down over his forehead, his face aglow, his whole being seemed

to be absorbed in a mad pursuit. To her quick eye his features revealed

deep trouble and violent excitement She was frightened, and the sickle

fell from her hand. Not a day passed on which she would not think of

this benefactor. Perhaps there was not a being on earth whom she

admired and revered as much as she did him. All the pure and elevated

sentiments of an innocent and blooming girl, united to form a halo of

affection round the head of Seraphin. At evening prayer when her father

said, "Let us pray for our benefactor Seraphin," her soul sent up a

fervent petition to God, and she declared with joy that she was willing

to sacrifice all for him. But behold this noble object of her

admiration and affection suddenly presented before her in a state that

excited the greatest uneasiness. With his head sunk and his eyes

directed straight before him, he would have rushed past without

noticing the sympathizing girl, when a greeting clear and sweet as the

tone of a bell caused him to look up. He beheld Mechtild with her

beautiful eyes fixed upon him in an expression of anxiety.

"Good-morning, Mr. Seraphin," she said again.

"Good-morning," he returned mechanically, and staring about vaguely.

His bewilderment soon passed, however, and his gaze was riveted by the

apparition.

She was standing on the other side of the ditch. The fear of some

unknown calamity had given to her beautiful face an expression of

tender solicitude, and whilst a smile struggled for possession of her

lips her look indicated painful anxiety. Mechtild's appearance soon

directed the young man's attention to his own excited manner. The dark

shadow disappeared from his brow, he wiped the perspiration from his

face, and began to feel the effect of his walk under the glowing heat

of midsummer.

"Ah! here is the neat little white house, your pretty country home,

Mechtild," he said pleasantly. "If you had not been so kind as to wish

me good-morning, I should actually have passed by in an unpardonable

fit of distraction."

"I was almost afraid to say good-morning, Mr. Seraphin, but--" She

faltered and looked confused.

"But--what? You didn't think anything was wrong?"

"No! But you were in such a hurry and looked so troubled, I got

frightened," she confessed with amiable uprightness. "I was afraid

something had happened you."

"I am thankful for your sympathy. Nothing has happened me, nor, I

trust, will," he replied, with a scarcely perceptible degree of

defiance in his tone. "This is a charming situation. Corn-fields on all

sides, trees laden with fruit, the skirt of the woods in the

background--and then this magnificent view! With your permission, I

will take a moment's rest in the shade of yon splendid walnut-tree

planted by your great-grandfather."

She joyfully nodded assent and stepped over the ditch. She shoved back

the bolt of the gate. Together they entered the yard, which a hedge

separated from the road. The cock crew a welcome to the stranger, and

led his household from the sand-bath into the sunshine near the barn.

"This is a cool, inviting little spot," said the millionaire, as he

pointed to the shade of the walnut-tree. "No doubt you often sit here

and read?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin; but the dirty chickens have scattered dust all over

the bench and table. Wait a minute, you'll get your clothes dusty."

She hurried into the house. His eyes followed her receding form, his

ears kept listening for her departing steps, he heard the opening and

closing of doors: presently she reappeared, dusted the bench and table

with a brush, and spread a white cloth over the table. Seraphin looked

on with a smile.

"I do not wish to be troublesome, Mechtild!"

"It is no trouble, Mr. Seraphin! Sit down, now, and rest yourself. I am

so sorry father and mother are not at home. They will be ever so glad

to hear that you have honored us with a visit."

"Is nobody at home?"

"Father is in town, and mother is at work with the children in the

harvest field."

"Are you not afraid to stay here by yourself?"

"What should I be afraid of? There are no ghosts in daytime," she said

with a bewitching archness; "and as for thieves, they never expect to

find anything worth having at our house."

She was standing on the other side of the table, looking at him with a

beautiful smile.

"Won't you have a seat on this bench?" said he, making room for her.

"You need rest more than I do. You have been working, and I am merely

an idle stroller. Do take a seat, Mechtild."

"Thank you, Mr. Seraphin--I could not think of doing so! It would not

be becoming," she answered with some confusion.

"Why not becoming?"

"Because you are a gentleman, and I am only a poor girl."

"Your objection on the score of propriety is not worth anything. Oblige

me by doing what I ask of you."

"I will do so, Mr. Seraphin, since you insist upon it, but after a

while. I would like to offer you some refreshments beforehand, if you

will allow me."

"With pleasure," he said, nodding assent.

A second time she hurried away to the house, whilst he kept listening

to her footsteps. The extraordinary neatness and cleanliness which

could be seen everywhere about the little homestead did not escape his

observation. On all sides he fancied he saw the work of Mechtild. The

purity of her spirit, which beamed so mildly from her eyes and was

revealed in the beauty of her countenance and the grace of her person,

seemed embodied in the very odor of roses wafted over from the

neighboring flower garden. He was unconscious of the rapid growth

within his bosom of a deep and tender feeling. This feeling was casting

a warm glow, like softest sunshine, over all that he beheld. Not even

the chickens looked to him like other fowls of their kind; they were

ennobled by the reflection that they were objects of Mechtild's care,

that she fed them, that when they were still piping little pullets she

had held them in her lap and caressed them. He abandoned himself

completely to this sentiment; it carried him on like a smooth current;

and he could not tell, did not suspect even, why so wonderful a

reaction had in so short a time taken place in his interior. Beholding

himself seated under the walnut-tree surrounded only by evidences of

honorable poverty and rural thrift, and yet feeling a degree of

happiness and peace he had never known before, he fancied he was

performing a part in some fairy tale which he was dreaming with

his eyes open. And now the fairy appeared at the door having on a

snowy-white apron, and carrying a shallow basket from which could be

seen, protruding above the rest of its contents, a milk jar. She set

before him a pewter plate, bright as silver. Then she took out the jar

and a cup, next she laid a knife and spoon for him, and finished her

hospitable service with a huge loaf of bread.

"Don't get dismayed at the bread, Mr. Seraphin! I am sorry I cannot set

something better before you. But it is well baked and will not hurt

you!"

"You baked it yourself, did you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin!"

He attacked the loaf resolutely. From the dimensions of the slice which

he cut off, it was plain that appetite and his confidence in her skill

were satisfactory. She raised the jar of bonnyclabber, which lurched

out in jerks upon his plate, whilst he kept gayly stirring it with the

spoon. Then she dipped a spoonful of rich cream out of the cup and

poured it into the refreshing contents of the plate.

"Let me know when you want me to stop, Mr. Seraphin." Mechtild poured

spoonful after spoonful; he sat immovable, seemingly observing the

spoon, but in reality watching her soft plump fingers, then her

well-shaped hand, next her exquisitely arm, and, when finally he raised

his eyes to her face, they were met by a mischievous smile. The cup was

empty, and all the cream was in his plate.

"May I go and fetch some more?" she asked.

"No, Mechtild, no! Why, this is a regular yellow sea!"

"You wouldn't cry 'enough!'"

"I forgot about it," he replied, somewhat confused. "To atone for my

forgetfulness, I will eat it all."

"I hope you will relish it, Mr. Seraphin!"

"Thank you! Where is your plate?"

"I had my dinner before you came."

"Well, then, at any rate you must not continue standing. Won't you

share this seat with me?"

She seated herself upon the bench, took off her hat, smoothed down her

apron, and appeared happy at seeing him eating heartily.

"Don't you find that dish refreshing, Mr. Seraphin?"

"You have done me a real act of charity," he replied. "This bread, is

excellent. Who taught you how to make bread?"

"I learned from mother; but there isn't much art in making that sort of

bread, Mr. Seraphin. The food which people in the country eat does not

require artistic preparation. It only needs good, pure material, so

that it may give strength to labor."

"I suppose you attend to the kitchen altogether, do you not?"

"Yes, Mr. Seraphin. That's not very difficult, our meals are of the

plainest kind. We have meat once a week, on Sundays. When the work is

unusually hard, as in harvest time, we have meat oftener. We raise our

own meat and cure it."

"You have assumed household cares at quite an early age, Mechtild."

"Early? I am seventeen now, and am the oldest. Mother has a great deal

of trouble with the small ones, so the housework falls chiefly to my

share. It does not require any great exertion, however, to do it. Plain

and saving is our motto. Mother specially recommends four things:

industry, cleanliness, order, and economy. She advises me not to

neglect any one of these points when once I will have a household of my

own."

"Do you think you will soon set up a separate household?" asked he with

some hesitation.

"Not for some time to come, Mr. Seraphin, yet it must be done one day.

If my own inclination were consulted, I would prefer never to leave

home. I should like things to continue as they are. But a separation

must come. Death will pay us a visit as it has done to others, father

and mother will pass away, and the course of events will sever us from

one another."

Her head sank, the brightness of her face became obscured beneath the

shadow of these sombre thoughts, and, when she again looked up, there

appeared in her eyes so touching and childlike a sadness that he felt

pained to the soul. And yet this revelation of tenderness pleased him,

for it made known to him a new phase of her amiable nature.

For a long time he continued conversing with the artless girl. Every

word she uttered, no matter how trifling, had an interest for him.

Besides her charming artlessness, he had frequent occasions to admire

the wisdom of her language and her admirable delicacy. The setting sun

had already cast a subdued crimson over the hilltops, hours had sped

away, the chickens had gone to roost, still he remained riveted to the

spot by Mechtild's grace and loveliness.

"Father is just coming," she said, pointing down the road. "How glad he

will be to find you here!"

His head bent forward. Holt came wearily plodding up the road. His

right hand was hidden in the pocket of his pantaloons, and his head was

bowed, as if beneath a heavy weight. As Mechtild's clear voice rang

out, he raised his head, caught sight of his high-hearted benefactor,

and smiled in joyful surprise.

"Welcome, Mr. Seraphin; a thousand times welcome!" he cried from the

other side of the road. "Why, this is an honor that I had not

expected!"

He stood uncovered, holding his cap in the left hand, his right hand

was still concealed. Mechtild at once noticed her father's singular

behavior, and her eye watched anxiously for the hidden hand.

"Your daughter has been so kind as to offer refreshments to a weary

wanderer," said Gerlach, "and it has been a great pleasure for me to

sit awhile. We have been chatting for several hours under this glorious

tree, and may be I am to blame for keeping her from her work."

Holt's honest face beamed with satisfaction. He entirely forgot about

his secret, he drew his hand out of his pocket, Mechtild turned pale,

and a sharp cry escaped her lips.

"For mercy's sake, father!" And she pointed to the broken chain.

"What are you screaming for, foolish girl? Don't be alarmed, Mr.

Seraphin! this chain has got on my arm in an honorable cause. I will

tell you the whole story; I know you will not inform on me."

Seating himself on the bench, he related the adventures of the day.

The mock procession passed before Mechtild's imagination with the

vividness of reality. The narration transformed her. Her mildness was

changed to noble anger. She had heard of the vicar of Christ being

insulted, of holy things being scoffed at, of the Redeemer being

derided by a horde of wretches. With her arms akimbo, she drew up her

lithe and graceful form to its full height, and with flashing eyes

looked at her father while he related what had befallen him. Seraphin

could not help wondering at the transformation. Such a display of

spirit he had not been prepared to witness in a girl so gentle and

beautiful. When her father had ended his account, she seized his hand

passionately, pressed it warmly between her own hands, and kissed the

chain.

"Father, dear father," she exclaimed in a burst of feeling, "I thank

you from my heart for acting as you did! Those wretches were scoffing

at our holy religion, but you behaved bravely in defence of the faith.

For this they put chains on you, as the heathen did to S. Peter and S.

Paul."

Once more she kissed the chain, then, turning quickly, hastened across

the yard to the house.

"Mechtild isn't like the rest of us," said Holt, smiling. "There's a

great deal of spirit in her. I have often noticed it. But I am not

astonished at her being roused at the mock procession--I was roused

myself. I declare, Mr. Seraphin, it is a shame, a crying shame, that

persons are permitted to rail at doctrines and things which we revere

as holy. One would almost believe Satan himself was in some people,

they take so fanatical a delight in scoffing at a religion which is

holy and enjoins nothing but what is good."

"It is incontestable that infidelity hates and opposes God and

religion," replied Gerlach. "The boasted culture of those who find a

pleasure in grossly wounding the most sacred feelings of their

neighbors, is wicked and stupid."

Mechtild returned with a file in her hand.

"Right, my child! I was just thinking of the file myself. Here, cut the

catches of the lock."

He laid his arm across the table. A few strokes of the file caused the

lock and remnant of chain to fall from his wrist.

"We will keep this as a precious memento," said she. "Only think,

father, that wicked official ordered you to be manacled, and he is the

representative of authority. How can one respect or even pray for

authorities when they allow religion to be ridiculed?"

"Pray for your enemies," answered the countryman gravely.

"I will do so because God commands me; but I shall never again be able

to respect the official!"

Her anger had fled; she appeared again all light and loveliness. He did

not fail to observe a searching look which she directed upon him, but

its meaning became clear to him only when, as he was taking leave, she

said in a tone of humility: "Pardon my vehemence, Mr. Seraphin! Don't

think me a bad girl."

"There is nothing to be forgiven, Mechtild. You were indignant against

godless wretches, and they who are not indignant against evil cannot

themselves be good."

"We are most heartily thankful for this visit," spoke Holt. "I need not

say that we will consider it a great happiness as often as you will be

pleased to come."

"Good-night!" returned the young man, and he walked away.

Deeply immersed in his thoughts, Seraphin went back to town. What he

was thinking about, his diary does not record. But the excitement under

which he had rushed forth was gone--dispelled by the magic of a rural

sorceress. He walked on quietly like a man who seems filled with

confidence in his own future. The recent painful impressions seemed to

his mind to lie far back in the past; their place was taken up by

beautiful anticipations which, like the aurora, shed soft and pleasing

light upon his path. He halted frequently in a dream-like reverie to

indulge the happiness with which his soul was flooded. The full moon,

just peering over the hills, shed around him a mystic brightness that

harmonized perfectly with the indefinable contentment of his heart, and

seemed to be gazing quizzingly into the countenance of the young man,

who almost feared to confess to himself that he had found an invaluable

treasure.

As he stopped before the Palais Greifmann, all the bright spirits that

had hovered round about him on the way back from the little whitewashed

cottage, fled. He awoke from his dream, and, ascending the stairs with

a feeling of discomfort, he entered his apartment, where his father sat

awaiting him.

"At last," spoke Mr. Conrad, looking up from a book. "You have kept me

waiting a long time, my son."

"I was in need of a good long walk, father, to get over what I

witnessed this morning. The country air has dispelled all those

horrible impressions. There is only one thing more required to make me

feel perfectly well, dear father, which is that you will not insist on

my allying myself to people who are utterly opposed to my way of

thinking and feeling."

"I understand and approve of your request, Seraphin. The impressions

made on me, too, are exceedingly disagreeable. The advancement of which

this town boasts is stupid, immoral, detestable. How this state of

society has come about, is inexplicable to me who live secluded in the

country. Society is diseased, fatally diseased. Many of the new views

professed are sheer superstition, and their morality is a mere cloak

for their corruption and wickedness. All the powers of progress

so-called are actively at work to subvert all the safeguards of

society. And what your diary reports of Louise, I have found fully

confirmed. Though it cost the sacrifice of a long cherished plan, a son

of mine shall never become the husband of a progressionist woman."

"O father! how deeply do I thank you!" cried the youth, carried away by

his feelings.

"I must decline being thanked, for I have not merited it," spoke Mr.

Conrad earnestly. "A father's duty determines very clearly what my

decision upon the matter of your marriage with Louise, ought to be. But

I am under obligations to you, my son, which justice compels me to

acknowledge. Your discernment and moral sense have prevented a great

deal of discord and unhappiness in our family. Continue good and true,

my Seraphin!"

He pressed his son to his bosom and imprinted a kiss on his forehead.

"To-morrow we shall start for home by the first train. Fortunately your

prudent behavior makes it easy for us to get away, and the final

breaking off of this engagement I will myself arrange with Louise's

father."

SERAPHIN GERLACH TO THE AUTHOR.

Dear Sir: Two years ago, I took the liberty of sending you my diary,

with the request that you would be pleased to publish such portions of

its contents as might be useful, in the form of a tale illustrative of

the times. I made the request because I consider it the duty of a

writer who delineates the condition of society, to transmit to

posterity a faithful picture of the present social status, and I am

vain enough to believe that my jottings will be a modest contribution

towards such a tableau.

The meagre account given by the diary of my intercourse with Mechtild,

will probably have enabled you to perceive the germ of a pure and true

relation likely to develop itself further. I shall add but a few items

to complete the account of the diary, knowing that poets, painters, and

artists have rigorously determined bounds, and that a twilight cannot

be represented when the sun is at the zenith. I am emboldened to use

this illustration because your unbounded admiration of pure womanhood

is well known to me, and because the brightness of Mechtild's

character, were it further described, would no more be compatible with

the sombre colorings in which a true picture of modern progress would

have to be exhibited, than the noonday sun with the shadows of evening.

My memoranda concerning Mechtild, which, despite studied soberness,

betrayed a considerable degree of admiration, made known to my parents,

naturally enough, the secret of my heart. Hence it came that a quiet

smile passed over my father's face every time I commenced to speak of

Mechtild. Holt's manly deed at the mock procession had already gained

for him my father's esteem, and, as I spoke a great deal about Holt's

thoroughness as a cultivator, my father began to look upon him as a

very desirable man to employ.

"We want an experienced man on the 'green farm,'" said father, one day.

"Offer the situation to Holt, and tell him to come to see me about it.

I want to talk with him."

"Give the good man my compliments," said mother; "tell him I would be

much pleased to become acquainted with Mechtild, who sympathized with

you so kindly on that memorable day!"

I wrote without delay. Holt came, and so did Mechtild. But few moments

were necessary to enable mother to detect the girl's fine qualities.

Father, too, was delightfully surprised at her modesty, the beauty of

her form, and grace of her manner. He visited the farm accompanied by

Holt. The cultivator's extraordinary knowledge, his practical manner of

viewing things, and the shrewdness of his counsels in regard to the

improvement of worn-out land and the cultivation of poor soil,

completely charmed my father. A contract containing very favorable

conditions for Holt was entered into, and three weeks later the family

took charge of the "green farm."

Upon mother's suggestion, Mechtild was sent to an educational

institution, where she acquired in ten months' time the learning and

culture necessary for associating with cultivated people.

Father and mother had received her on her return like a daughter. This

reception was given her not only in consideration of Holt's skilful and

faithful management of business, but also on account of Mechtild's own

splendid womanly character--perhaps, too, partly on account of my

unbounded admiration for the rare girl.

"The girl is an ornament to her sex," lauded my father. "Her polished

manner and ease in company do not suffer one to suspect ever so

remotely that she at any time plied the reaping-hook, and came out of a

stubblefield to regale a weary wanderer with brown bread and

bonnyclabber. I am quite in harmony with, your secret wishes, my dear

Seraphin! At the same time, I am of opinion that a step promising so

much happiness ought not to be longer deferred. I think, then, you

should ask the father for his daughter without delay, so that I may

soon have the pleasure of giving you my blessing."

From my father's arms, into which. I had thrown myself in thankfulness,

I hastened away to the "green farm," where Mechtild with maidenly

blushes, and Holt in speechless astonishment, heard and granted my

petition.

I am now four months married. I am the blest husband of a wife whose

lovely qualities are daily showing themselves to greater advantage.

Mechtild presides over Chateau Hallberg like an angel of peace. Towards

my father and mother she conducts herself with filial reverence and

never-ceasing delicate attentions. Mother loves her unspeakably, and no

access of ill humor in father can withstand her charming smile and

prudent mirth. Concerning the banking-house of Greifmann, I have only

sad things to tell. Carl's father had entered into very considerable

speculations which failed and drove him into bankruptcy. Carl saw the

blow coming, and saved himself in a disgraceful manner. There was a

savings institution connected with the bank in which poor people and

servants deposited the savings of their hard labor. Carl appropriated

this fund and made off a short time before the failure of the house.

Thousands of poor persons were robbed of the little sums which they

were saving for old age, by denying themselves many even of the

necessaries of life.

The maledictions and curses of these unfortunate people followed across

the ocean the thief whose modern culture and progressive humanity did

not hinder him from committing a crime which no Christian can be guilty

of without losing his claim to the title. Carl, however, still

continues to pass for a man of culture and humanity notwithstanding his

deed. And why should he not, since without faith in the Deity moral

obligations do not exist, and consequently every species of crime is

allowable? The old gentleman Greifmann died shortly after his ruin;

Louise lost her mind.

My father felt the misfortune of the Greifmanns deeply, without,

however, regretting in the smallest degree the wise determination which

their godless principles and actions had driven him to. Formerly he

could never find time to take part in the elections. But now he is

constantly speaking about the duty of every respectable man to oppose

the infernal machinations and plans of would-be progress. He intends at

the next election to use all his influence for the election of

conscientious deputies, so that the evil may be put an end to which

consists in trying to undermine the foundations of society.

Accept, dear sir, the assurance of the esteem with which I have the

honor to be

Your most obedient servant,

Seraphin Gerlach.

Chateau Hallberg, Jan. 4, 1872.

FOOTNOTE TO THE PROGRESSIONISTS.

[Footnote 1: Proverbs vi., vii.]

ANGELA.

A N G E L A.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF

CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

* * * * *

CHAPTER I.

CRINOLINE.

An express train was just on the eve of leaving the railway station in

Munich. Two fashionably dressed gentlemen stood at the open door of a

railway carriage, in conversation with a third, who sat within. These

two young men bore on their features the marks of youthful dissipation,

indicating that they had not been sparing of pleasures. The one in the

carriage had a handsome, florid countenance, two clear, expressive

eyes, and thick locks of hair, which he now and then stroked back from

his fine forehead. He scarcely observed the conversation of the two

friends, who spoke of balls, dogs, horses, theatres, and ballet-girls.

In the same carriage sat another traveller, evidently the father of the

young man. He was reading the newspaper--that is the report of the

money market--while his fleshy left hand dallied with the heavy gold

rings of his watch-chain. He had paid no attention to the conversation

till an observation of his son brought him to serious reflection.

"By the bye," said one of the young men quickly, "I was nearly

forgetting to tell you the news, Richard! Do you know that Baron Linden

is engaged?"

"Engaged? To whom?" said Richard carelessly.

"To Bertha von Harburg. I received a card this morning, and immediately

wrote a famous letter of congratulation."

Richard looked down earnestly, and shook his head.

"I commiserate the genial baron," said he. "What could he be thinking

of, to rush headlong into this misfortune?"

The father looked in surprise at his son; the hand holding the paper

sank on his knee.

"Permit me, gentlemen," said the conductor; the doors were closed, the

friends nodded good-by, and the train moved off.

"Your observation about Linden's marriage astonishes me, Richard. But

perhaps you were only jesting."

"By no means," said Richard. "Never more earnest in my life. I

expressed my conviction, and my conviction is the result of careful

observation and mature reflection."

The father's astonishment increased.

"Observation--reflection--fudge!" said the father impatiently, as he

folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket. "How can a young man of

twenty-two talk of experience and observation! Enthusiastic nonsense!

Marriage is a necessity of human life. And you will yet submit to this

necessity."

"True, if marriage be a necessity, then I suppose I must bow to the

yoke of destiny. But, father, this necessity does not exist. There are

intelligent men enough who do not bind themselves to woman's caprices."

"Oh! certainly, there are some strange screech-owls in the world---some

enthusiasts. But certainly you do not wish to be one of them. You, who

have such great expectations. You, the only son of a wealthy house.

You, who have a yearly income of thousands to spend."

"The income can be enjoyed more pleasantly, free and single, father."

"Free and single--and enjoyed! Zounds! you almost tempt me to think ill

of you. Happily, I know you well. I know your strict morality, your

solidity, your moderate pretensions. All these amiable qualities please

me. But this view of marriage I did not expect; you must put away this

sickly notion."

The young man made no answer, but leaned back in his seat with a

disdainful smile.

Herr Frank gazed thoughtfully through the window. He reflected on the

determined character of his son, whose disposition, even when a child,

shut him out from the world, and who led an interior, meditative life.

Strict regularity and exact employment of time were natural to him. At

school, he held the first place in all branches. His ambition and

effort were to excel all others in knowledge. His singular questions,

which indicated a keen observation and capacity, had often excited the

surprise of his father. And while the companions of the youth hailed

with delight the time which released them from the benches of the

school and from their studies, Richard cheerfully bound himself to his

accustomed task, to appease his longing for knowledge. Approaching

manhood had not changed him in this regard. He was punctual to the

hours of business, and labored with zeal and interest, to the great joy

of his father. He recreated himself with music and, painting, or by a

walk in the open country, for whose beauties he had a keen

appreciation. The few shades of his character were, a proud

haughtiness, an unyielding perseverance in his determinations, and a

strength of conviction difficult to overcome. But perhaps these shades

were, after all, great qualities, which were to brighten up and polish

his maturity. This obstinacy the father was now considering, and, in

reference to his singular view of marriage, it filled him with great

anxiety.

"But, Richard," began Herr Frank again, "how did you come to this

singular conclusion?"

"By observation, and reflection--and also by experience, although you

deny my years this right."

"What have you experienced and observed?"

"I have observed woman as she is, and found that such a creature would

only make me miserable. What occupies their minds? Fineries, pleasures;

and trifles. The pivot of their existence turns on dress, ornaments,

balls, and the like. We live in an age of crinoline, and you know how I

abominate that dress; I admit my aversion is abnormal, perhaps

exaggerated, but I cannot overcome it. When I see a woman going through

the streets with swelling hoops, the most whimsical fancies come into

my mind. It reminds me of an inflated balloon, whose clumsy swell

disfigures the most beautiful form. It reminds me of a drunken gawk,

who swaggers along and carries the foolish gewgaw for a show. The

costume is indeed expressive. It reveals the interior disposition.

Crinoline is to me the type of the woman of our day--an empty, vain,

inflated something. And this type repels me."

"Then you believe our women to be vain, pleasure-seeking, and destitute

of true womanhood, because they wear crinoline?"

"No, the reverse. An overweening propensity to show and frivolity

characterizes our women, and therefore they wear crinoline in spite of

the protestations of the men."

"Bah! Nonsense; you lay too much stress on fashion. I know many women

myself who complain of this fashion."

"And afterward follow it. This precisely confirms my opinion. Women

have no longer sufficient moral force to disregard a disagreeable

restraint. Their vanity is still stronger than their inclinations to a

natural enjoyment of life."

"Do you want a wife who would be sparing and saving; who, by her

frugality, would increase your wealth; who, by her social seclusion,

would not molest your cash-box?"

"No; I want no wife," answered the young man, somewhat pettishly. "And

I am not alone in this. The young men are beginning to awaken. A sound,

natural feeling revolts against the vitiated taste of the women.

Alliances are forming everywhere. The last paper announced that, at

Marseilles, six thousand young men have, with joined hands, vowed never

to marry until the women renounce their ruinous costumes and costly

idleness, and return to a plain style of dress and frugal habits. I

object to this propensity to ease and pleasure--this desire of our

women for finery and the gratification of vanity. Not because this

inclination is expensive, but because it is objectionable. Every

creature has an object. But, if we consider the women of our day, we

might well ask, for what are they here?

"For what are women here, foolish man?" interrupted Herr Frank. "Are

they to go about without any costume, like Eve before the fall? Are

they to know the trials of life, and not its joys? Are they to exist

like the women of the sultan, shut up in a harem? For what are they

here? I will tell you. They are here to make life cheerful. Does not

Schiller say,

"'Honor to woman! she scatters rife

Heavenly roses, 'mid earthly life;

Love she weaves in gladdening bands;

Chastity's veil her charm attires;

Beautiful thoughts' eternal fires,

Watchful, she feeds with holy hands.'"

Richard smiled.

"Poetical fancy!" said he. "My unhappy friend Emil Schlagbein often

declaimed and sang with passion that same poem of Schiller's. Love

had even made a poet of him. He wrote verses to his Ida. And now,

scarcely three years married, he is the most miserable man in the

world--miserable through his wife. Ida has still the same finely carved

head as formerly; but that head, to the grief of Emil, is full of

stubbornness--full of whimsical nonsense. Her eyes have still the same

deep blue; but the charming expression has changed, and the blue not

unfrequently indicates a storm. How often has Emil poured out his

sorrows to me! How often complained of the coldness of his wife! A ball

missed--missed from necessity--makes her stupid and sulky for days. In

vain he seeks a cheerful look. When he returns home worried by the

cares of business, he finds no consolation in Ida's sympathy, but is

vexed by her stubbornness and offended by her coldness. Emil sprang

headlong into misery. I will beware of such a step."

"You are unjust and prejudiced. Must all women, then, be Ida

Schlagbeins?"

"Perhaps my Ida might be still worse," retorted Richard sharply.

Herr Frank drummed on his knees, always a sign of displeasure.

"I tell you, Richard," said he emphatically. "Your time will come yet.

You will follow the universal law, and this law will give the lie to

your one-sided view--to your contempt of woman."

"That impulse, father, can be overcome, and habit becomes a second

nature. Besides--"

"Besides--well, what besides?"

"I would say that the time of which you speak is, in my case, happily

passed," answered Richard, still gazing through the window. "For me the

time of sentimental delusion has been short and decisive," he concluded

with a bitter smile.

"Can I, your father, ask a clearer explanation?"

The young man leaned back in his seat and looked at the opposite side

while he spoke.

"Last summer I visited Baden-Baden. On old Mount Eberstein, which is so

picturesquely enthroned above the village, I fell in with a party.

Among the number was a young lady of rare beauty and great modesty. An

acquaintance gave me an opportunity of being introduced to her. We sat

in pleasant conversation under the black oaks until the approaching

twilight compelled us to return to the town. Isabella--such was the

name of the beauty--had made a deep impression on me. So deep that even

the detested crinoline that encircled her person in large hoops found

favor in my sight. Her manner was in no wise coquettish. She spoke with

deliberation and spirit. Her countenance had always the same

expression. Only when the young people, into whose heads the fiery wine

had risen, gave expression to sharp words, did Isabella look up and a

displeased expression, as of injured delicacy, passed over her

countenance. My presence seemed agreeable to her. My conversation may

have pleased her. As we descended the mountain, we came to a difficult

pass. I offered her my arm, which she took in the same unchanging,

quiet manner which made her so charming in my sight. I soon discovered

my affection for the stranger, and wondered how it could arise so

suddenly and become so impetuous. I was ashamed at abandoning so

quickly my opinion of women. But this feeling was not strong enough to

stifle the incipient passion. My mind lay captive in the fetters of

infatuation."

He paused for a moment. The proud young man seemed to reproach himself

for his conduct, which he considered wanting in manly independence and

clear penetration.

"On the following day," he continued, "there was to be a horse-race in

the neighborhood. Before we parted, it was arranged that we would be

present at it. I returned to my room in the hotel, and dreamed waking

dreams of Isabella. My friend had told me that she was the daughter of

a wealthy merchant, and that she had accompanied her invalid mother

here. This mark of love and filial affection was not calculated to cool

my ardor. Isabella appeared more beautiful and more charming still. We

went to the race. I had the unspeakable happiness of being in the same

car and sitting opposite her. After a short journey--to me, at least,

it seemed short--we arrived at the grounds where the race was to take

place. We ascended the platform. I sat at Isabella's side. She did not

for a moment lose her quiet equanimity. The race began. I saw little of

it, for Isabella was constantly before my eyes, look where I would.

Suddenly a noise--a loud cry--roused me from my dream. Not twenty paces

from where we sat, a horse had fallen. The rider was under him. The

floundering animal had crushed both legs of the unfortunate man. Even

now I can see his frightfully distorted features before me. I feared

that Isabella's delicate sensibility might be wounded by the horrible

sight. And when I looked at her, what did I see? A smiling face! She

had lost her quiet, weary manner, and a hard, unfeeling soul lighted up

her features!

"'Do you not think this change in the monotony of the race quite

magnificent?' said she.

"I made no answer. With an apology, I left the party and returned alone

to Baden."

"Very well," said the father, "your Isabella was an unfeeling

creature--granted. But now for your application of this experience."

"We will let another make the application, father. Listen a moment. In

Baden a bottle of Rhine wine, whose spirit is so congenial to sad and

melancholy feelings, served to obliterate the desolate remembrance. I

sat in the almost deserted dining-room. The guests were at the theatre,

on excursions in the neighborhood, or dining about the park. An old man

sat opposite me. I remarked that his eyes, when he thought himself

unobserved, were turned inquiringly on me. The sudden cooling of my

passion had perhaps left some marks upon me. The stranger believed,

perhaps, that I was an unlucky and desperate player. A player I had

indeed been. I had been about to stake my happiness on a beautiful

form. But I had won the game.

"The wine soon cheered me up and I entered into conversation with the

stranger. We spoke of various things, and finally of the race. As there

was a friendly, confiding expression in the old man's countenance, I

related to him the unhappy fall of the rider, and dwelt sharply on the

impression the hideous spectacle made on Isabella. I told him that such

a degree of callousness and insensibility was new to me, and that this

sad experience had shocked me greatly.

"'This comes,' said he, 'from permitting yourself to be deceived by

appearances, and because you do not know certain classes of society. If

you consider the beautiful Isabella with sensual eyes, you will run

great danger of taking appearances for truth--the false for the real.

Even the plainest exterior is often only sham. Painted cheeks, colored

eyebrows, false hair, false teeth; and even if these forms were not

false, but true--if you penetrate these forms, if, under the constraint

of graceful repose, we see modesty, purity, and even humility--there is

then still greater danger of deception. A wearied, enervated nature,

nerves blunted by the enjoyment of all kinds of pleasures, are

frequently all that remains of womanly nature.

"'Do you wish to see striking examples of this? Go into the gaming

saloons--into, those horrible places where fearful and consuming

passions seethe; where desperation and suicide lurk. Go into the

corrupt, poisonous atmosphere of those gambling hells, and there you

will find women every day and every hour. Whence this disgusting sight?

The violent excitement of gambling alone can afford sufficient

attraction for those who have been sated with all kinds of pleasures.

Is a criminal to be executed? I give you my word of honor that women

give thousands of francs to obtain the best place, where they can

contemplate more conveniently the shocking spectacle and read every

expression in the distorted features of the struggling malefactor.

"'Isabella was one of these exhausted, enervated creatures, and hence

her pleasure at the sight of the mangled rider.'

"Thus spoke the stranger, and I admitted that he was right. At the same

time I tried to penetrate deeper into this want of sensibility. Like a

venturesome miner, I descended into the psychological depth. I

shuddered at what I there discovered, and at the inferences which

Isabella's conduct forced upon my mind. No, father, no," said he

impetuously, "I will have no such nuptials--I will never rush into the

miseries of matrimony!"

"Thunder and lightning! are you a man?" cried Herr Frank. "Because

Emil's wife and Isabella are good-for-nothings, must the whole sex be

repudiated? Both cases are exceptions. These exceptions give you no

right to judge unfavorably of all women. This prejudice does no honor

to your good sense, Richard. It is only eccentricity can judge thus."

The train stopped. The travellers went out, where a carriage awaited

them.

"Is everything right?" said Herr Frank to the driver.

"All is fixed, sir, as you required,"

"Is the box of books taken out?"

"Yes, sir."

The coach moved up the street. The dark mountain-side rose into view,

and narrow, deep valleys yawned beneath the travellers. Fresh currents

of air rushed down the mountain and Herr Frank inhaled refreshing

draughts.

Richard gazed thoughtfully over the magnificent vineyards and luxuriant

orchards.

The road grew steeper and the wooded summit of the mountain approached.

A light which Frank beheld with satisfaction glared out from it. Its

rays shot out upon the town that, amid rich vineyards, topped the

neighboring hill.

"Our residence is beautifully located," said Herr Frank. "How cheerful

it looks up there! It is a home fit for princes."

"You have indeed chosen a magnificent spot, father. Everything unites

to make Frankenhoehe a delightful place. The vineyards on the slopes of

the hills, the smiling hamlet of Salingen to the right. In the

background the stern mountain with its proud ruins on the summit of

Salburg, the deep valleys and the dark ravines, all unite in the

landscape: to the east that beautiful plain."

These words pleased the father. His eyes rested long on the beautiful

property.

"You have forgotten a reason for my happy choice," said he, while a

smile played on his features. "I mean the habit of my friend and

deliverer, who, for the last eight years, spends the month of May at

Frankenhoehe. You know the singular character of the doctor. Nothing in

the world can tear him from his books. He has renounced all pleasure

and enjoyment, to devote his whole time to his books. When Frankenhoehe

entices and captivates the man of science, so strict, so dead to the

world, it is, as I think, the highest compliment to our place."

Richard did not question his father's opinion. He knew his unbounded

esteem for the learned doctor.

The road grew steeper and steeper. The horses labored slowly along. The

pleasant hamlet of Salingen lay a short distance to the left. A single

house, separated from the village, and standing near the road in the

midst of vineyards, came into view. The features of Herr Frank darkened

as he turned his gaze from Frankenhoehe to this house. It was as though

some unpleasant recollection was associated with it. Richard looked at

the stately mansion, the large out-houses, the walled courts, and saw

that everything about it was neat and clean.

"This must be a wealthy proprietor or influential landlord who lives

here," said Richard. "I have indeed seen this place in former years,

but it did not interest me. How inviting and pleasant it looks. The

property must have undergone considerable change; at least, I remember

nothing that indicated the place to be other than an ordinary

farmhouse."

Herr Frank did not hear these observations. He muttered some bitter

imprecation. The coach gained the summit, left the road, and passed

through vineyards and chestnut groves to the house.

Frankenhoehe was a handsome two-story house whose arrangements

corresponded to Frank's taste and means. Near it stood another,

occupied by the steward. A short distance from it were stables and

out-houses for purposes of agriculture.

Herr Frank went directly to the house, and passed from room to room to

see if his instructions had been carried out.

Richard went into the garden and walked on paths covered with yellow

sand. He strolled about among flower-beds that loaded the air with

agreeable odors. He examined the blooming dwarf fruit-trees and

ornamental plants. He observed the neatness and exact order of

everything. Lastly, he stood near the vineyard whence he could behold

an extensive view. He admired the beautiful, fragrant landscape. He

stood thoughtfully reflecting. His conversation made it evident to him

that his feelings and will did not agree with his father's wishes. He

saw that between his inclinations and his love for his father he must

undergo a severe struggle--a struggle that must decide his happiness

for life. The strangeness of his opinion of women did not escape him.

He tested his experience. He tried to justify his convictions, and yet

his father's claims and filial duty prevailed.

CHAPTER II.

THE WEATHER-CROSS.

The next morning Richard was out with the early larks, and returned

after a few hours in a peculiar frame of mind. As he was entering his

room, he saw through the open door his father standing in the saloon.

Herr Frank was carefully examining the arrangements, as the servants

were carrying books into the adjoining room and placing them in a

bookcase. Richard, as he passed, greeted his father briefly, contrary

to his usual custom. At other times he used to exchange a few words

with his father when he bid him good-morning, and he let no occasion

pass of giving his opinion on any matter in which he knew his father

took an interest.

The young man walked to the open window of his room, and gazed into the

distance. He remained motionless for a time. He ran his fingers through

his hair, and with a jerk of the head threw the brown locks back from

his forehead. He walked restlessly back and forth, and acted like a man

who tries in vain to escape from thoughts that force themselves upon

him. At length he went to the piano, and beat an impetuous impromptu on

the keys.

"Ei, Richard!" cried Herr Frank, whom the wild music had brought to his

side. "Why, you rave! How possessed! One would think you had discovered

a roaring cataract in the mountains, and wished to imitate its

violence."

Richard glanced quickly at his father, and finished with a tender,

plaintive melody.

"Come over here and look at the rooms."

Richard followed his father and examined carelessly the elegant rooms,

and spoke a few cold words of commendation.

"And what do you say to this flora?" said Herr Frank pointing to a

stepped framework on which bloomed the most beautiful and rare flowers.

"All very beautiful, father. The doctor will be much pleased, as he

always is here."

"I wish and hope so. I have had the peacocks and turkeys sent away,

because Klingenberg cannot endure their noise. The library here will

always be his favorite object, and care has been taken with it. Here

are the best books on all subjects, even theology and astronomy."

"Frankenhoehe is indeed cheerful as the heart of youth and quiet as a

cloister," said Richard "Your friend would indeed be ungrateful if this

attention did not gratify him."

"I have also provided that excellent wine which he loves and enjoys as

a healthful medicine. But, Richard, you know Klingenberg's

peculiarities. You must not play as you did just now; you would drive

the doctor from the house."

"Make yourself easy about that, father; I will play while he is on the

mountain."

Richard took a book from the shelf, and glanced over it. Herr Frank

left him, and he immediately replaced the book and returned to his own

room. There he wrote in his diary:

"12th of May.--Man is too apt to be led by his inclination. And what is

inclination? A feeling caused by external impressions, or superinduced

by a disposition of the body. Inclination, therefore, is something

inimical to intellectual life. A vine that threatens to overgrow and

smother clear conviction. Never act from inclination, if you do not

wish to be unfaithful to conviction and guilty o a weakness."

He went into the garden, where he talked to the gardener about trees

and flowers.

"Are you acquainted in Salingen, John?"

"Certainly, sir. I was born there."

"Do strangers sometimes come there to stop and enjoy the beautiful

neighborhood?"

"Oh! no, sir; there is no suitable hotel there--only plain taverns; and

people of quality would not stop at them."

"Are there people of rank in Salingen?"

"Only farmers, sir. But--stay. The rich Siegwart appears to be such,

and his children are brought up in that manner."

"Has Siegwart many children?"

"Four--two boys and two girls. One son is at college. The other takes

care of the estate, and is at home. The oldest daughter has been at the

convent for three years. She is now nineteen years old. The second is

still a child."

Richard went further into the garden; he looked over at Salingen, and

then at the mountains. His eye followed a path that went winding up the

mountain like a golden thread and led to the top. Then his eye rested

for a time on a particular spot in that yellow path. Richard remained

taciturn and reserved the rest of the day. He sat in his room and tried

to read, but the subject did not interest him. He often looked dreamily

from the book. He finally arose, took his hat and cane, and was soon

lost in the mountain. The next morning Richard went to the borders of

the forest, and looked frequently over at Salingen as it lay in rural

serenity before him. The pleasant hamlet excited his interest. He then

turned to the right and pursued the yellow path which he had examined

the day before, up the mountain. The birds sang in the bushes, and on

the branches of the tallest oak perched the black-bird whose morning

hymn echoed far and wide. The sweet notes of the nightingale joined in

the general concert, and the shrill piping of the hawk struck in

discordantly with the varied and beautiful song. Even unconscious

nature displayed her beauties. The dew hung in great drops on the

grass-blades and glittered like so many brilliants, and wild flowers

loaded the air with sweet perfumes. Richard saw little of these

beauties of spring. He ascended still higher. His mind seemed agitated

and burdened. He had just turned a bend in the road when he saw a

female figure approaching. His cheeks grew darker as his eyes rested on

the approaching figure. He gazed in the distance, and a disdainful

flush overspread his face. He approached her as he would approach an

enemy whose power he had felt, and whom he wished to conciliate.

She was within fifty paces of him. Her blue dress fell in heavy folds

about her person. The ribbons of her straw bonnet, that hung on her

arm, fluttered in the breeze. In her left hand she held a bunch of

flowers. On her right arm hung a silk mantle, which the mild air had

rendered unnecessary. Her full, glossy hair was partly in a silk net

and partly plaited over the forehead and around the head, as is

sometimes seen with children. Her countenance was exquisitely

beautiful, and her light eyes now rested full and clear on the stranger

who approached her. She looked at him with the easy, natural

inquisitiveness of a child, surprised to meet such an elegant gentleman

in this place.

Frank looked furtively at her, as though he feared the fascinating

power of the vision that so lightly and gracefully passed him. He

raised his hat stiffly and formally. This was necessary to meet the

requirement of etiquette. Were it not, he would perhaps have passed her

by without a salutation. She did not return his greeting with a stiff

bow, but with a friendly "good-morning;" and this too in a voice whose

sweetness, purity, and melody harmonized with the beautiful echoes of

the morning.

Frank moved on hastily for some distance. He was about to look back,

but did not do so; and continued on his way, with contracted brows,

till a turn in the road hid her from his view. Here he stopped and

wiped the sweat from his forehead. His heart beat quickly, and he was

agitated by strong, emotions. He stood leaning on his cane and gazing

into the shadows of the forest. He then continued thoughtfully, and

ascended some hundred feet higher till he gained the top of the

mountain. The tall trees ceased; a variegated copsewood crowned the

summit, which formed a kind of platform. Human hands had levelled the

ground, and on the moss that covered it grew modest little violets.

Near the border of the platform stood a stone cross of rough material.

Near this cross lay the fragments of another large rock, that might

have been shattered by lightning years before. A few steps back of

this, on two square blocks of stone, stood a statue of the Virgin and

Child, of white stone very carefully wrought, but without much art. The

Virgin had a crown of roses on her head. The Child held a little bunch

of forget-me-nots in its hand, and as it held them out seemed to say,

"Forget me not." Two heavy vases that could not be easily overturned by

the wind, standing on the upper block, also contained flowers. All

these flowers were quite fresh, as if they had just been placed there.

Richard examined these things, and wondered what they, meant in this

solitude of the mountain. The fresh flowers and the cleanliness of the

statue, on which no dust or moss could be seen, indicated a careful

keeper. He thought of the young woman whom he met. He had seen the same

kind of flowers in her hand, and doubtless she was the devotee of the

place.

Scarcely had his thoughts taken this direction when he turned away and

walked to the border of the plot; and gazed at the country before him.

He looked down toward Frankenhoehe, whose white chimneys appeared above

the chestnut grove. He contemplated the plains with their luxuriant

fields reflecting every shade of green--the strips of forests that lay

like shadows in the sunny plain--numberless hamlets with church towers

whose gilded crosses gleamed in the sun. He gazed in the distance where

the mountain ranges vanished in the mist, and long he enjoyed the

magnificence of the view. He was aroused from his dreamy contemplation

by the sound of footsteps behind him.

An old man with a load of wood on his shoulders came up to the place.

Breathing heavily, he threw down the wood and wiped the sweat from his

face. He saw the stranger, and respectfully touched his cap as he sat

down on the wood.

Frank went to him.

"You are from Salingen, I suppose," he began.

"Yes, sir."

"It is very hard for an old man like you to carry such a load so far."

"It is indeed, but I am poor and must do it."

Frank looked at the patched clothes of the old man, his coarse shoes,

his stockingless feet, and meagre body, and felt compassion for him.

"For us poor people the earth bears but thistles and thorns." After a

pause, the old man continued, "We have to undergo many tribulations and

difficulties, and sometimes we even suffer from hunger. But thus it is

in the world. The good God will reward us in the next world for our

sufferings in this."

These words sounded strangely to Richard. Raised as he was in the midst

of wealth, and without contact with poverty, he had never found

occasion to consider the lot of the poor; and now the resignation of

the old man, and his hope in the future, seemed strange to him. He was

astonished that religion could have such power--so great and strong--to

comfort the poor in the miseries of a hopeless, comfortless life.

"But what if your hope in another world deceive you?"

The old man looked at him with astonishment.

"How can I be deceived? God is faithful. He keeps his promises."

"And what has he promised you?"

"Eternal happiness if I persevere, patient and just, to the end."

"I wonder at your strong faith!"

"It is my sole possession on earth. What would support us poor people,

what would keep us from despair, if religion did not?"

Frank put his hand into his pocket,

"Here," said he, "perhaps this money will relieve your wants."

The old man looked at the bright thalers in his hand, and the tears

trickled down his cheeks.

"This is too much, sir; I cannot receive six thalers from you."

"That is but a trifle for me; put it in your pocket, and say no more

about it."

"May God reward and bless you a thousand times for it!"

"What does that cross indicate?"

"That is a weather cross, sir. We have a great deal of bad weather to

fear. We have frequent storms here, in summer; they hang over the

mountain and rage terribly. Every ravine becomes a torrent that dashes

over the fields, hurling rocks and sand from the mountain. Our fields

are desolated and destroyed. The people of Salingen placed that cross

there against the weather. In spring the whole community come here in

procession and pray God to protect them from the storms."

Richard reflected on this phenomenon; the confidence of these simple

people in the protection of God, whose omnipotence must intervene

between the remorseless elements and their victims, appeared to him as

the highest degree of simplicity. But he kept his thoughts to himself,

for he respected the religious sentiments of the old man, and would not

hurt his feelings.

"And the Virgin, why is she there?"

"Ah! that is a wonderful story, sir," he answered, apparently wishing

to evade an explanation.

"Which every one ought not to know?"

"Well--but perhaps the gentleman would laugh, and I would not like

that!"

"Why do you think I would laugh at the story?"

"Because you are a gentleman of quality, and from the city, and such

people do not believe any more in miracles."

This observation of rustic sincerity was not pleasing to Frank. It

expressed the opinion that the higher classes ignore faith in the

supernatural.

"If I promise you not to laugh, will you tell me the story?"

"I will; you were kind to me, and you can ask the story of me. About

thirty years ago," began the old man after a pause, "there lived a

wealthy farmer at Salingen whose name was Schenck. Schenck was young.

He married a rich maiden and thereby increased his property. But

Schenck had many great faults. He did not like to work and look after

his fields. He let his servants do as they pleased, and his fields

were, of course, badly worked and yielded no more than half a crop.

Schenck sat always in the tavern, where he drank and played cards and

dice. Almost every night he came home drunk. Then he would quarrel with

his wife, who reproached him. He abused her, swore wickedly, and

knocked everything about the room, and behaved very badly altogether.

Schenck sank lower and lower, and became at last a great sot. His

property was soon squandered. He sold one piece after another, and when

he had no more property to sell, he took it into his head to sell

himself to the devil for money. He went one night to a cross-road, and

called the devil, but the devil would not come; perhaps because Schenck

belonged to him already, for the Scripture says, 'A drunkard cannot

enter the kingdom of heaven.' At last a suit was brought against him,

and the last of his property was sold, and he was driven from his home.

This hurt Schenck very much, for he always had a certain kind of pride.

He thought of the past times when he was rich and respected, and now he

had lost all respect with his neighbors. He thought of his wife and his

four children, whom he had made poor and miserable. All this drove him

to despair. He determined to put an end to himself. He bought a rope

and came up here one morning to hang himself. He tied the rope to an

arm of the cross, and had his head in the noose, when all at once he

remembered that he had not yet said his three 'Hail! Marys.' His mother

who was dead had accustomed him, when a child, to say every day three

'Hail! Marys.' Schenck had never neglected this practice for a single

day. Then he took his head out of the noose and said, 'Well, as I have

said the "Hail! Marys" every day, I will say them also to-day, for the

last time.' He knelt down before the cross and prayed. When he was

done, he stood up to hang himself. But he had scarcely stood on his

feet when he was snatched up by a whirlwind and carried through the air

till he was over a vineyard, where he fell without hurting himself. As

he stood up, an ugly man stood before him and said, 'This time you have

escaped me, but the next time I will get you.' The ugly man had horses'

hoofs in place of feet, and wore green clothes. He disappeared before

Schenck's eyes. Schenck swears that this ugly man was the devil. He

declares also that he has to thank the Mother of God, through whose

intercession he escaped the claws of the devil. Schenck had that statue

placed there in memory of his wonderful escape--that is why the Mother

of God is there."

"A wonderful story indeed!" said Richard. "Although I do not laugh as

you see, yet I must assure that I do not believe the story."

"I thought so," answered the old man. "But you can ask Schenck himself.

He is still living, and is now seventy. Since that day he has changed

entirely. He drinks nothing but water. He never enters a tavern, but

goes every day to church. From that time to this Schenck has very

industrious, and has saved a nice property."

"That the drunkard reformed is most remarkable and best part of the

story," said Frank. "Drunkards very seldom reform. But," continued he

smiling, "the devil acted very stupidly in the affair. He should have

known that his appearance would have made a deep impression on the man,

and that he would not let himself be caught a second time."

"That is true," said the old man. "I believe the devil was forced to

appear and speak so."

"Forced? By whom?"

"By Him before whom the devils believe and tremble. Schenck was to

understand that God delivered on account of his pious custom, and the

devil had to tell him his would not happen a second time."

"How prudent you are in your superstition!" said Frank.

"As the gentleman has been kind, it hurts me to hear him speak so."

"Now," said Richard quickly, "I would not hurt your feelings. One may

be a good Christian without believing fables. And the flowers near the

statue. Has Schenck placed them there too?"

"Oh! no--the Angel did that."

"The Angel. Who is that?" said Frank, surprised.

"The Angel of Salingen--Siegwart's angel."

"Ah! angel is Angela, is it not?"

"So she may be called. In Salingen they call her only Angel. And she is

indeed as lovely, good, and beautiful as an angel. She has a heart for

the poor, and she gives with an open hand and a smiling face that does

one good. She is like her father, who gives me as many potatoes as I

want, and seed for my little patch of ground."

"Why does Angela decorate this statue?"

"I do not know; perhaps she does it through devotion."

"The flowers are quite fresh; does she come here every day?"

"Every day during the month of May, and no longer."

"Why no longer?"

"I do not know the reason; she has done so for the last two years,

since she came home from the convent, and she will do so this year."

"As Siegwart is so good to the poor, he must be rich."

"Very rich--you can see from his house. Do you see that fine building

there next to the road? That is the residence of Herr Siegwart."

It was the same building that had arrested Richard's attention as he

passed it some days before, and the sight of which had excited the

ill-humor of his father. Richard returned by a shorter way to

Frankenhoehe. He was serious and meditative. Arrived at home, he wrote

in his diary:

"May 13th.--Well, I have seen her. She exhibits herself as the 'Angel

of Salingen.' She is extremely beautiful. She is full of amiability and

purity of character. And to-day she did not wear that detestable

crinoline. But she will have other foibles in place of it. She

will, in some things at least, yield to the superficial tendencies of

her sex. Isabella was an ideal, until she descended from the height

where my imagination, deceived by her charms, had placed her. The

impression which Angela's appearance produced has rests on the same

foundation--deception. A better acquaintance will soon discover this.

Curious! I long to become better acquainted!

"Religion is not a disease or hallucination, as many think. It is a

power. Religion teaches the poor to bear their hard lot with patience.

It comforts and keeps them from despair. It directs their attention to

an eternal reward, and this hope compensates them for all the

afflictions and miseries of this life. Without religion, human society

would fall to pieces."

A servant entered, and announced dinner.

"Ah Richard!" said Herr Frank good-humoredly. "Half an hour late for

dinner, and had to be called! That is strange; I do not remember such a

thing to have happened before. You are always as punctual as a

repeater."

"I was in the mountain and had just returned."

"No excuse, my son. I am glad the neighborhood diverts you, and that

you depart a little from your regularity. Now everything is in good

order, as I desired, for my friend and deliverer. I have just received

a letter from him. He will be here in two days. I shall be glad to see

the good man again. If Frankenhoehe will only please him for a long

time!"

"I have no doubt of that," said Richard. "The doctor will be received

like a friend, treated like a king, and will live here like Adam and

Eve in paradise."

"Everything will go on as formerly. I will be coming and going on

account of business. You will, of course, remain uninterruptedly at

Frankenhoehe. You are high in the doctor's esteem. You interest him very

much. It is true you annoy him sometimes with your unlearned objections

and bold assertions. But I have observed that even vexation, when it

comes from you, is not disagreeable to him."

"But the poor should not annoy him with their sick," said Richard. "He

never denies his services to the poor, as he never grants them to the

rich. Indeed, I have sometimes observed that he tears himself from his

books with the greatest reluctance, and it is not without an effort

that he does it."

"But we cannot change it," said Herr Frank; "we cannot send the poor

away without deeply offending Klingenberg. But I esteem him the more

for his generosity."

After dinner the father and son went into the garden and talked of

various matters; suddenly Richard stopped and pointing over to

Salingen, said,

"I passed to-day that neat building that stands near the road. Who

lives there?"

"There lives the noble and lordly Herr Siegwart," said Herr Frank

derisively.

His tone surprised Richard. He was not accustomed to hear his father

speak thus.

"Is Siegwart a noble?"

"Not in the strict sense. But he is the ruler of Salingen. He rules in

that town, as absolutely as princes formerly did in their kingdoms."

"What is the cause of his influence?"

"His wealth, in the first place; secondly, his charity; and lastly, his

cunning."

"You are not favorable to him?"

"No, indeed! The Siegwart family is excessively ultramontane and

clerical. You know I cannot endure these narrow prejudices and this

obstinate adherence to any form of religion. Besides, I have a

particular reason for disagreement with Siegwart, of which I need not

now speak."

"Excessively ultramontane and clerical!" thought Richard, as he went to

his room. "Angela is undoubtedly educated in this spirit. Stultifying

confessionalism and religious narrow-mindedness have no doubt cast a

deep shadow over the 'angel.' Now--patience; the deception will soon

banish."

He took up Schlosser's History, and read a long time. But his eyes

wandered from the page, and his thoughts soon followed.

The next morning at the same hour Richard went to the weather cross. He

took the same road and again he met Angela; she had the same blue

dress, the same straw hat on her arm, and flowers in her hand. She

beheld him with the same clear eyes, with the same unconstrained

manner--only, as he thought, more charming--as on the first day. He

greeted her coolly and formally, as before. She thanked him with the

same affability. Again the temptation came over him to look back at

her; again he overcame it. When he came to the statue, he found fresh

flowers in the vases. The child Jesus had fresh forget-me-nots in his

hand, and the Mother had a crown of fresh roses on her head. On the

upper stone lay a book, bound in blue satin and clasped with a silver

clasp. When he took it up, he found beneath it a rosary made of an

unknown material, and having a gold cross fastened at the end. He

opened the book. The passage that had been last read was marked with a

silk ribbon. It was as follows:

"My son, trust not thy present affection; it will be quickly changed

into another. As long as thou livest thou art subject to change, even

against thy will; so as to be sometimes joyful, at other times sad; now

easy, now troubled; at one time devout, at another dry; sometimes

fervent, at other times sluggish; one day heavy, another day lighter.

But he that is wise and well instructed in spirit stands above all

these changes, not minding what he feels in himself, nor on what side

the wind of instability blows; but that the whole bent of his soul may

advance toward its due and wished-for end; for thus he may continue one

and the self-same without being shaken, by directing without ceasing,

through all this variety of events, the single eye of his intention

toward me. And by how much more pure the eye of the intention is, with

so much greater constancy mayest thou pass through these divers storms.

"But in many the eye of pure intention is dark; for men quickly look

toward something delightful that comes in their way. And it is rare to

find one who is wholly free from all blemish of self-seeking."

Frank remembered having written about the same thoughts in his diary.

But here they were conceived in another and deeper sense.

He read the title of the book. It was _The Following of Christ_.

He copied the title in his pocketbook. He then with a smile examined

the rosary, for he was not without prejudice against this kind of

prayer.

He had no doubt Angela had left these things here, and he thought it

would be proper to return them to the owner. He came slowly down the

mountain reading the book. It was clear to him that _The Following of

Christ_ was a book full of very earnest and profound reflections. And

he wondered how so young a woman could take any interest in such

serious reading. He was convinced that all the ladies he knew would

throw such a book aside with a sneer, because its contents condemned

their lives and habits. Angela, then, must be of a different character

from all the ladies he knew, and he was very desirous of knowing better

this character of Angela.

In a short time he entered the gate and passed through the yard to the

stately building where Herr Siegwart dwelt. He glanced hastily at the

long out-buildings--the large barns; at the polished cleanliness of the

paved court, the perfect order of every thing, and finally at the

ornamented mansion. Then he looked at the old lindens that stood near

the house, whose trunks were protected from injury by iron railings. In

the tops of these trees lodged a lively family of sparrows, who were at

present in hot contention, for they quarrelled and cried as loud and as

long as did formerly the lords in the parliament of Frankfort. The

beautiful garden, separated from the yard by a low wall covered with

white boards, did not escape him. Frank entered, upon a broad and very

clean path; as his feet touched the stone slabs, he heard, through the

open door, a low growl, and then a man's voice saying, "Quiet, Hector."

Frank walked through the open door into a large room handsomely

furnished, and odoriferous with a multitude of flowers in vases. A man

in the prime of life sat on the sofa reading and smoking. He wore a

light-brown overcoat, brown trousers, and low, thick boots. He had a

fresh, florid complexion, red beard, blue eyes, and an expressive,

agreeable countenance. When Frank entered he arose, laid aside the

paper and cigar, and approached the visitor.

"I found these things on the mountain near the weather-cross." said

Frank, after a more formal than affable bow. "As your daughter met me,

I presume they belong to her. I thought it my duty to return them."

"These things certainly belong to my daughter," answered Herr Siegwart.

"You are very kind, sir. You have placed us under obligations to you."

"I was passing this way," said Frank briefly.

"And whom have we the honor to thank?"

"I am Richard Frank."

Herr Siegwart bowed. Frank noticed a slight embarrassment in his

countenance. He remembered the expressions his father had used in

reference to the Siegwart family, and it was clear to him that a

reciprocal ill feeling existed here. Siegwart soon resumed his friendly

manner, and invited him with much formality to the sofa. Richard felt

that he must accept the invitation at least for a few moments. Siegwart

sat on a chair in front of him, and they talked of various unimportant

matters. Frank admired the skill which enabled him to conduct, without

interruption, so pleasant a conversation with a stranger.

While they were speaking, some house-swallows flew into the room. They

fluttered about without fear, sat on the open door, and joined their

cheerful twittering with the conversation of the men. Richard expressed

his admiration, and said he had never seen anything like it.

"Our constant guests in summer," answered Siegwart. "They build their

nests in the hall, and as they rise earlier than we do, an opening is

left for them above the hall door, where they can go in and out

undisturbed when the doors are closed. Angela is in their confidence,

and on the best of terms with them. When rainy or cold days come during

breeding time they suffer from want of food. Angela is then their

procurator. I have often admired Angela's friendly intercourse with the

swallows, who perch upon her shoulders and hands."

Richard looked indeed at the twittering swallows, but their friend

Angela passed before his eyes, so beautiful indeed that he no longer

heard what Siegwart was saying.

He arose; Siegwart accompanied him. As they passed through the yard,

Frank observed the long row of stalls, and said,

"You must have considerable stock?"

"Yes, somewhat. If you would like to see the property, I will show you

around with pleasure."

"I regret that I cannot now avail myself of your kindness; I shall do

so in a few days," answered Frank.

"Herr Frank," said Siegwart, "may the accident which has given us the

pleasure of your agreeable visit, be the occasion of many visits in

future. I know that as usual you will spend the month of May at

Frankenhoehe. We are neighbors--this title, in my opinion, should

indicate a friendly intercourse."

"Let it be understood, Herr Siegwart; I accept with pleasure your

invitation."

On the way to Frankenhoehe Richard walked very slowly, and gazed into

the distance before him. He thought of the swallows that perched on

Angela's shoulders and hands. Their sweet notes still echoed in his

soul.

The country-like quiet of Siegwart's house and the sweet peace that

pervaded it were something new to him. He thought of the simple

character of Siegwart, who, as his father said, was "ultramontane and

clerical," and whom he had represented to himself as a dark, reserved

man. He found nothing in the open, natural manner of the man to

correspond with his preconceived opinion of him. Richard concluded that

either Herr Siegwart was not an ultramontane, or the characteristics of

the ultramontanes, as portrayed in the free-thinking newspapers of the

day, were erroneous and false.

Buried in such thoughts, he reached Frankenhoehe. As he passed through

the yard, he did not observe the carriage that stood there. But as he

passed under the window, he heard a loud voice, and some books were

thrown from the window and fell at his feet. He looked down in surprise

at the books, whose beautiful binding was covered with sand. He now

observed the coach, and smiled.

"Ah! the doctor is here," said he. "He has thrown these unwelcome

guests out of the window. Just like him."

He took up the books and read the titles, _Vogt's Pictures from Animal

Life_, _Vogt's Physiological Letters_, _Czolbe's Sensualism_.

He took the books to his room and began to read them. Herr Frank, with

his joyful countenance, soon appeared.

"Klingenberg is here!" said he.

"I suspected as much already," said Richard. "I passed by just as he

threw the books out of the window with his usual impetuosity."

"Do not let him see the books; the sight of them sets him wild."

"Klingenberg walks only in his own room. I wish to read these books;

what enrages him with innocent paper?"

"I scarcely know, myself. He examined the library and was much pleased

with some of the works. But suddenly he tore these books from their

place and hurled them through the window."

"'I tolerate no bad company among these noble geniuses,' said he,

pointing to the learned works.

"'Pardon me, honored friend,' said I, 'if, without my knowledge, some

bad books were included. What kind of writings are these, doctor?"

"'Stupid materialistic trash,' said he. 'If I had Vogt, Moleschott,

Colbe, and Buechner here, I would throw them body and bones out of the

window.'

"I was very much surprised at this declaration, so contrary to the

doctor's kind disposition. 'What kind of people are those you have

named?' said I.

"'No people, my dear Frank,' said he. 'They are animals. This Vogt and

his fellows have excluded themselves from the pale of humanity,

inasmuch as they have declared apes, oxen, and asses to be their

equals.'"

"I am now very desirous to know these books," said Richard.

"Well, do not let our friend know your intention," urged Frank.

Richard dressed and went to greet the singular guest. He was sitting

before a large folio. He arose at Richard's entrance and paternally

reached him both hands.

Doctor Klingenberg was of a compact, strong build. He had unusually

long arms, which he swung back and forth in walking. His features were

sharp, but indicated a modest character. From beneath his bushy

eyebrows there glistened two small eyes that did not give an agreeable

expression to his countenance. This unfavorable expression was,

however, only the shell of a warm heart.

The doctor was good-natured--hard on himself, but mild in his judgments

of others. He had an insatiable desire for knowledge, and it impelled

him to severe studies that robbed him of his hair and made him

prematurely bald.

"How healthy you look, Richard!" said he, contemplating the young man.

"I am glad to see you have not been spoiled by the seething atmosphere

of modern city life."

"You know, doctor, I have a natural antipathy to all swamps and

morasses.

"That is right, Richard; preserve a healthy naturalness."

"We expected you this morning."

"And would go to the station to bring me. Why this ceremony? I am here,

and I will enjoy for a few weeks the pure, bracing mountain air. Our

arrangements will be as formerly--not so, my dear friend?"

"I am at your service."

"You have, of course, discovered some new points that afford fine

views?"

"If not many, at least one--the weather cross," answered Frank. "A

beautiful position. The hill stands out somewhat from the range. The

whole plain lies before the ravished eyes. At the same time, there are

things connected with _that_ place that are not without their influence

on me. They refer to a custom of the ultramontanists that clashes with

modern ideas; I will have an opportunity of seeing whether your opinion

coincides with mine."

"Very well; since we have already an object for our next walk--and this

is according to our old plan--tomorrow after dinner at three o'clock,"

and saying this he glanced wistfully at the old folio. Frank, smiling,

observed the delicate hint and retired.

CHAPTER III.

QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM.

On the following day, Richard went to the weather-cross. He did not

meet Angela. She must have been unusually early; for the flowers had

evidently just been placed before the statue.

He returned, gloomy, to the house, and wrote in his diary:

"May 14th.

"She did not meet me to-day, and probably will not meet me again. I

should have left the book where it was; it might have awakened her

gratitude; for I think she left it purposely, to give me an opportunity

to make her acquaintance.

"How many young women would give more than a book to get acquainted

with a wealthy party! The 'Angel' is very sensitive; but this

sensibility pleases me, because it is true womanly delicacy.

"She will now avoid meeting me in this lonely road. But I will study

her character in her father's house. I will see if she does not confirm

my opinion of the women of our times. It was for this purpose alone

that I accepted Siegwart's invitation. Angela must not play Isabella;

no woman ever shall. Single, and free from woman's yoke, I will go

through the world."

He put aside the diary, and began reading Vogt's _Physiological

Letters_.

At three o'clock precisely, Richard with the punctual doctor left

Frankenhoehe. They passed through the chestnut grove and through the

vineyard toward Salingen. The doctor pushed on with long steps, his

arms swinging back and forth. He was evidently pleased with the subject

he had been reading. He had, on leaving the house, shaken Richard by

the hand, and spoken a few friendly words, but not a syllable since.

Richard knew his ways; and knew that it would take some time for him to

thaw.

They were passing between Siegwart's house and Salingen, when they

beheld Angela, at a distance, coming toward them. She carried a little

basket on her arm, and on her head she wore a straw hat with broad

fluttering ribbons. Richard fixed his eyes attentively on her. This

time, also, she did not wear hoops, but a dress of modest colors. He

admired her light, graceful movement and charming figure. The

blustering doctor moderated his steps and went slower the nearer he

came to Angela, and considered her with surprise. Frank greeted her,

touching his hat. She did not thank him, as before, with a friendly

greeting, but by a scarcely perceptible inclination of the head; nor

did she smile as before, but on this account seemed to him more

charming and ethereal than ever. She only glanced at him, and he

thought he observed a slight blush on her cheeks.

These particulars were engrossing the young man's attention when he

heard the doctor say,

"Evidently the Angel of Salingen."

"Who?" said Richard in surprise.

"The Angel of Salingen," returned Klingenberg. "You are surprised at

this appellation; is it not well-merited?"

"My surprise increases, doctor; for exaggeration is not your fashion."

"But she deserves acknowledgment. Let me explain. The maiden is the

daughter of the proprietor Siegwart, and her name is Angela. She is a

model of every virtue. She is, in the female world, what an image of

the Virgin, by one of the old masters, would be among the hooped gentry

of the present. As you are aware, I have been often called to the

cabins of the sick poor, and there the quiet, unostentatious labors of

this maiden have become known to me. Angela prepares suitable food for

the sick, and generally takes it to them herself. The basket on her arm

does service in this way. There are many poor persons who would not

recover unless they had proper, nourishing food. To these Angela is a

great benefactor. For this reason, she has a great influence over the

minds of the sick, and the state of the mind greatly facilitates or

impedes their recovery.

"I have often entered just after she had departed, and the beneficial

influence of her presence could be still seen in the countenances of

the poor. Her presence diffused resignation, peace, contentment, and a

peculiar cheerfulness in the meanest and most wretched hovels of

poverty, where she enters without hesitation. This is certainly a rare

quality in so young a creature. She rejoices the hearts of the children

by giving them clothes, sometimes made by herself, or pictures and the

like. Her whole object appears to be to reconcile and make all happy. I

have just seen her for the first time; her beauty is remarkable, and

might well adorn an angel. The common people wish only to Germanize

'Angela' when they call her 'Angel.' But she is indeed an angel of

heaven to the poor and needy."

Frank said nothing. He moved on in silence toward the weather-cross.

"I have accidentally discovered a singular custom of your 'angel,'

doctor. There is at the weather-cross a Madonna of stone. Angela has

imposed upon herself the singular task of adorning this Madonna, daily,

with fresh flowers."

"You are a profane fellow, Richard. You should not speak in such a

derisive tone of actions which are the out-flowings of pious

sentiment."

"Every one has his hobby. What will not people do through ambition? I

know ladies who torture a piano for half the night, in order to catch

the tone of the prima-donna at the opera. I know women who undergo all

possible privations to be able to wear as fine clothes, as costly furs,

as others with whom they are in rivalry. This exhaustive night-singing,

these deprivations, are submitted to through foolish vanity. Perhaps

Angela is not less ambitious and vain than others of her sex. As she

cannot dazzle these country folk with furs or toilette, she dazzles

their religious sentiment by ostentatious piety."

"Radically false!" said the doctor. "Charity and virtue are recognized

and honored not only in the country, but also in the cities. Why do not

your coquettes strive for this approval? Because they want Angela's

nobility of soul. And again, why should Angela wish to gain the

admiration of the peasants? She is the daughter of the wealthiest man

in the neighborhood. If such was her object, she could gratify her

ambition in a very different way."

"Then Angela is a riddle to me," returned Richard. "I cannot conceive

the motives of her actions."

"Which are so natural! The maiden follows the impulses of her own noble

nature, and these impulses are developed and directed by Christian

culture, and convent education. Angela was a long time with the nuns,

and only returned home two years ago. Here you have the very natural

solution of the riddle."

"Are you acquainted with the Siegwart family?"

"No; what I know of Angela I learned from the people of Salingen."

They arrived at the platform. Klingenberg stood silent for some time

admiring the landscape. The view did not seem to interest Richard. His

eyes rested on Angela's home, whose white walls, surrounded by

vineyards and corn-fields, glistened in the sun.

"It is worth while to come up here oftener," said Klingenberg.

"Angela's work," said Richard as he drew near the statue. The doctor

paused a moment and examined the flowers.

"Do you observe Angela's fine taste in the arrangement of the colors?"

said he. "And the forget-me-nots! What a deep religious meaning they

have."

They returned by another way to Frankenhoehe.

"Angela's pious work," began Richard after a long pause, "reminds me of

a religious custom against which modern civilization has thus far

warred in vain. I mean the veneration of saints. You, as a Protestant,

will smile at this custom, and I, as a Catholic, must deplore the

tenacity with which my church clings to this obsolete remnant of

heathen idolatry."

"Ah! this is the subject you alluded to yesterday," said the doctor. "I

must, in fact, smile, my dear Richard! But I by no means smile at 'the

tenacity with which your church clings to the obsolete remnants of

heathen idolatry.' I smile at your queer idea of the veneration of the

saints. I, as a reasonable man, esteem this veneration, and recognize

its admirable and beneficial influence on human society."

This declaration increased Frank's surprise to the highest degree. He

knew the clear mind of the doctor, and could not understand how it

happened that he wished to defend a custom so antagonistic to modern

thought.

"You find fault," continued Klingenberg, "with the custom of erecting

statues to these holy men in the churches, the forest, the fields, the

houses, and in the market?"

"Yes, I do object to that."

"If you had objected to the lazy Schiller at Mayence, or the robber's

poet Schiller, as he raves at the theatre in Mannheim, or to the

conqueror and destroyer of Germany, Gustavus Adolphus, whose statue is

erected as an insult in a German city, then you would be right."

"Schiller-worship has its justification," retorted Frank. "They erect

public monuments to the genial spirit of that man, to remind us of his

services to poetry, his aspirations, and his German patriotism."

"It is praiseworthy to erect monuments to the poet. But do not talk of

Schiller's patriotism, for he had none. But let that pass; it is not to

the point. The question is, whether you consider it praiseworthy to

erect monuments to deserving and exalted genius?"

"Without the least hesitation, I say yes. But I see what you are

driving at, doctor. I know the remorseless logic of your inferences.

But you will not catch me in your vise this time. You wish to infer

that the saints far surpassed Schiller in nobility and greatness of

soul, and that honoring them, therefore, is more reasonable, and more

justifiable, than honoring Schiller. I dispute the greatness of the

so-called saints. They were men full of narrowness and rigorism. They

despised the world and their friends. They carried this contempt to a

wonderful extent--to a renunciation of all the enjoyments of life, to

voluntary poverty and unconditional obedience. But all these are fruits

that have grown on a stunted, morbid tree, and are in opposition to

progress, to industry, and to the enlightened civilization of modern

times. The dark ages might well honor such men, but our times cannot.

Schiller, on the contrary, that genial man, taught us to love the

pleasures of life. By his fine genius and his odes to pleasure, he

frightened away all the spectres of these enthusiastic views of life.

He preached a sound taste and a free, unconstrained enjoyment of the

things of this beautiful earth. And for this reason precisely, because

he inaugurated this new doctrine, does he deserve monuments in his

honor."

"How does it happen then, my friend," said the doctor, in a cutting

tone that was sometimes peculiar to him, "that you do not take

advantage of the modern doctrine of unconstrained enjoyment? Why have

you preserved fresh your youthful vigor, and not dissipated it at the

market of sensual pleasures? Why is your mode of life so often a

reproach to your dissolute friends? Why do you avoid the resorts of

refined pleasures? Why are the coquettish, vitiated, hollow

inclinations of a great part of the female sex so distasteful to you?

Answer me!"

"These are peculiarities of my nature; individual opinions that have no

claim to any weight."

"Peculiarities of your nature--very right; your noble nature, your pure

feelings rebel against these moral acquisitions of progress. I begin

with your noble nature. If I did not find this good, true self in you,

I would waste no more words. But because you are what you are, I must

convince you of the error of your views. Schiller, you say, and, with

him, the modern spirit, raised the banner of unrestrained enjoyment,

and this enjoyment rests on sensual pleasures, does it not?"

"Well--yes."

"I knew and know many who followed this banner--and you also know many.

Of those whom I knew professionally, some ended their days in the

hospital, of the most loathsome diseases. Some, unsatiated with the

whole round of pleasures, drag on a miserable life, dead to all energy,

and spiritless. They drank the full cup of pleasure, and with it

unspeakable bitterness and disgust. Some ended in ignominy and

shame--bankruptcy, despair, suicide. Such are the consequences of this

modern dogma of unrestrained enjoyments."

"All these overstepped the proper bounds of pleasure," said Richard.

"The proper bounds? Stop!" cried the doctor, "No leaps, Richard! Think

clearly and logically. Christianity also allows enjoyment, but--and

here is the point--in certain limits. Your progress, on the contrary,

proclaims freedom in moral principles, a disregard of all moral

obligations, unrestricted enjoyment--and herein consists the danger and

delusion. I ask, Are you in favor of restricted or unrestricted

enjoyment?"

Frank hesitated. He felt already the thumbscrew of the irrepressible

doctor, and feared the inferences he would draw from his admissions.

"Come!" urged Klingenberg, "decide."

"Sound reason declares for restricted enjoyment," said Frank decidedly.

"Good; there you leave the unlimited sphere which godless progress has

given to the thoughts and inclinations of men. You admit the obligation

of self-control, and the restraint of the grosser emotions. But let us

proceed; you speak of industry. The modern spirit of industry has

invoked a demon--or, rather, the demoniac spirit of the times has taken

possession of industry. The great capitalists have built thrones on

their money-bags and tyrannize over those who have no money. They crush

out the work-shop of the industrious and well-to-do tradesman, and

compel him to be their slave. Go into the factories of Elfeld, or

England; you can there see the slaves of this demon industry--miserable

creatures, mentally and morally stunted, socially perishing; not only

slaves, but mere wheels of the machines. This is what modern industry

has made of those poor wretches, for whom, according to modern

enlightenment, there is no higher destiny than to drag through life in

slavery, to increase the money-bags of their tyrants. But the

capitalists have perfect right, according to modern ideas; they only

use the means at their command. The table of the ten commandments has

been broken; the yoke of Christianity broken. Man is morally and

religiously free; and from this false liberalism the tyranny of

plutocracy and the slavery of the poor has been developed. Are you

satisfied with the development, and the principles that made it

possible?"

"No," said Frank decidedly. "I despise that miserable industrialism

that values the product more than the man. My admissions are, however,

far from justifying the exaggerated notions of the saints."

"Wait a bit!" cried Klingenberg hastily. "I have just indicated the

cause of this wretched egotism, and also a consequence--namely, the

power of great capitalists and manufacturers over an army of white

slaves. But this is by no means all. This demon of industry has

consequences that will ruin a great portion of mankind. Now mark what I

say, Richard! The richness of the subject allows me only to indicate.

The progressive development of industry brings forth products of which

past ages were ignorant, because they were not necessary for life. The

existence of these products creates a demand. The increased wants

increase the outlay, which in most cases does not square with the

income, and therefore the accounts of many close with a deficit The

consequences of this deficit for the happiness, and even for the morals

of the family, I leave untouched. The increased products beget luxury

and the desire for enjoyment; the ultimate consequences of which

enervate the individual and society. Hence the phenomenon, in England,

that the greater portion of the people in the manufacturing towns die

before the age of fifteen, and that many are old men at thirty.

Enervated and demoralized peoples make their existence impossible. They

go to the wall. This is a historical fact. Ergo, modern industry

separated from Christian civilization hastens the downfall of nations."

"I cannot dispute the truth of your observations. But you have touched

only the dark side of modern industry, without mentioning its benefits.

If industry is a source of fictitious wants, it affords, on the other

hand, cheap prices to the poor for the most necessary wants of life;

for example, cheap materials for clothing."

"Very cheap, but also very poor material," answered Klingenberg. "In

former times, clothing was dearer, but also better. They knew nothing

of the rags of the present fabrication. And it may be asked whether

that dearer material was not cheaper in the end for the poor. When this

is taken into consideration, the new material has no advantage over the

old. I will freely admit that the inventions of modern times do honor

to human genius. I acknowledge the achievements of industry, as such. I

admire the improvements of machinery, the great revolution caused by

the use of steam, and thousands of other wonders of art. No sensible

man will question the relative worth of all these. But all these are

driven and commanded by a bad influence, and herein lies the injury. We

must consider industrialism from this higher standpoint. What advantage

is it to a people to be clothed in costly stuffs when they are

enervated, demoralized, and perishing? Clothe a corpse as you will, a

corpse it will be still. And besides, the greatest material good does

not compensate the white factory-slaves for the loss of their liberty.

The Lucullan age fell into decay, although they feasted on young

nightingales, drank liquified pearls, and squandered millions for

delicacies and luxuries. The life of nations does not consist in the

external splendor of wealth, in easy comfort, or in unrestrained

passions. Morality is the life of nations, and virtue their internal

strength. But virtue, morality, and Christian sentiment are under the

ban of modern civilization. If Christianity does not succeed in

overcoming this demon spirit of the times, or at least confining it

within narrow limits, it will and must drive the people to certain

destruction. We find decayed peoples in the Christian era, but the

church has always rescued and regenerated them. While the acquisitions

of modern times--industrialism, enlightenment, humanitarianism, and

whatever they may be called--are, on the one hand, of little advantage

or of doubtful worth, they are, on the other hand, the graves of true

prosperity, liberty, and morality. They are the cause of shameful

terrorism and of degrading slavery, in the bonds of the passions and in

the claws of plutocracy."

Frank made no reply.

For a while they walked on in silence.

"Let us," continued Klingenberg, "consider personally those men whose

molten images stand before us. Schiller's was a noble nature, but

Schiller wrote:

"'No more this fight of duty, hence no longer

This giant strife will I!

Canst quench these passions evermore the stronger?

Then ask not virtue, what I must deny.

"'Albeit I have sworn, yea, sworn that never

Shall yield my master will;

Yet take thy wreath; to me 'tis lost for ever!

Take back thy wreath, and let me sin my fill.'

"Is this a noble and exalted way of thinking? Certainly not. Schiller

would be virtuous if he could clothe himself in the lustre of virtue

without sacrifice. The passionate impulses of the heart are stronger in

him than the sense of duty. He gives way to his passions. He renounces

virtue because he is too weak, too languid, too listless to encounter

this giant strife bravely like a strong man. Such is the noble

Schiller. In later years, when the fiery impulses of his heart had

subsided, he roused himself to better efforts and nobler aims.

"Consider the prince of poets, Goethe. How morally naked and poor he

stands before us! Goethe's coarse insults to morality are well known.

His better friend, Schiller, wrote of him to Koerner, 'His mind is not

calm enough, because his domestic relations, which he is too weak to

change, cause him great vexation.' Koerner answered, 'Men cannot

violate morality with impunity.' Six years later, the 'noble' Goethe

was married to his 'mistress' at Weimar. Goethe's detestable political

principles are well known. He did not possess a spark of patriotism. He

composed hymns of victory to Napoleon, the tyrant, the destroyer and

desolator of Germany. These are the heroes of modern sentiment, the

advance guard of liberty, morality, and true manhood! And these heroes

so far succeeded that the noble Arndt wrote of his time, 'We are base,

cowardly, and stupid; too poor for love, too listless for anger, too

imbecile for hate. Undertaking everything, accomplishing nothing;

willing every thing, without the power of doing any thing.' So far has

this boasted freethinking created disrespect for revealed truth. So far

this modern civilization, which idealizes the passions, leads to

mockery of religion and lets loose the baser passions of man. If they

cast these representatives of the times in bronze, they should stamp on

the foreheads of their statues the words of Arndt:

"'We are base, cowardly, and stupid; too poor for love, too listless

for anger, too imbecile for hate. Undertaking every thing,

accomplishing nothing; willing every thing, without the power of doing

any thing.'"

"You are severe, doctor."

"I am not severe. It is the truth."

"How does it happen that a people so weak, feeble, and base could

overthrow the power of the French in the world?"

"That was because the German people were not yet corrupted by that

shallow, unreal, hollow twaddle of the educated classes about humanity.

It was not the princes, not the nobility, who overthrew Napoleon. It

was the German people who did it. When, in 1813, the Germans rose, in

hamlet and city, they staked their property and lives for fatherland.

But it was not the enlightened poets and professors, not modern

sentimentality, that raised their hearts to this great sacrifice; not

these who enkindled this enthusiasm for fatherland. It was the

religious element that did it. The German warriors did not sing

Goethe's hymns to Napoleon, nor the insipid model song of 'Luetzows

wilder Jagd,' as they rushed into battle. They sang religious hymns,

they prayed before the altars. They recognized, in the terrible

judgment on Russia's ice-fields, the avenging hand of God. Trusting in

God, and nerved by religious exaltation, they took up the sword that

had been sharpened by the previous calamities of war. So the feeble

philanthropists could effect nothing. It was only a religious, healthy,

strong people could do that."

"But the saints, doctor! We have wandered from them."