"Not at all! We have thrown some light on inimical shadows; the light

can now shine. The lives of the saints exhibit something wonderful and

remarkable. I have studied them carefully. I have sought to know their

aims and efforts. I discovered that they imitated the example of

Christ, that they realized the exalted teachings of the Redeemer. You

find fault with their contempt for the things of this world. But it is

precisely in this that these men are great. Their object was not the

ephemeral, but the enduring. They considered life but as the entrance

to the eternal destiny of man--in direct opposition to the spirit of

the times, that dances about the golden calf. The saints did not value

earthly goods for more than they were worth. They placed them after

self-control and victory over our baser nature. Exact and punctual in

all their duties, they were animated by an admirable spirit of charity

for their fellow-men. And in this spirit they have frequently revived

society. Consider the great founders of orders--St. Benedict, St.

Dominic, St. Vincent de Paul! Party spirit, malice, and stupidity have

done their worst to blacken, defame, and calumniate them. And yet, in a

spirit of self-sacrifice, the sons of St. Benedict came among the

German barbarians, to bring to them the ennobling doctrines of

Christianity. It was the Benedictines who cleared the primeval forests,

educated their wild denizens, and founded schools; who taught the

barbarians handiwork and agriculture. Science and knowledge flourished

in the cloisters. And to the monks alone we are indebted for the

preservation of classic literature. What the monks did then they are

doing now. They forsake home, break all ties, and enter the wilderness,

there to be miserably cut off in the service of their exalted mission,

or to die of poisonous fevers. Name me one of your modern heroes, whose

mouths are full of civilization, humanity, enlightenment--name me one

who is capable of such sacrifice. These prudent gentlemen remain at

home with their gold-bags and their pleasures, and leave the stupid

monk to die in the service of exalted charity. It is the hypocrisy and

the falsehood of the modern spirit to exalt itself, and belittle true

worth. And what did St. Vincent de Paul do? More than all the gold-bags

together. St. Vincent, alone, solved the social problem of his time. He

was, in his time, the preserver of society, or rather, Christianity

through him. And to-day our gold-bags tremble before the apparition of

the same social problem. Here high-sounding phrases and empty

declamation do not avail. Deeds only are of value. But the inflated

spirit of the times is not capable of noble action. It is not the

modern state--not enlightened society, sunk in egotism and gold--that

can save us. Christianity alone can do it. Social development will

prove this."

"I do not dispute the services of the saints to humanity," said Frank.

"But the question is, Whether society would be benefited if the

fanatical, dark spirit of the middle ages prevailed, instead of the

spirit of modern times?"

"The fanatical, dark spirit of the middle ages!" cried the doctor

indignantly. "This is one of those fallacious phrases. The saints were

not fanatical or dark. They were open, cheerful, natural, humble men.

They did not go about with bowed necks and downcast eyes; but affable,

free from hypocrisy, and dark, sullen demeanor, they passed through

life. Many saints were poets. St. Francis sang his spiritual hymns to

the accompaniment of the harp. St. Charles played billiards. The holy

apostle, St. John, resting from his labors, amused himself in childish

play with a bird. Such were these men; severe toward themselves, mild

to others, uncompromising with the base and mean. They were all

abstinent and simple, allowing themselves only the necessary

enjoyments. They concealed from observation their severe mode of life,

and smiled while their shoulders bled from the discipline. Pride,

avarice, envy, voluptuousness, and all the bad passions, were strangers

to them; not because they had not the inclinations to these passions,

but because they restrained and overcame their lower nature.

"I ask you, now, which men deserve our admiration--those who are

governed by unbounded selfishness, who are slaves to their passions,

who deny themselves no enjoyment, and who boast of their degrading

licentiousness; or those who, by reason of a pure life, are strong in

the government of their passions, and self-sacrificing in their charity

for their fellowmen?"

"The preference cannot be doubtful," said Frank. "For the saints have

accomplished the greatest, they have obtained the highest thing,

self-control. But, doctor, I must condemn that saint-worship as it is

practised now. Human greatness always remains human, and can make no

claims to divine honor."

The doctor swung his arms violently. "What does this reproach amount

to? Where are men deified? In the Catholic Church? I am a Protestant,

but I know that your church condemns the deification of men."

"Doctor," said Frank, "my religious ignorance deserves this rebuke."

"I meant no rebuke. I would only give conclusions. Catholicism is

precisely that power that combats with success against the deifying of

men. You have in the course of your studies read the Roman classics.

You know that divine worship was offered to the Roman emperors. So far

did heathen flattery go, that the emperors were honored as the sons of

the highest divinity--Jupiter. Apotheosis is a fruit of heathen growth;

of old heathenism and of new heathenism. When Voltaire, that idol of

modern heathen worship, was returning to Paris in 1778, he was in all

earnestness promoted to the position of a deity. This remarkable play

took place in the theatre. Voltaire himself went there. Modern

fanaticism so far lost all shame that the people kissed the horse on

which the philosopher rode to the theatre. Voltaire was scarcely able

to press through the crowd of his worshippers. They touched his

clothes--touched handkerchiefs to them--plucked hairs from his fur coat

to preserve as relics. In the theatre they fell on their knees before

him and kissed his feet. Thus that tendency that calls itself free and

enlightened deified a man--Voltaire, the most trifling scoffer, the

most unprincipled, basest man of Christendom.

"Let us consider an example of our times. Look at Garibaldi in London.

That man permitted himself to be set up and worshipped. The saints

would have turned away from this stupidity with loathing indignation.

But this boundless, veneration flattered the old pirate Garibaldi. He

received 267,000 requests for locks of his hair, to be cased in gold

and preserved as relics. Happily he had not much hair. He should have

graciously given them his moustaches and whiskers."

Frank smiled. Klingenberg's pace increased, and his arms swung more

briskly.

"Such is the man-worship of modern heathenism. This humanitarianism is

ashamed of no absurdity, when it sinks to the worship of licentiousness

and baseness personified."

"The senseless aberrations of modern culture do not excuse

saint-worship. And you certainly do not wish to excuse it in that way.

There is, however, a reasonable veneration of human greatness.

Monuments are erected to great men. We behold them and are reminded of

their genius, their services; and there it stops. It occurs to no

reasonable man to venerate these men on his knees, as is done with the

saints."

"The bending of the knee, according to the teaching of your church,

does not signify adoration, but only veneration," replied Klingenberg.

"Before no Protestant in the world would I bend the knee; before St.

Benedict and St. Vincent de Paul I would willingly, out of mere

admiration and esteem for their greatness of soul and their purity of

morals. If a Catholic kneels before a saint to ask his prayers, what is

there offensive in that? It is an act of religious conviction. But I

will not enter into the religious question. This you can learn better

from your Catholic brethren--say from the Angel of Salingen, for

example, who appears to have such veneration for the saints."

"You will not enter into the religious question; yet you defend

saint-worship, which is something religious."

"I do not defend it on religious grounds, but from history, reason, and

justice. History teaches that this veneration had, and still has, the

greatest moral influence on human society. The spirit of veneration

consists in imitating the example of the person venerated. Without this

spirit, saint-worship is an idle ceremony. But that true veneration of

the saints elevates and ennobles, you cannot deny. Let us take the

queen of saints, Mary. What makes her worthy of veneration? Her

obedience to the Most High, her humility, her strength of soul, her

chastity. All these virtues shine out before the spiritual eyes of her

worshippers as models and patterns of life. I know a lady, very

beautiful, very wealthy; but she is also very humble, very pure, for

she is a true worshipper of Mary. Would that our women would venerate

Mary and choose her for a model! There would then be no coquettes, no

immodest women, no enlightened viragoes. Now, as saint-worship is but

taking the virtues of the saints as models for imitation, you must

admit that veneration in this sense has the happiest consequences to

human society."

"I admit it--to my great astonishment, I must admit it," said Richard.

"Let us take a near example," continued Klingenberg. "I told you of the

singular qualities of Angela. As she passed, I beheld her with wonder.

I must confess her beauty astonished me. But this astonishing beauty,

it appears to me, is less in her charming features than in the purity,

the maidenly dignity of her character. Perhaps she has to thank, for

her excellence, that same correct taste which leads her to venerate

Mary. Would not Angela make an amiable, modest, dutiful wife and

devoted mother? Can you expect to find this wife, this mother among

those given to fashions--among women filled with modern notions?"

While Klingenberg said this, a deep emotion passed over Richard's face.

He did not answer the question, but let his head sink on his breast.

"Here is Frankenhoehe," said the doctor. "As you make no more

objections, I suppose you agree with me. The saints are great,

admirable men; therefore they deserve monuments. They are models of

virtue and the greatest benefactors of mankind; therefore they deserve

honor. '_Quod erat demonstrandum._'"

"I only wonder, doctor, that you, a Protestant, can defend such views."

"You will allow Protestants to judge reasonably," replied Klingenberg.

"My views are the result of careful study and impartial reflection."

"I am also astonished--pardon my candor--that with such views you can

remain a Protestant."

"There is a great difference between knowing and willing, my young

friend. I consider conversion an act of great heroism, and also as a

gift of the highest grace."

Richard wrote in his diary:

"If Angela should be what the doctor considers her! According to my

notions, such a being exists only in the realm of the ideal. But if

Angela yet realizes this ideal? I must be certain. I will visit

Siegwart to-morrow."

CHAPTER IV.

THE BUREAUCRAT AND THE SWALLOWS.

Herr Frank returned to the city. Before he went he took advantage of

the absence of Richard, who had gone out about nine o'clock, to

converse with Klingenberg about matters of importance. They sat in the

doctor's studio, the window of which was open. Frank closed it before

he began the conversation.

"Dear friend, I must speak to you about a very distressing peculiarity

of my son. I do so because I know your influence over him, and I hope

much from it."

Klingenberg listened with surprise, for Herr Frank had begun in great

earnestness and seemed greatly depressed.

"On our journey from the city, I discovered in Richard, to my great

surprise, a deep-seated antipathy, almost an abhorrence of women. He is

determined never to marry. He considers marriage a misfortune, inasmuch

as it binds a man to the whims and caprices of a wife. If I had many

sons, Richard's idiosyncrasy would be of little consequence; but as he

is my only son and very stubborn in his preconceived opinions, you will

see how very distressing it must be to me."

"What is the cause of this antipathy of your son to women?"

Herr Frank related Richard's account of his meeting with Isabella and

his knowledge of the unhappy marriage of his friend Emil.

"Do you not think that experiences of this kind must repel a

noble-minded young man?" said the doctor.

"Admitted! But Isabella and Laura are exceptions, and exceptions by no

means justify my son's perverted judgment of women. I told him this.

But he still declared that Isabella and Laura were the rule and not the

exception; that the women of the present day follow a perverted taste;

and that the wearing of crinoline, a costume he detests, proves this."

"I know," said the doctor, "that Richard abominates crinoline. Last

year he expressed his opinion about it, and I had to agree with him."

"My God!" said the father, astonished, "you certainly would not

encourage my son in his perverted opinion?"

"No," returned the doctor quietly; "but you must not expect me to

condemn sound opinions. His judgment of woman is prejudiced--granted.

But observe well, my dear Frank. This judgment is at the same time a

protest of a noble nature against the age of crinoline. Your son

expects much of women. Superficiality, vanity, passion for dress,

fickleness, and so forth, do not satisfy his sense of propriety.

Marriage, to him, is an earnest, holy union. He would unite himself to

a well-disposed woman, to a noble soul who would love her husband and

her duties, but not to a degenerate specimen of womankind. Such I

conceive to have been the reasons which have produced in your son this

antipathy."

"I believe you judge rightly," answered Frank. "But it must appear

clear to Richard that his views are unjust, and that there are always

women who would realize his expectations."

The doctor thought for a moment, and a significant smile played over

his features.

"This must become clear to him--yes, and it will become clear to him

sooner, perhaps, than you expect," said the doctor.

"I do not understand you, doctor."

"Yesterday we met Angela," said Klingenberg. "This Angela is an

extraordinary being of dazzling beauty; almost the incarnation of

Richard's ideal. I told him of her fine qualities, which he was

inclined to question. But happily! was able to establish these

qualities by facts. Now, as Angela lives but a mile from here and as

the simple customs of the country render access to the family easy, I

have not understood the character of your son if he does not take

advantage of this opportunity to become more intimately acquainted with

Angela, even if his object were only to confirm his former opinions of

women. If he knew Angela more intimately, it is my firm conviction that

his aversion would soon change into the most ardent affection."

"Who is this Angela?"

"The daughter of your neighbor, Siegwart."

Frank looked at the doctor with open mouth and staring eyes.

"Siegwart's daughter!" he gasped. "No, I will never consent to such a

connection."

"Why not?"

"Well--because the Siegwart family are not agreeable to me."

"That is no reason. Siegwart is an excellent man, rich, upright, and

respected by the whole neighborhood. Why does he happen to appear so

unfavorably in your eyes?"

Frank was perplexed. He might have reasons and yet be ashamed to give

them.

"Ah!" said the doctor, smiling, "it is now for you to lay aside

prejudice."

"An explanation is not possible," said Frank. "But my son will rather

die a bachelor than marry Siegwart's daughter."

Klingenberg shrugged his shoulders. There was a long pause.

"I renew my request, my friend," urged Frank. "Convince my son of his

errors."

"I will try to meet your wishes," returned Klingenberg. "Perhaps this

daughter of Siegwart will afford efficient aid."

"My son's liberty will not be restricted. He may visit the Siegwart

family when he wishes. But in matters where the mature mind of the

father has to decide, I shall always act according to my better

judgment."

The doctor again shrugged his shoulders. They shook hands, and in ten

minutes after Herr Frank was off for the train. Richard had left

Frankenhoehe two hours before. He passed quickly through the vineyard. A

secret power seemed to impel the young man. He glanced often at

Siegwart's handsome dwelling, and hopeful suspense agitated his

countenance. When he reached the lawn, he slackened his pace. He would

reflect, and understand clearly the object of his visit. He came to

observe Angela, whose character had made such a strong impression on

him and who threatened to compel him to throw his present opinions of

women to the winds. He would at the same time reflect on the

consequences of this possible change to his peace and liberty.

"Angela is beautiful, very beautiful, far more so than a hundred others

who are beautiful but wear crinoline." He had written in his diary:

"Of what value is corporal beauty that fades when it is disfigured by

bad customs and caprices? I admit that I have never yet met any woman

so graceful and charming as Angela; but this very circumstance warns me

to be careful that my judgment may not be dazzled. If it turns out that

Angela sets herself up as a religious coquette or a Pharisee, her fine

figure is only a deceitful mask of falsehood, and my opinion would

again be verified. I must make observations with great care."

Frank reviewed these resolutions as he passed slowly over the lawn,

where some servants were employed, who greeted him respectfully as he

passed. In the hall he heard a man's voice that came from the same room

he had entered on his first visit. The door was open, and the voice

spoke briskly and warmly.

Frank stopped for a moment and heard the voice say,

"Miss Angela is as lovely as ever."

These words vibrated disagreeably in Richard's soul, and urged him to

know the man from whom they came.

Herr Siegwart went to meet the visitor and offered him his hand. The

other gentleman remained sitting, and looked at Frank with stately

indifference.

"Herr Frank, my esteemed neighbor of Frankenhoehe," said Siegwart,

introducing Frank.

The gentleman rose and made a stiff bow.

"The Assessor von Hamm," continued the proprietor.

Frank made an equally stiff and somewhat colder bow.

The three sat down.

While Siegwart rang the bell, Richard cast a searching glance at the

assessor who had said, "Angela is as lovely as ever."

The assessor had a pale, studious color, regular features in which

there was an expression of official importance. Frank, who was a fine

observer, thought he had never seen such a perfect and sharply defined

specimen of the bureaucratic type. Every wrinkle in the assessor's

forehead told of arrogance and absolutism. The red ribbon in the

buttonhole of Herr von Hamm excited Frank's astonishment. He thought it

remarkable that a young man of four or five and twenty could have

merited the ribbon of an order. He might infer from this that

decorations and merit do not necessarily go together.

"How glad I am that you have kept your word!" said Siegwart to Frank

complacently. "How is your father?"

"Very well; he goes this morning to the city, where business calls

him."

"I have often admired your father's attentions to Dr. Klingenberg,"

said Siegwart after a short pause. "He has for years had Frankenhoehe

prepared for the accommodation of the doctor. You are Klingenberg's

constant companion, and I do not doubt but such is the wish of your

father. And your father tears himself from his business and comes

frequently from the city to see that the doctor's least wish is

realized. I have observed this these last eight years, and I have often

thought that the doctor is to be envied, on account of this noble

friendship."

"You know, I suppose, that the doctor saved my father when his life was

despaired of?"

"I know; but there are many physicians who have saved lives and who do

not find such a noble return."

These words of acknowledgment had something in them very offensive to

the assessor. He opened and shut his eyes and mouth, and cast a

grudging, envious look at Richard.

The servant brought a glass.

"Try this wine," said Siegwart; "my own growth," he added with some

pride.

They touched glasses. Hamm put his glass to his lips, without drinking;

Frank tasted the noble liquor with the air of a connoisseur; while

Siegwart's smiling gaze rested on him.

"Excellent! I do not remember to have drank better Burgundy."

"Real Burgundy, neighbor--real Burgundy. I brought the vines from

France."

"Do you not think the vines degenerate with us?" said Frank.

"They have not degenerated yet. Besides, proper care and attention make

up for the unsuitableness of our soil and climate.

"You would oblige me, Herr Siegwart, if you would preserve me some

shoots when you next trim them."

"With pleasure. I had them set last year; they shot forth fine roots,

and I can let you have any number of shoots."

"Is it not too late to plant them?"

"Just the right time. Our vine-growers generally set them too early. It

should be done in May, and not in April. Shall I send them over?"

"You are too kind, Herr Siegwart. My request must certainly destroy

your plan in regard to those shoots."

"Not at all; I have all I can use. It gives me great pleasure to be

able to accommodate a neighbor. It's settled; I'll send over the

Burgundies this evening."

It was clear to Hamm that Siegwart desired to be agreeable to the

wealthy Frank. The assessor opened and shut his eyes and mouth, and

fidgeted about in his chair. While he inwardly boiled and fretted, he

very properly concluded that he must consider himself offended. From

the moment of Frank's arrival, the proprietor had entirely forgotten

him. He was about to leave, in order not to expose his nerves to

further excitement, when chance afforded him an opportunity to give

vent to his ill-humor.

Two boys came running into the room. They directed their bright eyes to

Siegwart, and their childish, joyful faces, seemed to say,

"Here we are again; you know very well what we want."

One of them carried a tin box in his hand; there was a lock on the box,

and a small opening in the top--evidently a money-box.

"Gelobt sei Jesus Christus," said the children, and remained standing

near the door.

"In Ewigkeit," returned Siegwart. "Are you there again, my little ones?

That's right; come here, Edward." And Siegwart took out his purse and

dropped a few pennies into the box.

"A savings-box? Who gave the permission?" said the assessor in a tone

that frightened the children, astonished Richard, and caused Siegwart

to look with embarrassment at the questioner.

"For the pope, Herr von Hamm," said Siegwart.

The official air of the assessor became more severe.

"The ordinances make no exceptions," retorted Hamm. "The ordinances

forbid all collections that are not officially permitted." And he eyed

the box as if he had a notion to confiscate it.

Perhaps the lads noticed this, for they moved backward to the door and

suddenly disappeared from the room.

"I beg pardon, Herr Assessor," said Siegwart. "The Peter-pence is

collected in the whole Catholic world, and the Catholics of Salingen

thought they ought to assist the head of their church, who is so sorely

pressed, and who has been robbed of his possessions."

"I answer--the ordinances make no exceptions; the Peter-pence comes

under the ordinances. I find myself compelled to interpose against this

trespass."

"But the Peter-pence is collected in the whole country, Herr von Hamm!

Why, even in the public journals we read the results of this

collection, and I have never heard that the government forbade the

Peter-pence."

"Leave the government out of the question. I stand on my instructions.

The government forbids all collections unless permission is granted.

You must not expect an official to connive at an open breach of the

ordinances. I will do my duty and remind the burgomaster of Salingen

that he has not done his."

The occurrence was very annoying to Siegwart; this could be seen in his

troubled countenance. He thought of the reproof of the timid

burgomaster, and feared that the collection might in future be stopped.

"You have the authority, Herr Assessor, to permit it; I beg you will do

so."

"The request must be made in written official form," said Hamm. "You

know, Herr Siegwart, that I am disposed to comply with your wishes, but

I regret I cannot do so in the present case; and I must openly confess

I oppose the Peter-pence on principle. The temporal power of the pope

has become unnecessary. Why support an untenable dominion?"

"I consider the temporal power of the pope to be a necessity," said

Siegwart emphatically. "If the pope were not an independent prince, but

the subject of another ruler, he would in many things have to govern

the church according to the mind and at the command of his superior.

Sound common sense tells us that the pope must be free."

"Certainly, as far as I am concerned," returned Hamm. "But why drain

the money out of the country for an object that cannot be accomplished?

I tell you that the political standing of the bankrupt papal government

will not be saved by the Peter-pence."

"Permit me to observe, Herr Assessor, that I differ with you entirely.

The papal government is by no means bankrupt--quite the contrary. Until

the breaking out of the Franco-Sardinian revolution, its finances were

as well managed and flourishing as those of any state in Europe. I will

convince you of this in a moment." He went to the bookcase and handed

the assessor a newspaper. "These statistics will convince you of the

correctness of my assertion."

"As the documents to prove these statements are wanting, I have great

reason to doubt their correctness," said Hamm. "Paper will not refuse

ink, and in the present case the pen was evidently driven by a friendly

hand."

"Why do you draw this conclusion?"

"From the contradictions between this account of the papal finances and

that given by all independent editors."

"Permit me to call that editor not 'an independent,' but a 'friend of

the church.' The enemies of the church will not praise a church which

they hate. The papal government is the most calumniated government on

earth; and calumny and falsehood perform wonders in our times. The

Italian situation furnishes at present a most striking illustration.

The king of Piedmont has been raised to the rulership of Italy by the

unanimous voice of the people--so say the papers. But the revolution in

the greater part of Italy at the present time proves that the unanimous

voice of the people was a sham, and that the Piedmontese government is

hated and despised by the majority of the Italians. It is the same in

many other things. If falsehood and calumny were not the order of the

day, falsehood and calumny would not sit crowned on the throne."

"Right!" said Richard. "It is indisputable. It is nothing but the

depravity of the times that enables the emperor to domineer over the

world."

Siegwart heard Frank's observation with pleasure. Hamm read this in the

open countenance of the proprietor, and he made a movement as though he

would like to tramp on Frank's toes.

"I admit the flourishing condition of the former Papal States," said

Hamm, with a mock smile. "I will also admit that the former subjects of

the pope, who have been impoverished by the hungry Piedmontese, desire

the milder papal government. 'There is good living under the crozier,'

says an old proverb. But what does all this amount to? Does the

beautiful past overthrow the accomplished facts of the present? The

powers have determined to put an end to papal dominion. The powers have

partly accomplished this. Can the Peter-pence change the programme of

the powers? Certainly not. The papal government must go the way of all

flesh, and if the Catholics are taxed for an unattainable object, it

is, in my opinion, unjust, to say the least."

The proprietor shook his head thoughtfully. "We consider the question

from very different stand-points," said he. "Pius IX. is the head of

the church--the spiritual father of all Catholics. The revolution has

robbed him of his revenues. Why should not Catholics give their father

assistance?"

"And I ask," said Hamm, "why give the pope alms when the powers are

ready to give him millions?"

"On what conditions, Herr Assessor?"

"Well--on the very natural condition that he will acknowledge

accomplished facts."

"You find this condition so natural!" said Siegwart, somewhat excited.

"Do you forget the position of the pope? Remember that on those very

principles of which the pope is the highest representative, was built

the civilization of the present. The pope condemns robbery, injustice,

violence, and all the principles of modern revolution. How can the pope

acknowledge as accomplished facts, results which have sprung from

injustice, robbery, and violence? The moment the pope does that, he

ceases to be the first teacher of the people and the vicar of Christ on

earth."

"You take a strong religious position, my dear friend," said Hamm,

smiling compassionately.

"I do, most assuredly," said the proprietor with emphasis. "And I am

convinced that my position is the right one."

Hamm smiled more complacently still. Frank observed this smile; and the

contemptuous manner of the official toward the open, kind-hearted

proprietor annoyed him.

"Pius IX. is at any rate a noble man," said he, looking sharply at the

assessor, "There exists a critical state of uncertainty in all

governments. All the courts and principalities look to Paris, and the

greatest want of principle seems to be in the state taxation. The

pope alone does not shrink; he fears neither the anger nor the threats

of the powers. While thrones are tumbling, and Pius IX. is not master

in his own house, that remarkable man does not make the least

concession to the man in power. The powers have broken treaties,

trampled on justice, and there is no longer any right but the right of

revolution--of force. There is nothing any longer certain; all is

confusion. The pope alone holds aloft the banner of right and justice.

In his manifestoes to the world, he condemns error, falsehood, and

injustice. The pope alone is the shield of those moral forces which

have for centuries given stability and safety to governments. This

firmness, this confidence in the genius of Christianity, this

unsurpassed struggle of Pius, deserves the highest admiration even of

those who look upon the contest with indifference."

Siegwart listened and nodded assent. Hamm ate sardines, without paying

the least attention to the speaker.

"The Roman love of power is well known, and Rome has at all times made

the greatest sacrifices for it," said he.

The proprietor drummed with his fingers on the table. Frank thought he

observed him suppressing his anger, before he answered,

"Rome does not contend for love of dominion. She contends for the

authority of religion, for the maintenance of those eternal principles

without which there is no civilization. This even Herder, who is far

from being a friend of Rome, admits when he says, 'Without the church,

Europe would, perhaps, be a prey to despots, a scene of eternal

discord, and a Mogul wilderness.' Rome's battle is, therefore, very

important, and honorable. Had it not been for her, you would not have

escaped the bloody terrorisms of the power-seeking revolution. Think of

French liberty at present, think of the large population of Cayenne, of

the Neapolitan prisons, where thousands of innocent men hopelessly

languish."

"You have not understood me, my dear Siegwart. Take an example for

illustration. The press informs us almost daily of difficulties between

the government and the clergy. The cause of this trouble is that the

latter are separated from and wish to oppose the former. To speak

plainly, the Catholic clergy are non-conforming. They will not give up

that abnormal position which the moral force of past times conceded to

them. But in organized states, the clergy, the bishops, and the pastors

should be nothing more than state officials, whose rule of conduct is

the command of the sovereign."

"That is to make the church the servant of the state," said Siegwart.

"Religion, stripped of her divine title, would be nothing more than the

tool of the minister to restrain the people."

"Well, yes," said the official very coolly. "Religion is always a

strong curb on the rough, uneducated masses; and if religion restrains

the ignorant, supports the moral order and the government, she has

fulfilled her mission."

The proprietor opened wide his eyes.

"Religion, according to my belief, educates men not for the state but

for their eternal destiny."

"Perfectly right, Herr Siegwart, according to your view of the

question. I admire the elevation of your religious convictions, which

all men cannot rise up to."

A mock smile played on the assessor's pale countenance as he said this.

Siegwart did not observe it; but Frank did.

"If I understand you rightly, Herr Assessor, the clergy are only state

officials in clerical dress."

The assessor nodded his head condescendingly, and continued to soak a

sardine in olive-oil and take it between his knife and fork as Frank

began to speak. The fine-feeling Frank felt nettled at this contempt,

and immediately chastised Hamm for his want of politeness.

"I take your nod for an affirmative answer to my question," said he.

"You will allow me to observe that your view of the position and

purpose of the clergy must lead to the most absurd consequences."

The assessor turned an ashy color. He threw himself back on the sofa

and looked at the speaker with scornful severity.

"My view is that of every enlightened statesman of the nineteenth

century," said he proudly. "How can you, a mere novice in state

matters, come to such a conclusion."

"I come to it by sound thinking," said Frank haughtily. "If the clergy

are only the servants of the state, they are bound in the exercise of

their functions to follow the instructions of the state."

"Very natural," said the official.

"If the government think a change in the church necessary, say the

separation of the school from the church, the abolition of festivals,

the appointing of infidel professors to theological chairs, the

compiling of an enlightened catechism--and all these relate to the

spirit of the times or the supposed welfare of the state--then the

clergy must obey."

"That is self-evident," said the assessor.

"You see I comprehend your idea of the supreme power of the state,"

continued Frank. "The state is supreme. The church must be deprived of

all independence. She must not constitute a state within a state. If it

seems good to a minister to abolish marriage as a sacrament, or the

confessional, or to subject the teaching of the clergy to a revision by

the civil authority, because a majority of the chambers wish it, or

because the spirit of the age demands it, then the opposition of the

clergy would be illegal and their resistance disobedience."

"Naturally--naturally," said the official impatiently. "Come, now, let

us have the proof of your assertion."

"Draw the conclusions from what I have said, Herr Assessor, and you

have the most striking proof of the absurdity and ridiculousness of

your gagged state church," said Frank haughtily.

"How so, how so?" cried Hamm inquiringly.

"Simply thus: If the priest must preach according to the august

instructions of the state and not according to the principles of

religious dogma, he would then preach Badish in Baden, Hessish in

Hesse, Bavarian in Bavaria, Mecklenburgish in Mecklenburg; in short,

there would be as many sects as there are states and principalities.

And these sects would be constantly changing, as the chambers or

ministerial instructions would command or allow. All religion would

cease; for it would be no longer the expression of the divine will and

revelation, but the work of the chambers and the princes. Such a

religion would be contemptible in the eyes of every thinking man. I

would not give a brass button for such a religion."

"You go too far, Herr Frank," said Hamm. "Religion has a divine title,

and this glory must be retained."

"Then the clergy must be free."

"Certainly, that is clear," said the assessor as he arose, and, with a

smiling face, bowed lowly. Angela had entered the hall, and in

consequence of Hamm's greeting was obliged to come into the room. She

might have returned from a walk, for she wore a straw hat and a light

shawl was thrown over her shoulders. She led by the hand her little

sister Eliza, a charming child of four years.

The sisters remained standing near the door. Eliza looked with

wondering eyes at the stranger, whose movements were very wonderful to

the mind of the little one, and whose pale face excited her interest.

Angela's glance seemed to have blown away all the official dust that

remained in the soul of Hamm. The assessor was unusually agreeable. His

face lost its obstinate expression, and became light and animated. Even

its color changed to one of life and nature.

To Richard, who liked to take notes, and whose visit to Siegwart's had

no other object, the change that could be produced in a bureaucrat by

such rare womanly beauty was very amusing. He had arisen and stepped

back a little. He observed the assessor carefully till a smile between

astonishment and pity lit up his countenance. He then looked at Angela,

who stood motionless on the same spot. It seemed to require great

resignation on her part to notice the flattering speech and obsequious

attentions of the assessor. Richard observed that her countenance was

tranquil, but her manner more grave than usual. She still held the

little one by the hand, who pressed yet closer to her the nearer the

wonderful man came. Hamm's voice rose to a tone of enthusiasm, and he

took a step or two toward the object of his reverence, when a strange

enemy confronted him. Some swallows had come in with Angela. Till now

they were quiet and seemed to be observing the assessor; but when he

approached Angela, briskly gesticulating, the swallows raised their

well-known shrill cry of anxiety, left their perches and fluttered

around the official. Interrupted in the full flow of his eloquence, he

struck about with his hands to frighten them. The swallows only became

the noisier, and their fluttering about Hamm assumed a decidedly

warlike character. They seemed to consider him as a dangerous enemy of

Angela whom they wished to keep off. Richard looked on in wonder,

Siegwart shook his head and stroked his beard, and Angela smiled at the

swallows.

"These are abominable creatures," cried Hamm warding them off. "Why,

such a thing never happened to me before. Off with you! you troublesome

wretches."

The birds flew out of the room, still screaming; and their shrill cries

could be heard high up in the air.

"The swallows have a grudge against you," said Siegwart. "They

generally treat only the cats and hawks in this way."

"Perhaps they have been frightened at this red ribbon," returned Hamm.

"I regret, my dear young lady, to have frightened your little pets.

When I come again, I will leave the object of their terror at home."

"You should not deprive yourself of an ornament which has an honorable

significance on account of the swallows, particularly as we do not know

whether it was really the red color that displeased them," said she.

"You think, then, Miss Angela, that there is something else about me

they dislike?"

"I do not know, Herr Assessor."

"Oh! if I only knew the cause of their displeasure," said Hamm

enthusiastically. "You have an affection for the swallows, and I would

not displease any thing that you love."

She answered by an inclination, and was about to leave the room.

"Angela," said her father, "here is Herr Frank, to whom you are under

obligations."

She moved a step or two toward Richard.

"Sir," said she gently, "you returned some things that were valuable to

me; were it not for your kindness, they would probably have been lost.

I thank you."

A formal bow was Frank's answer. Hamm stood smiling, his searching

glance alternating between the stately young man and Angela. But in the

manner of both he observed nothing more than reserve and cold

formality.

Angela left the room. The assessor sat down on the sofa and poured out

a glass of wine.

Eliza sat on her father's knee. Richard observed the beautiful child

with her fine features and golden silken locks that hung about her

tender face. The winning expression of innocence and gentleness in her

mild, childish eyes particularly struck him.

"A beautiful, lovely child," said he involuntarily, and as he looked in

Siegwart's face he read there a deep love and a quiet, fatherly

fondness for the child.

"Eliza is not always as lovely and good as she is now," he returned.

"She has still some little faults which she must get rid of."

"Yes, that's what Angela said," chattered the little one. "Angela said

I must be very good; I must love to pray; I must obey my father and

mother; then the angels who are in heaven will love me."

"Can you pray yet, my child," said Richard.

"Yes, I can say the 'Our Father' and the 'Hail Mary.' Angela is

teaching me many nice prayers."

She looked at the stranger a moment and said with childish simplicity,

"Can you pray too?"

"Certainly, my child," answered Frank, smiling; "but I doubt whether my

prayers are as pleasing to God as yours."

"Angela also said we should not lie," continued Eliza. "The good God

does not love children who lie."

"That is true," said Frank. "Obey your sister Angela."

Here the young man was affected by a peculiar emotion. He thought of

Angela as the first instructor of the child; placed near this little

innocent, she appeared like its guardian angel. He saw clearly at this

moment the great importance of first impressions on the young, and

thought that in after life they would not be obliterated. He expressed

his thoughts, and Siegwart confirmed them.

"I am of your opinion, Herr Frank. The most enduring impressions are

made in early childhood. The germ of good must be implanted in the

tender and susceptible heart of the child and there developed. Many,

indeed most parents overlook this important principle of education.

This is a great and pernicious error. Man is born with bad

propensities; they grow with his growth and increase with his strength.

In early childhood, they manifest themselves in obstinacy, wilfulness,

excessive love of play, disobedience, and a disposition to lie. If

these outgrowths are plucked up and removed in childhood by careful,

religious training, it will be much easier to form the heart to habits

of virtue than in after years. Many parents begin to instruct their

children after they have spoiled them. Is this not your opinion, Herr

Assessor?"

Hamm was aroused by this sudden question. He had not paid any attention

to the conversation, but had been uninterruptedly stroking his

moustache and gazing abstractedly into vacancy.

"What did you ask, my dear Siegwart? Whether I am of your opinion?

Certainly, certainly, entirely of your opinion. Your views are always

sound, practical, and matured by great experience, as in this case."

"Well, I can't say you were always of my opinion," said Siegwart

smiling; "have we not just been sharply disputing about the

Peter-pence?"

"O my dear friend! as a private I agree with you entirely on these

questions; but an official must frequently defend in a system of

government that which he privately condemns."

Frank perceived Hamm's object. We wished to do away with the

unfavorable impressions his former expressions might have made on the

proprietor. The reason of this was clear to him since he had discovered

the assessor's passion for Angela.

"I am rejoiced," said Siegwart, "that we agree at least in that most

important matter, religion."

Frank remembered his father's remark, "The Siegwart family is intensely

clerical and ultramontane." It was new and striking to him to see the

question of religion considered the most important. He concluded from

this, and was confirmed in his conclusions by the leading spirit of the

Siegwart family, that, in direct contradiction to modern ideas,

religion is the highest good.

"Nevertheless," said Siegwart, "I object to a system of government that

is inimical to the church."

"And so do I," sighed the assessor.

Richard took his departure. At home, he wrote a few hasty lines in his

diary and then went into the most retired part of the garden. Here he

sat in deep thought till the servant called him to dinner.

"Has Klingenberg not gone out yet to-day?"

"No, but he has been walking up and down his room for the last two

hours."

Frank smiled. He guessed the meaning of this walk, and as they both

entered the dining-room together his conjecture was confirmed.

The doctor entered somewhat abruptly and did not seem to observe

Richard's presence. His eyes had a penetrating, almost fierce

expression and his brows were knit. He sat down to the table

mechanically, and ate what was placed before him. It is questionable

whether he knew what he was eating, or even that he was eating. He did

not speak a word, and Frank, who knew his peculiarities, did not

disturb him by a single syllable. This was not difficult, as he was

busily occupied with his own thoughts.

After the meal was over, Klingenberg came to himself. "My dear Richard,

I beg your pardon," said he in a tone of voice which was almost tender.

"Excuse my weakness. I have read this morning a scientific article that

upsets all my previous theories on the subject treated of. In the whole

field of human investigation there is nothing whatever certain, nothing

firmly established. What one to-day proves by strict logic to be true,

to-morrow another by still stronger logic proves to be false. From the

time of Aristotle to the present, philosophers have disagreed, and the

infallible philosopher will certainly never be born. It is the same in

all branches. I would not be the least astonished if Galileo's system

would be proved to be false. If the instruments, the means of acquiring

astronomical knowledge, continue to improve, we may live to learn that

the earth stands still and that the sun goes waltzing around our little

planet. This uncertainty is very discouraging to the human mind. We

might say with Faust,

"'It will my heart consume

That we can nothing know.'"

"In my humble opinion," said Frank, "every investigator moves in a

limited circle. The most profound thinker does not go beyond these set

limits; and if he would boldly overstep them, he would be thrown back

by evident contradiction into that circle which Omnipotence has drawn

around the human intellect."

"Very reasonable, Richard; very reasonable. But the desire of knowledge

must sometimes be satiated," continued the doctor after a short pause.

"If the human mind were free from the narrow limits of the deceptive

world of sense, and could see and know with pure spiritual eyes, the

barriers of which you speak would fall. Even the Bible assures us of

this. St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, says, 'We see now through a

glass in an obscure manner, but then face to face; now I know in part,

but then I shall know as I am known.' I would admire St. Paul on

account of this passage alone if he never had written another. How

awful is the moral quality of the human soul taken in connection with

its future capacity for knowledge. And how natural, how evident, is the

connection. The human mind will receive knowledge from the source of

all knowledge--God, in proportion as it has been just and good. For

this reason our Redeemer calls the world of the damned 'outer

darkness,' and the world of the blessed, the 'kingdom of light.'"

"We sometimes see in that way even now," said Frank after a pause. "The

wicked have ideas very different from those of the good. A frivolous

spirit mocks at and derides that which fills the good with happiness

and contentment. We might, then, say that even in this life man knows

as he is known."

The doctor cast an admiring glance at the young man. "We entirely

agree, my young friend; wickedness is to the sciences what a poisonous

miasma and the burning rays of the sun are to the young plants. Yes,

vice begets atheism, materialism, and every other abortion of thought."

Klingenberg arose.

"We will meet again at three," said he with a friendly nod.

Richard took from his room _Vogt's Physiological Letters_, went into

the garden, and buried himself in its contents.

CHAPTER V.

THE PROGRESSIVE PROFESSOR.

When Frank returned from the walk, he found a visitor at Frankenhoehe.

The visitor was an elegantly dressed young man, with a free,

self-important air about him.

He spoke fluently, and his words sounded as decisive as though they

came from the lips of infallibility. At times this self-importance was

of such a boastful and arrogant character as to affect the observer

disagreeably.

"It is now vacation, and I do not know how to enjoy it better than by a

visit to you," said he.

"Very flattering to me," answered Frank. "I hope you will be pleased

with Frankenhoehe."

"Pleased?" returned the visitor, as he looked through the open window

at the beautiful landscape. "I would like to dream away here the whole

of May and June. How charming it is! An empire of flowers and vernal

delights."

"I am surprised, Carl, that you have preserved such a love for nature.

I thought you considered the professor's chair the culminating point of

attraction."

Carl bowed his head proudly, and stood with folded arms before the

smiling Frank.

"That is evidently intended for flattery," said he. "The professor's

chair is my vocation. He who does not hold his vocation as the acme of

all attraction is indeed a perfect man. Besides, it will appear to you,

who consider everything in the world, not excepting even the fair sex,

with blank stoicism--it will appear even to you that the rostrum is

destined to accomplish great things. Ripe knowledge in mighty

pulsations goes forth from the rostrum, and permeates society. The

rostrum governs and educates the rising young men who are destined to

assume leading positions in the state. The rostrum overthrows

antiquated forms of religious delusion, ennobles rational thought,

exact science, and deep investigation. The rostrum governs even the

throne; for we have princes in Germany who esteem liberty of thought

and progress of knowledge more than the art of governing their people

in a spirit of stupidity."

Frank smiled.

"The glory of the rostrum I leave undisputed," said he. "But I beg of

you to conceal from the doctor your scientific rule of faith. You may

get into trouble with the doctor."

"I am very desirous of becoming acquainted with this paragon of

learning--you have told me so much about him; and I confess it was

partly to see him that I made this visit. Get into trouble? I do not

fear the old syllogism-chopper in the least. A good disputation with

him is even desirable."

"Well, you are forewarned. If you go home with a lacerated back, it

will not be my fault."

"A lacerated back?" said the professor quietly. "Does the doctor like

to use _striking_ arguments?"

"Oh! no; but his sarcasm is as cutting as the slash of a sword, and his

logical vehemence is like the stroke of a club."

"We will fight him with the same weapons," answered Carl, throwing back

his head. "Shall I pay him my respects immediately?"

"The doctor admits no one. In his studio he is as inaccessible as a

Turkish sultan in his harem. I will introduce you in the dining-room,

as it is now just dinner-time."

They betook themselves to the dining-room, and soon after they heard

the sound of a bell.

"He is just now called to table," said Richard. "He does not allow the

servant to enter his room, and for that reason a bell has been hung

there."

"How particular he is!" said the professor.

A door of the ante-room was opened, quick steps were heard, and

Klingenberg hastily entered and placed himself at the table, as at a

work that must be done quickly, and then observed the stranger.

"Doctor Lutz, professor of history in our university," said Frank,

introducing him.

"Doctor Lutz--professor of history," said Klingenberg musingly. "Your

name is familiar to me, if I am not mistaken; are you not a

collaborator on Sybel's historical publication?"

"I have that honor," answered the professor, with much dignity.

They began to eat.

"You read Sybel's periodical?" asked the professor.

"We must not remain entirely ignorant of literary productions,

particularly the more excellent."

Lutz felt much flattered by this declaration.

"Sybel's periodical is an unavoidable necessity at present," said the

professor. "Historical research was in a bad way; it threatened to

succumb entirely to the ultramontane cause and the clerical party."

"Now Sybel and his co-laborers will avert that danger," said the

doctor. "These men will do honor to historical research. The

ultramontanists have a great respect for Sybel. When he taught in

Munich, they did not rest till he turned his back on Isar-Athen. In my

opinion, Sybel should not have gone to Munich. The stupid Bavarians

will not allow themselves to be enlightened. So let them sit in

darkness, the stupid barbarians who have no appreciation for the

progress of science."

The professor looked astonished. He could not understand how an admirer

of Sybel's could be so prejudiced. Frank was alarmed lest the professor

might perceive the doctor's keen sarcasm--which he delivered with a

serious countenance--and feel offended. He changed the conversation to

another subject, in which Klingenberg did not take part.

"You have represented the doctor incorrectly," said the professor,

after the meal. "He understands Sybel and praises his efforts--the best

sign of a clear mind."

"Klingenberg is always just," returned Frank.

On the following afternoon, Lutz joined in the accustomed walk. As they

were passing through the chestnut grove, a servant of Siegwart's came

up breathless, with a letter in his hand, which he gave to Frank.

"Gentlemen," said Frank after reading the letter, "I am urgently

requested to visit Herr Siegwart immediately. With your permission I

will go."

"Of course, go," said Klingenberg. "I know," he added with a roguish

expression, "that you would as lief visit that excellent man as walk

with us."

Richard went off in such haste that the question occurred to him why he

fulfilled with such zeal the wishes of a man with whom he had been so

short a time acquainted; but with the question Angela came before his

mind as an answer. He rejected this answer, even against his feelings,

and declared to himself that Siegwart's honorable character and

neighborly feeling made his haste natural and even obligatory. The

proprietor may have been waiting his arrival, for he came out to meet

him. Frank observed a dark cloud over the countenance of the man and

great anxiety in his features.

"I beg your forgiveness a thousand times, Herr Frank. I know you go

walking with Herr Klingenberg at this hour, and I have deprived you of

that pleasure."

"No excuse, neighbor. It is a question which would give me greater

pleasure, to serve you or to walk with Klingenberg."

Richard smiled while saying these words; but the smile died away, for

he saw how pale and suddenly anxious Siegwart had become. They had

entered a room, and he desired to know the cause of Siegwart's changed

manner.

"A great and afflicting misfortune threatens us," began the proprietor.

"My Eliza has been suddenly taken ill, and I have great fears for her

young life. Oh! if you knew how that child has grown into my heart." He

paused for a moment and suppressed his grief, but he could not hide

from Frank the tears that filled his eyes. Richard saw these tears, and

this paternal grief increased his respect for Siegwart.

"The delicate life of a young child does not allow of protracted

medical treatment, of consultation or investigation into the disease or

the best remedies. The disease must be known immediately and efficient

remedies applied. There are physicians at my command, but I do not dare

to trust Eliza to them."

"I presume, Herr Siegwart, that you wish for Klingenberg."

"Yes--and through your mediation. You know that he only treats the sick

poor; but resolutely refuses his services to the wealthy."

"Do not be uneasy about that. I hope to be able to induce Klingenberg

to correspond with your wishes. But is Eliza really so sick, or does

your apprehension increase your anxiety?"

"I will show you the child, and then you can judge for yourself." They

went up-stairs and quietly entered the sick-room. Angela sat on the

little bed of the child, reading. The child was asleep, but the noise

of their entrance awoke her. She reached out her little round arms to

her father, and said in a scarcely audible whisper,

"Papa--papa!"

This whispered "papa" seemed to pierce the soul of Siegwart like a

knife. He drew near and leant over the child.

"You will be well to-morrow, my sweet pet. Do you see, Herr Frank has

come to see you?"

"Mamma!" whispered the child.

"Your mother will come to-morrow, my Eliza. She will bring you

something pretty. My wife has been for the last two weeks at her

sister's, who lives a few miles from here," said Siegwart, turning to

Frank. "I sent a messenger for her early this morning."

While the father sat on the bed and held Eliza's hand in his, Frank

observed Angela, who scarcely turned her eyes from the sick child. Her

whole soul seemed taken up with her suffering sister. Only once had she

looked inquiringly at Frank, to read in his face his opinion of the

condition of Eliza. She stood immovable at the foot of the bed, as

mild, as pure, and as beautiful as the guardian angel of the child.

Both men left the room.

"I will immediately seek the doctor, who is now on his walk," said

Frank.

"Shall I send my servant for him?"

"That is unnecessary," returned Frank. "And even if your servant should

find the doctor, he would probably not be inclined to shorten his walk.

Our gardener, who works in the chestnut grove, will show me the way the

doctor took. In an hour and a half at furthest I will be back."

The young man pressed the outstretched hand of Siegwart, and hastened

away.

In the mean time the doctor and the professor had reached a narrow,

wooded ravine, on both sides of which the rocks rose almost

perpendicularly. The path on which they talked passed near a little

brook, that flowed rippling over the pebbles in its bed. The branches

of the young beeches formed a green roof over the path, and only here

and there were a few openings through which the sun shot its sloping

beams across the cool, dusky way, and in the sunbeams floated and

danced dust-colored insects and buzzing flies.

The learned saunterers continued their amusement without altercation

until the professor's presumption offended the doctor and led to a

vehement dispute.

Klingenberg did not appear on the stage of publicity. He left boasting

and self-praise to others, far inferior to him in knowledge. He

despised that tendency which pursues knowledge only to command, which

cries down any inquiry that clashes with their theories. The doctor

published no learned work, nor did he write for the periodicals, to

defend his views. But if he happened to meet a scientific opponent, he

fought him with sharp, cutting weapons.

"I do not doubt of the final victory of true science over the

falsifying party spirit of the ultramontanes," said the professor.

"Sybel's periodical destroys, year by year, more and more the crumbling

edifice which the clerical zealots build on the untenable foundation of

falsified facts."

Klingenberg tore his cap from his head and swung it about vehemently,

and made such long strides that the other with difficulty kept up with

him. Suddenly he stopped, turned about, and looked the professor

sharply in the eyes.

"You praise Sybel's publication unjustly," said he excitedly. "It is

true Sybel has founded a historical school, and has won many imitators;

but his is a school destructive of morality and of history--a school of

scientific radicalism, a school of falsehood and deceitfulness. Sybel

and his followers undertake to mould and distort history to their

purposes. They slur over every thing that contradicts their theories.

To them the ultramontanes are partial, prejudiced men--or perhaps asses

and dunces; you are unfortunately right when you say Sybel's school

wins ground; for Sybel and his fellows have brought lying and

falsification to perfection. They have in Germany perplexed minds, and

have brought their historical falsifications to market as true ware."

The professor could scarcely believe his own ears.

"I have given you freely and openly my judgment, which need not offend

you, as it refers to principles, not persons."

"Not in the least," answered Lutz derisively. "I admit with pleasure

that Sybel's school is anti-church, and even anti-Christian, if you

will. There is no honor in denying this. The denial would be of no use;

for this spirit speaks too loudly and clearly in that school. Sybel and

his associates keep up with the enlightenment and liberalism of our

times. But I must contradict you when you say this free tendency is

injurious to society; the seed of free inquiry and human enlightenment

can bring forth only good fruits."

"Oh! we know this fruit of the new heathenism," cried the doctor.

"There is no deed so dark, no crime so great, that it may not be

defended according to the anti-Christian principles of vicious

enlightenment and corrupt civilization. Sybel's school proves this with

striking clearness. Tyrants are praised and honored. Noble men are

defamed and covered with dirt."

"This you assert, doctor; it is impossible to prove such a

declaration."

"Impossible! Not at all. Sybel's periodical exalts to the seventh

heaven the tyrant Henry VIII. of England. You extol him as a

conscientious man who was compelled by scruples of conscience to

separate from his wife. You commend him for having but one mistress.

You say that the sensualities of princes are only of 'anecdotal

interest.' Naturally," added the doctor contemptuously, "a school that

cuts loose from Christian principles cannot consistently condemn

adultery. Fie! fie! Debauchees and men of gross sensuality might sit in

Sybel's enlightened school. Progress overthrows the cross, and erects

the crescent. We may yet live to see every wealthy man of the new

enlightenment have his harem. Whether society can withstand the

detestable consequences of this teaching of licentiousness and contempt

for Christian morality, is a consideration on which these progressive

gentlemen do not reflect."

"I admit, doctor," said Lutz, "that the clear light of free, impartial

science must needs hurt the eyes of a pious believer. According to the

opinions of the ultramontanes, Henry VIII. was a terrible tyrant and

bloodhound. Sybel's periodical deserves the credit of having done

justice to that great king."

"Do you say so?" cried the doctor, with flaming eyes. "You, a professor

of history in the university! You, who are appointed to teach our young

men the truth! Shame on you! What you say is nothing but stark

hypocrisy. I appeal to the heathen. You may consider religion from the

stand-point of an ape, for what I care; your cynicism, which is not

ashamed to equalize itself with the brute, may also pass. But this

hypocrisy, this fallacious representation of historical facts and

persons, this hypocrisy before my eyes--this I cannot stand; this must

be corrected."

The doctor actually doubled up his fists. Lutz saw it and saw also the

wild fire in the eyes of his opponent, and was filled with apprehension

and anxiety.

Erect and silent, fiery indignation in his flushed countenance, stood

Klingenberg before the frightened professor. As Lutz still held his

tongue, the doctor continued,

"You call Henry VIII. a 'great king,' you extol and defend this 'great

king' in Sybel's periodical. I say Henry VIII. was a great scoundrel, a

blackguard without a conscience, and a bloodthirsty tyrant. I prove my

assertion. Henry VIII. caused to be executed two queens who were his

wives--two cardinals, twelve dukes and marquises, eighteen barons and

knights, seventy-seven abbots and priors, and over sixty thousand

Catholics. Why did he have them executed? Because they were criminals?

No; because they remained true to their consciences and to the religion

of their fathers. All these fell victims to the cruelty of Henry

VIII., whom you style a 'great king.' You glorify a man who for

blood-thirstiness and cruelty can be placed by the side of Nero and

Diocletian. That is my retort to your hypocrisy and historical

mendacity."

The stern doctor having emptied his vials of wrath, now walked on

quietly; Lutz with drooping head followed in silence.

"Sybel does not even stop with Henry VIII.," again began the doctor.

"These enlightened gentlemen undertake to glorify even Tiberius, that

inhuman monster. They might as well have the impudence to glorify

cruelty itself. On the other hand, truly great men, such as Tilly, are

abandoned to the hatred of the ignorant."

"This is unjust," said the professor hastily. "Sybel's periodical in

the second volume says that Tilly was often calumniated by party

spirit; that the destruction of Magdeburg belongs to the class of

unproved and improbable events. The periodical proves that Tilly's

conduct in North Germany was mild and humane, that he signalized

himself by his simplicity, unselfishness, and conscientiousness.

"Does Sybel's periodical say all this?"

"Word for word, and much more in praise of that magnanimous man," said

Lutz. "From this you may know that science is just even to pious

heroes."

Klingenberg smiled characteristically, and in his smile was an

expression of ineffable contempt.

He stopped before the professor.

"You have just quoted what impartial historical research informs us of

Tilly, in the second and third volumes. It is so. I remember perfectly

having read that favorable account. Now let me quote what the same

periodical says of the same Tilly in the seventeenth volume. There we

read that Tilly was a hypocrite and a blood-hound, whose name cannot be

mentioned without a shudder; furthermore, we are told that Tilly burned

Magdeburg, that he waged a ravaging war against men, women, children,

and property. You see, then, in the second and third volumes that Tilly

was a conscientious, mild man and pious hero; in the seventeenth

volume, that he was a tyrant and blood-hound. It appears from this with

striking clearness that the enlightened progressionists do not stick at

contradiction, mendacity, and defamation."

The professor lowered his eyes and stood embarrassed.

"I leave you, 'Herr Professor,' to give a name to such a procedure.

Besides, I must also observe that the strictly scientific method, as it

labels itself at present, does not stop at personal defamation. As

every holy delusion and religious superstition must be destroyed in the

hearts of the students, this lying and defamation extends to the

historical truths of faith. It is taught from the professors' chairs,

and confirmed by the journals, that confession is an invention of the

middle ages; while you must know from thorough research that confession

has existed up to the time of the apostles. You teach and write that

Innocent III. introduced the doctrine of transubstantiation in the

thirteenth century; while every one having the least knowledge of

history knows that at the council of 1215 it was only made a duty to

receive the holy communion at Easter, that the fathers of the first

ages speak of transubstantiation--that it has its foundation in

Scripture. You know as well as I do that indulgences were imparted even

in the first century; but this does not prevent you from teaching that

the popes of the middle ages invented indulgences from love of money,

and sold them from avarice. Thus the progressive science lies and

defames, yet is not ashamed to raise high the banner of enlightenment;

thus you lead people into error, and destroy youth! Fie! fie!"

The doctor turned and was about to proceed when he heard his name

called. Frank hastened to him, the perspiration running from his

forehead, and his breast heaving from rapid breathing. In a few words

he made known Eliza's illness, and Siegwart's request.

"You know," said Klingenberg, "that I treat only the poor, who cannot

easily get a physician."

"Make an exception in this case, doctor, I beg of you most earnestly!

You respect Siegwart yourself for his integrity, and I also of late

have learned to esteem the excellent man, whose heart at present is

rent with anxiety and distress. Save this child, doctor; I beg of you

save it."

Klingenberg saw the young man's anxiety and goodness, and benevolence

beamed on his still angry face.

"I see," said he, "that no refusal is to be thought of. Well, we will

go." And he immediately set off with long strides on his way back.

Richard cast a glance at the professor, who followed, gloomy and

spiteful. He saw the angry look he now and then turned on the hastening

doctor, and knew that a sharp contest must have taken place. But his

solicitude for Siegwart's child excluded all other sympathy. On the way

he exchanged only a few words with Lutz, who moved on morosely, and was

glad when Klingenberg and Richard separated from him in the vicinity of

Frankenhoehe.

Ten minutes later they entered the house of Siegwart. The doctor stood

for a moment observing the child without touching it. The little one

opened her eyes, and appeared to be frightened at the strange man with

the sharp features. Siegwart and Angela read anxiously in the doctor's

immovable countenance. As Eliza said "Papa," in a peculiar, feverish

tone, Klingenberg moved away from the bed. He cast a quick glance at

the father, went to the window and drummed with his fingers on the

glass. Frank read in that quick glance that Eliza must die. Angela must

also have guessed the doctor's opinion, for she was very much affected;

her head sank on her breast and tears burst from her eyes.

Klingenberg took out his notebook, wrote something on a small slip of

paper, and ordered the recipe to be taken immediately to the

apothecary. He then took his departure.

"What do you think of the child?" said Siegwart, as they passed over

the yard.

"The child is very sick; send for me in the morning if it be

necessary."

Frank and the doctor went some distance in silence. The young man

thought of the misery the death of Eliza would bring on that happy

family, and the pale, suffering Angela in particular stood before him.

"Is recovery not possible?"

"No. The child will surely die to-night. I prescribed only a soothing

remedy. I am sorry for Siegwart; he is one of the few fathers who hang

with boundless love on their children--particularly when they are

young. The man must call forth all his strength to bear up against it."

When Frank entered his room, he found Lutz in a very bad humor.

"You have judged that old bear much too leniently," began the

professor. "The man is a model of coarseness and intolerable bigotry."

"I thought so," said Frank. "I know you and I know the doctor; and I

knew two such rugged antitheses must affect each other unpleasantly.

What occasioned your dispute?"

"What! A thousand things," answered his friend ill-humoredly. "The

old rhinoceros has not the least appreciation of true knowledge. He

carries haughtily the long wig of antiquated stupidity, and does not

see the shallowness of the swamp in which he wallows. The genius of

Christianity is to him the sublime. Where this stops, pernicious

enlightenment--which corrupts the people, turns churches into

ball-rooms, and the Bible into a book of fables--begins."

"The doctor is not wrong there," said Frank earnestly. "Are they not

endeavoring with all their strength to deprive the Bible of its divine

character? Does not one Schenkel in Heidelberg deny the divinity of

Christ? Is not this Schenkel the director of a theological faculty? Do

not some Catholic professors even begin to dogmatize and dispute the

authority of the holy see?"

"We rejoice at the consoling fact that Catholic _savants_ themselves

break the fetters with which Rome's infallibility has bound in

adamantine chains the human mind!" cried Lutz with enthusiasm.

"It appears strange to me when young men--scarcely escaped from the

school, and boasting of all modern knowledge--cast aside as old,

worthless rubbish what great minds of past ages have deeply pondered.

The see of Rome and its dogmas have ruled the world for eighteen

hundred years. Rome's dogmas overthrew the old world and created a new

one. They have withstood and survived storms that have engulfed all

else besides. Such strength excites wonder and admiration, but not

contempt."

"I let your eulogy on Rome pass," said the professor. "But as Rome and

her dogmas have overthrown heathenism, so will the irresistible

progress of science overthrow Christianity. Coming generations will

smile as complacently at the God of Christendom as we consider with

astonishment the great and small gods of the heathen."

"I do not desire the realization of your prophecy," said Frank

gloomily; "for it must be accompanied by convulsions that will

transform the whole world, and therefore I do not like to see an

anti-Christian tendency pervading science."

"Tendency, tendency!" said Lutz, hesitating. "In science there is no

tendency; there is but truth."

"Easy, friend, easy! Be candid and just. You will not deny that the

tendency of Sybel's school is to war against the church?"

"Certainly, in so far as the church contends against truth and thorough

investigation."

"Good; and the friends of the church will contend against you in so far

as you are inimical to the spirit of the church. And so, tendency on

one side, tendency on the other. But it is you who make the more noise.

As soon as a book opposed to you appears,--'Partial!' you say with

contemptuous mien; 'Odious!' 'Ecclesiastical!' 'Unreadable!' and it is

forthwith condemned. But it appears to me natural that a man should

labor and write in a cause which is to him the noblest cause."

"I am astonished, Richard! You did not think formerly as you now do.

But I should not be surprised if your intercourse with the doctor is

not without its effects." This the professor said in a cutting tone.

Frank turned about and walked the room. The observation of his friend

annoyed him, and he reflected whether his views had actually undergone

any change.

"You deceive yourself. I am still the same," said he. "You cannot

mistrust me because I do not take part with you against the doctor."

Carl sat for a time thinking.

"Is my presence at the table necessary?" said he. "I do not wish to

meet the doctor again."

"That would be little in you. You must not avoid the doctor. You must

convince yourself that he does not bear any ill-will on account of that

scientific dispute. With all his rough bluntness, Klingenberg is a

noble man. Your non-appearance at table must offend him, and at the

same time betray your annoyance."

"I obey," answered Lutz. "Tomorrow I will go for a few days to the

mountains. On my return I will remain another day with you."

Frank's assurance was confirmed. The doctor met the guest as if nothing

unpleasant had happened. In the cool of the evening he went with the

young men into the garden, and spoke with such familiarity of Tacitus,

Livy, and other historians of antiquity that the professor admired his

erudition.

Frank wrote in his diary:

"May 20th.--After mature reflection, I find that the views which I

believed to be strongly founded begin to totter. What would the

professor say if he knew that not the doctor, but a country family, and

that, too, ultramontane, begin to shake the foundation of my views?

Would he not call me weak?"

He laid down the pen and sat sullenly reflecting.

"All my impressions of the ultramontane family be herewith effaced," he

wrote further. "The only fact I admit is, that even ultramontanes also

can be good people. But this fact shall in no wise destroy my former

convictions."

CHAPTER VI.

THE ULTRAMONTANE WAY OF THINKING.

On the following morning, no message was sent for the doctor. The child

had died, as Klingenberg foretold. Frank thought of the great

affliction of the Siegwart family--Angela in tears, and the father

broken down with grief. It drove him from Frankenhoehe. In a quarter of

an hour he was at the house of the proprietor.

A servant came weeping to meet him.

"You cannot speak to my master," said she. "We had a bad night. My

master is almost out of his mind; he has only just now lain down. Poor

Eliza! the dear, good child." And the tears burst forth again.

"When did the child die?"

"At four o'clock this morning; and how beautiful she still looks in

death! You would think she is only sleeping. If you wish to see her,

just go up to the same room in which you were yesterday."

After some hesitation, Frank ascended the stairs and entered the room.

As he passed the threshold, he paused, greatly surprised at the sight

that met his view. The room was darkened, the shutters closed, and

across the room streamed the broken rays of the morning sun. On a

white-covered table burned wax candles, in the midst of which stood a

large crucifix; there was also a holy-water vase, and in it a green

branch. On the white cushions of the bed reposed Eliza, a crown of

evergreens about her forehead, and a little crucifix in her folded

hands. Her countenance was not the least disfigured; only about her

softly closed eyes there was a dark shade, and the lifelike freshness

of the lips had vanished. Angela sat near the bed on a low stool; she

had laid her head near that of her sister, and in consequence of a

wakeful night was fast asleep. Eliza's little head lay in her arms, and

in her hand she held the same rosary that he had found near the statue.

Frank stood immovable before the interesting group.

The most beautiful form he had ever beheld he now saw in close contact

with the dead. Earnest thoughts passed through his mind. The

fleetingness of all earthly things vividly occurred to him. Eliza's

corpse reminded him impressively that her sister, the charming Angela,

must meet the same inevitable fate. His eyes rested on the beautiful

features of the sufferer, which were not in the least disfigured by

bitter or gloomy dreams, and which expressed in sleep the sweetest

peace. She slept as gently and confidingly near Eliza as if she did not

know the abyss which death had placed between them. The only disorder

in Angela's external appearance was the glistening curls of hair that

hung loose over her shoulders on her breast.

At length Frank departed, with the determination of returning to make

his visit of condolence. After the accustomed walk with Klingenberg, he

went immediately back to Siegwart's.

When he returned home, he wrote in his diary:

"May 21st.--Surprising and wonderful!

"When my uncle's little Agnes died, my aunt took ill, and my uncle's

condition bordered on insanity; tortured by excruciating anguish, he

murmured against Providence. He accused God of cruelty and injustice,

because he took from him a child he loved so much, he lost all

self-control, and had not strength to bear the misfortune with

resignation. And now the Siegwart family are in the same circumstances;

the father is much broken down, much afflicted, but very resigned; his

trembling lips betray the affliction that presses on his heart, but

they make no complaints against Providence.

"'I thank you for your sympathy,' said he to me. 'The trial is painful;

but God knows what he does. The Lord gave me the dear child; the Lord

has taken her away. His holy will be done.' So spoke Siegwart. While he

said this, a perceptible pain changed his manly countenance, and he lay

like a quivering victim on the altar of the Lord. Siegwart's wife, a

beautiful woman, with calm, mild eyes, wept inwardly. Her mother's

heart bled from a thousand wounds; but she showed the same self-control

and resignation as Siegwart did to the will of the Most High.

"And Angela? I do not understand her at all. She speaks of Eliza as of

one sleeping, or of one who has gone to a place where she is happy. But

sometimes a spasm twitches her features; then her eyes rest on the

crucifix that stands amid the lighted candles. The contemplation of the

crucifix seems to afford her strength and vigor. This is a mystery to

me. I cannot conceive the mysterious power of that carved figure.

"Misery does not depress these people: it ennobles them. I have never

seen the like. When I compare their conduct with that of those I have

known, I confess that the Siegwart family puts my acquaintance as well

as myself to shame.

"What gives these people this strength, this calm, this resignation?

Religion, perhaps. Then religion is infinitely more than a mere

conception, a mere external rule of faith.

"I am beginning to suspect that between heaven and earth there exists,

for those who live for heaven, a warm, living union. It appears to me

that Providence does not, indeed, exempt the faithful from the common

lot of earthly affliction; but he gives them strength which transcends

the power of human nature.

"I have undertaken the task of putting Angela to the test, and what do

I find? Admiration for her--shame for myself; and also the certainty

that my views of women must be restricted."

He had scarcely written down these thoughts, when he bit impatiently

the pen between his teeth.

"We must not be hasty in our judgments," he wrote further. "Perhaps it

is my ignorance of the depth of the human heart that causes me to

consider in so favorable a light the occurrences in the Siegwart

family.

"Perhaps it is a kind of stupidity of mind, an unrefined feeling, a

frivolous perception of fatality, that gives these people this quiet

and resignation. My judgment shall not be made up. Angela may conceal

beneath the loveliness of her nature characteristics and failings which

may justify my opinion of the sex, notwithstanding."

With a peculiar stubbornness which struggles to maintain a favorite

conviction, he closed the diary.

On the second day after Eliza's death, the body was consigned to the

earth. Frank followed the diminutive coffin, which was carried by four

little girls dressed in white. The youthful bearers had wreaths of

flowers on their heads and blue silk ribbons about their waists, the

ends of which hung down.

After these followed a band of girls, also dressed in white and blue.

They had flowers fixed in their hair, and in their hands they carried a

large wreath of evergreens and roses. The whole community followed the

procession--a proof of the great respect the proprietor enjoyed among

his neighbors. Siegwart's manner was quiet, but his eyes were inflamed.

As the coffin was lowered into the ground, the larks sang in the air,

and the birds in the bushes around joined their sweet cadences with the

not plaintive but joyful melodies which were sung by a choir of little

girls. The church ceremonies, like nature, breathed joy and triumph,

much to Richard's astonishment. He did not understand how these songs

of gladness and festive costumes could be reconciled with the open

grave. He believed that the feelings of the mourners must be hurt by

all this. He remained with the family at the grave till the little

mound was smoothed and finished above it. The people scattered over the

graveyard, and knelt praying before the different graves. The cross was

planted on Eliza's resting-place, and the girls placed the large wreath

on the little mound. Siegwart spoke words of consolation to his wife as

he conducted her to the carriage. Angela, sunk in sadness, still

remained weeping at the grave. Richard approached and offered her his

arm. The carriage proceeded toward Salingen and stopped before the

church, whose bells were tolling. The service began. Again was Richard

surprised at the joyful melody of the church hymns. The organ pealed

forth joyfully as on a festival. Even the priest at the altar did not

wear black, but white vestments. Frank, unfamiliar with the deep spirit

of the Catholic liturgy, could not understand this singular funeral

service.

After service the family returned. Frank sat opposite to Angela, who

was very sad, but in no way depressed. He even thought he saw now and

then the light of a peculiar joy in her countenance. Madame Siegwart

could not succeed in overcoming her maternal sorrow. Her tears burst

forth anew, and her husband consoled her with tender words.

Frank strove to divert Angela from her sad thoughts. As he thought it

would not be in good taste to speak of ordinary matters, he expressed

his surprise at the manner of the burial.

"Your sister," said he, "was interred with a solemnity which excited my

surprise, and, I confess, my disapprobation. Not a single hymn of

sorrow was sung, either at the grave or in the church. One would not

believe that those white-clad girls with wreaths of flowers on their

heads were carrying the soulless body of a beloved being to the grave.

The whole character of the funeral was that of rejoicing. How is this,

Fraeulein Angela; is that the custom here?"

She looked at him somewhat astonished.

"That is the custom in the whole Catholic Church," she replied. "At the

burial of children she excludes all sadness; and for that reason masses

of requiem in black vestments are never said for them; but masses of

the angels in white."

"Do you not think the custom is in contradiction to the sentiments of

nature--to the sorrowful feelings of those who remain?"

"Yes, I believe so," she answered tranquilly. "Human nature grieves

about many things over which the spirit should rejoice."

These words sounded enigmatically to Richard.

"I do not comprehend the meaning of your words, Fraeulein Angela."

"Grief at the death of a relative is proper for us, because a beloved

person has been taken from our midst. But the church, on the contrary,

rejoices because an innocent, pure soul has reached the goal after

which we all strive--eternal happiness. You see, Herr Frank, that the

church considers the departure of a child from this world from a more

exalted point of view, and comprehends it in a more spiritual sense,

than the natural affection. While the heart grows weak from sadness,

the church teaches us that Eliza is happy; that she has gone before us,

and that we will be separated from her but for a short time; that

between us there is a spiritual union which is based on the communion

of saints. Faith teaches me that Eliza, rescued from all afflictions

and disappointments, is happy in the kingdom of the blessed. If I could

call her back, I would not do it; for this desire springs from egotism,

which can make no sacrifices to love."

Her eyes were full of tears as she said these last words. But that

peculiar joy which Richard had before observed, and the meaning of

which he now understood, again lighted up her countenance. He leaned

back in the carriage, and was forced to admit that the religious

conception of death was very consoling, even grand, when compared with

that conception which modern enlightenment has of it.

The carriage moved slowly through the silent court-yard, which lay as

gloomy under the clouds as though it had put on mourning for the dead.

The chickens sat huddled together in a corner, their heads sadly

drooping. Even the garrulous sparrows were silent, and through the

linden tops came a low, rustling sound like greetings from another

world.

Assisted by Richard's hand, Angela descended from the carriage. Her

father thanked him for his sympathy, and expressed a wish to see him

soon again in the family circle. As Richard glanced at Angela, he

thought he read in her look a confirmation of all her father said.

Siegwart's invitation was unnecessary. The young man was attracted more

strongly to the proprietor's house as Angela's qualities revealed

themselves to his astonished view more clearly. But Frank would not

believe in the spotlessness and sublime dignity of a Christian maiden.

He did not change his former judgment against the sex. His stubbornness

still persisted in the opinion that Angela had her failings, which, if

manifested, would obscure the external brilliancy of her appearance,

but which remained hidden from view. Continued observation alone would,

in Frank's opinion, succeed in disclosing the repulsive shadows.

Perhaps a proud determination to justify his former opinions lay less

at the bottom of this obstinate tenacity than an unconscious stratagem.

The young man anticipated that his respect for Angela would end in

passionate affection as soon as she stood before him in the full,

serene power of her beauty. He feared this power, and therefore

combated her claims.

The professor had returned from his excursion into the mountains, and

related what he had seen and heard. "Such excursions on historic

grounds," said he, "are interesting and instructive to the historical

inquirer. What historical sources hint at darkly become distinct, and

many incredible things become clear and intelligible. Thus, I once read

in an old chronicle that the monks during choral service sung with such

enchanting sweetness that the empress and her ladies and knights who

were present burst into tears. I smiled at this passage from the

garrulous old chronicler, and thought that the fabulous spirit of the

middle ages had descended into the pen of the good man. How often have

I heard Mozart's divine music, how often have I been entranced by the

stormy, thrilling fantasies of Beethoven! But I was never moved to

tears, and I never saw even delicate ladies weep. Two days ago, I

wandered alone among the ruins of the abbey of Hagenroth. I stood in

the ruined church; above was the unclouded sky, and high round about me

the naked walls. Here and there upon the walls hung patches of plaster,

and these were painted. I examined the paintings and found them of

remarkable purity and depth of sentiment. I examined the painted

columns in the nave and choir, and found a beautiful harmony. I admired

the excellence of the colors, on which it has snowed, rained, and

frozen for three hundred and twenty years. I then examined the fallen

columns, the heavy capitals, the beauty of the ornaments, and from

these significant remnants my imagination built up the whole structure,

and the church loomed up before me in all its simple grandeur and

charming finish. I was forced to recognize and admire those artists who

knew how to produce such wonderful and charming effects by such simple

combinations. I thought on that passage of the chronicle, and I believe

if, at that moment, the simple, pure chant of the monks had echoed

through the basilica, I also would have been moved to tears. If the

monks knew, thought I, how to captivate and charm by their

architecture, why could they not do the same with music?"

"The stupid monks!" said Richard.

"If you had spoken those words at my side in that tone as I stood amid

those ruins, they would have sounded like malicious envy from the mouth

of the spirit of darkness."

"Your admiration for the monks is indeed a great curiosity," said

Frank, smiling. "Sybel's congenial friend a eulogist of the monks! That

indeed is as strange as a square circle."

"If I admire the splendor of heathenism, must I not also admire the

fascinating, still depth of Christian childhood? In heathenism as well

as in Christianity human genius accomplishes great and sublime things."

"That, in its whole extent, I must dispute," said Frank. "Where is the

splendor and greatness of heathenism? The heathen built palaces of

great magnificence, but crime stalked naked about in them. When the

lord of the palace killed his slaves for his amusement, there was no

law to condemn him. When lords and ladies at their epicurean feasts

would step aside into small apartments, there by artificial means to

empty their gorged stomachs, they did not offend either against heathen

decency or its law of moderation. The marble columns proudly supported

gilded arches; but when beneath those arches a human victim bled under

the knife of the priests, this was in harmony with the genius of

heathenism. The amphitheatres were immense halls, full of art and

magnificence, in which a hundred thousand spectators could sit and

behold with delight the lions and tigers devour slaves, or the

gladiators slaughtering each other for their amusement. No. True

greatness and real splendor I do not find in heathenism. Where heathen

greatness is, there terrible darkness, profound error, and horrible

customs abound. Christianity had to contend for three hundred years to

destroy the abominations of heathenism."

"I will not dispute about it now," said Lutz. "You shall not destroy by

your criticism the beautiful impressions of my excursion. I also met

the Swedes on my tour. About thirty miles from here there is, among the

hills, a valley. The peasants call the place the 'murder-chamber.' I

suspected that the name might be associated with some historical event,

and, on inquiry, I found such to be the case. In the Thirty Years' War,

when Gustavus Adolphus, the pious hero, passed through the German

provinces murdering and robbing, the inhabitants of the neighborhood

fled with their wives, children, and property to this remote valley.

They imagined themselves hid in these woods and defiles from the

wandering Swedes, but they deceived themselves. Their hiding-place

was discovered, and every living thing--Cows, calves, and oxen

excepted--was put to the sword. 'The blood of the massacred,' said my

informer, 'flowed down the valley like a brook; and for fifty years the

neighborhood was desolate, because the Swedes had destroyed every

thing.' Such masterpieces of Swedish blood-thirstiness are found in

many places in Germany; and as the people celebrate them in song and

story, it is certain that the pious hero has won for himself

imperishable fame in the art of slaughter."

"Do you not wish to have the 'murder-chamber' appear in Sybel's

periodical?"

"No; fable must be carefully separated from history; and in this case I

want the inclination for the subject."

"Fabulous! I find in the 'murder-chamber' nothing but the true Swedish

nature of that time."

The professor shrugged his shoulders.

"Gustavus Adolphus may wander for ever about Germany as the 'pious

hero,' if for no other purpose than to annoy the ultramontanes."

Frank thought of the Siegwart family.

"I believe we are unjust in our judgments of the ultramontanes," said

he. "I visit every day a family which my father declares not only to be

ultramontane, but even clerical, and on account of it will not

associate with them. But I saw there only the noble, good, and

beautiful." And he reported circumstantially what he knew of the

Siegwart family.

"You have observed carefully; and in particular no feature of Angela

has escaped you. This Angela," he continued jocosely, "must be an

incarnate ideal of the other world, since she has excited the interest

of my friend, even though she wears crinoline."

"But she does not wear crinoline," said Frank.

"Not!" returned the professor, smiling. "Then it is just right. The

Angel of Salingen belongs to the nine choirs of angels, and was sent to

the earth in woman's form to win my proud, woman-hating friend to the

fair sex."

"My conversion to the highest admiration of women is by no means

impossible; at least in one case," answered Richard, in the same

earnest tone.

"I am astonished!" said the professor. "My interest is boundless. Could

I not see this wonderful lady?"

"Why not? It is eight o'clock. At this hour I am accustomed to make my

visit."

"Let us go, by all means," urged Lutz.

On the way Frank spoke of Angela's charitable practices, of her love

for the poor, her pious customs, and of her deep religious sentiment,

which manifested itself in every thing; of her activity in household

matters, of her modesty and humility. All this he said in a tone of

enthusiasm. The professor listened with attention and smiled.

As they went through the gate into the large court-yard, they saw

Angela standing under the lindens. She held a large dish in her hand.

About her pressed and crowded the representatives of all races and

nations of that multitude which material progress has raised from

slavish degradation. From Angela's hand rained golden corn among the

chattering brood, who, pressed by a ravenous appetite, hungrily shoved,

pushed, and upset each other. Even the chivalrous cocks had forgotten

their propriety, and greedily snatched up the yellow fruit without

gallantly cooing and offering the treasure to the females. Nimble ducks

glided between the legs of the turkeys and snatched up, quick as

lightning, the grains from their open bills. This did not please the

turkeys, who gobbled and struck their sharp bills into the bobbing

heads of the ducks. A solitary turkey cock alone scorned to participate

in the hungry pleasures of the common herd. He spread his wings stiffly

like a crinoline around his body, strutted about the yard, uttered a

gallant guttural gobble, and played the fine lady in style.

Near the gate stood the stalls. They all had double doors, so that the

upper part could be opened while the lower half remained closed. As the

two friends passed, they saw a massive head protruding through the open

half of one of those doors. The head was red, and was set upon the

powerful shoulders of a steer who had broken loose from his fastening

to take a walk about the yard. When he saw the strangers, he began to

snort, cock his ears, and shake his head, while his fiery eyes rolled

wildly in his head.

"A handsome beast," said Frank, as he stopped. "How wide his forehead,

how strong his horns, how powerful his chest!"

"His head," said Lutz, "would be an expressive symbol for the

evangelist Luke."

The steer was not pleased with these compliments. Bellowing angrily he

rushed against the door, which gave way. Slowly and powerfully came

forth from the darkness of the stall the colossal limbs of the

dangerous beast. The friends, unexpectedly placed in the power of this

terrible enemy, stood paralyzed. They beheld the colossus lashing his

sides with his tail, lowering his head threateningly, and maliciously

stealing toward them like a cat stealing to a mouse till she gets

within a sure spring of it. The steer had evidently the same design on

strangers. He thought to crush them with his iron forehead and amuse

himself with tossing up their lifeless bodies. They saw this, clearly

enough, but there was no time for flight. The red steer in his mad

onset would certainly overtake and run them down. Luckily, the

professor remembered from the Spanish bull-fights how they must meet

these beasts, and he quickly warned his friend.

"If he charges, slip quickly to one side."

Scarcely had the words escaped his trembling lips, when the steer gave

a short bellow, lowered his head, and, quick as an arrow, rushed upon

Frank. He jumped to one side, but slipped and fell to the ground. The

steer dashed against a wagon that was standing near, and broke several

of the spokes. Maddened at the failure of his charge, he turned quickly

about and saw Frank lying on the ground, and rejoiced over his helpless

victim. Richard commended his soul to God, but had enough presence of

mind not to move a limb; he even kept his eyes closed. The steer

snuffed about, and Frank felt his warm breath. The steer evidently did

not know how to begin with the lifeless thing, until he took it into

his head to stick his horns into the yielding mass. The young man was

lost--now the steer lowered his horns--now came the rescue.

Angela had only observed the visitor as the bellowing steer rushed at

him. All this took but a minute. The servants were not then in the

yard; and before they could be called, Richard would be gored a dozen

times by the sharp weapons of the steer. The professor trembled in

every limb; he neither dared to cry for help, lest he might remind the

steer of his presence, nor to move from the place. He seemed destined

to be compelled to see his friend breathe out his life under the

torturing stabs.

Before this happened, however, Angela's voice rang imperatively through

the yard. The astonished steer raised his head, and when he saw the

frail form coming toward him with the dish in her hand, he gave forth a

friendly low, and had even the good grace to go a few steps to meet

her.

"Falk, what are you about?" said she reproachfully. "You are a terrible

beast to treat visitors so."

Falk lowed his apology, and, as he perceived the contents of the dish,

he awkwardly sank his mouth into it. Angela scratched his jaws, at

which he was so delighted that he even forgot the dish and held still

like a child. The professor looked on this scene with amazement--the

airy form before the murderous head of the steer. As Master Falk began

even to lick Angela's hand, the professor was very near believing in

miracles.

"So now, be right good, Falk!" said she coaxingly; "now go back where

you belong. Keep perfectly quiet, Herr Frank; do not move, and it will

be soon over."

She patted the steer on the broad neck, and holding the dish before

him, led him to the stall, into which he quickly disappeared.

Frank arose.

"You are not hurt?" asked Lutz with concern.

"Not in the least," answered Frank, taking out his pocket handkerchief

and brushing the dust from his clothes. The professor brought him his

hat, which had bounced away when he fell, and placed it on the head of

his trembling friend.

Angela returned after housing the steer. Frank went some steps toward

her, as if to thank her on his knees for his life; but he concluded to

stand, and a sad smile passed over his countenance.

"Fraeulein Angela," said he, "I have the honor of introducing to you my

friend, Herr Lutz, professor at our university."

"It gives me pleasure to know the gentleman," said she. "But I regret

that, through the negligence of Louis, you have been in great danger.

Great God! if I had not been in the yard." And her beautiful face

became as pale as marble.

Richard observed this expression of fright, and it shot through his

melancholy smile like rays of the highest delight; but for his

preserver he had not a single word of thanks. Lutz, not understanding

this conduct, was displeased at his friend, and undertook himself to

return her thanks.

"You have placed yourself in the greatest danger, Fraeulein Angela,"

said he. "Had I been able when you went to meet the steer, I would have

held you back with both hands; but I must acknowledge that I was

palsied by fear."

"I placed myself in no danger," she replied. "Falk knows me well, and

has to thank me for many dainties. When father is away, I have to go

into the stalls to see if the servants have done their work. So all the

animals know me, and I can call them all by name."

They went into the house.

"It is well that my parents are absent to-day, and that the accident

was observed by no one; for my father would discharge the Swiss who has

charge of the animals, for his negligence. I would be sorry for the

poor man. I beg of you, therefore, to say nothing of it to my father. I

will correct him for it, and I am sure he will be more careful in

future."

While she spoke, the eyes of the professor rested upon her, and it is

scarcely doubtful that in his present judgment the splendor of the

rostrum was eclipsed. Frank sat silent, observing. He scarcely joined

in the conversation, which his friend conducted with great warmth.

"This occurrence," said Lutz, on his way home, "appears to me like an

episode from the land of fables and wonders. First, the steer fight;

then the overcoming of the beast by a maiden; lastly, a maid of such

beauty that all the fair ones of romance are thrown in the shade. By

heaven, I must call all my learning to my aid in order to be able to

forget her and not fall in love up to the ears!"

Frank said nothing.

"And you did not even thank her!" said Lutz vehemently. "Your conduct

was more than ungallant. I do not understand you."

"Nothing without reason," said Frank.

"No matter! Your conduct cannot be justified," growled the professor.

"I would like to know the reason that prevented you from thanking your

preserver for your life?"

Richard stopped, looked quietly into the glowing countenance of his

friend, and proceeded doubtingly,

"You shall know all, and then judge if my offensive conduct is not

pardonable."

He began to relate how he met Angela for the first time on the lonely

road in the forest, how she then made a deep impression on him, what he

learned of her from the poor man and from Klingenberg, and how his

opinion of womankind had been shaken by Angela; then he spoke of his

object in visiting the Siegwart family, of his observations and

experience.

"I had about come to the conclusion, and the occurrence of to-day

realizes that conclusion, that Angela possesses that admirable virtue

which, until now, I believed only to exist in the ideal world. If there

is a spark of vanity in her, I must have offended her. She must have

looked resentfully at me, the ungrateful man, and treated me sulkily.

But such was not the case; her eyes rested on me with the same

clearness and kindness as ever. My coarse unthankfulness did not offend

her, because she does not think much of herself, because she makes no

pretensions, because she does not know her great excellence, but

considers her little human weaknesses in the light of religious

perfection--in short, because she is truly humble. She will bury this

dauntless deed in forgetfulness. She does not wish the little and great

journals to bring her courage into publicity. Tell me a woman, or even

a man, who could be capable of such modesty? Who would risk life to

rescue a stranger from the horns of a ferocious steer without

hesitation, and not desire an acknowledgment of the heroic deed? How

great is Angela, how admirable in every act! I was unthankful; yes, in

the highest degree unthankful. But I placed myself willingly in this

odious light, in order to see Angela in full splendor. As I said," he

concluded quietly, "I must soon confess myself besieged--vanquished on

the whole line of observation."

"And what then?" said the professor.

"Then I am convinced," said Richard, "that female worth exists, shining

and brilliant, and that in the camp of the ultramontanes."

"A shaming experience for us," replied the professor. "You make your

studies practical, you destroy all the results of learned investigation

by living facts. To be just, it must be admitted that a woman like what

you have described Angela to be only grows and ripens on the ground of

religious influences and convictions."

"And did you observe," said Richard, "how modestly she veiled the

splendor of her brave action? She denied that there was any danger in

the presence of the steer, although it is well known that those beasts

in moments of rage forget all friendship. Angela must certainly have

felt this as she went to meet the horns of the infuriated animal to

rescue me."

Frank visited daily, and sometimes twice a day, the Siegwart family; he

was always received with welcome, and might be considered an intimate

friend. The family spirit unfolded itself clearer and clearer to his

view. He found that every thing in that house was pervaded by a

religious influence, and this without any design or haughty piety. The

assessor was destined to receive a striking proof of this.

One afternoon a coach rolled into the court-yard. The family were at

tea. The Assessor von Hamm entered, dressed entirely in black; even the

red ribbon was wanting in the button-hole.

"I have learned with grief of the misfortune that has overtaken you,"

said he after a very formal reception. "I obey the impulse of my heart

when I express my sincere sympathy in the great affliction you have

suffered in the death of the dear little Eliza."

The tears came into the eyes of Madame Siegwart. Angela looked straight

before her, as if to avoid the glance of the assessor.

"We thank you, Herr von Hamm," returned the proprietor. "We were

severely tried, but we are reasonable enough to know that our family

cannot be exempted from the afflictions of human life."

Hamm sat down, a cup was set before him, and Angela poured him out a

cup of fragrant tea. The assessor acknowledged this service with his

sweetest smile, and the most obliged expression of thanks.

"You are right," he then said. "No one is exempt from the stroke of

fate. Man must submit to the unavoidable. To the ancients, blind fate

was terrific and frightful. The present enlightenment submits with

resignation."

If a bomb had plunged into the room and exploded upon the table, it

could not have produced greater confusion than these words of the

assessor. Madame Siegwart looked at him with astonishment and shook her

head. The proprietor, embarrassed, sipped his tea. Angela's blooming

cheeks lost their color. Hamm did not even perceive the effect of his

fatal words, and Frank was scarcely able to hide his secret pleasure at

Hamm's sad mishap.

"We know no fate, no blind, unavoidable destiny," said Siegwart, who

could not forgive the assessor his unchristian sentiment. "But we know

a divine providence, an all-powerful will, without whose consent the

sparrow does not fall from the house-top. We believe in a Father in

heaven who, counts the hairs of our heads, and whose counsels rule our

destiny."

Hamm smiled.

"You believe then, Herr Siegwart, that divine providence, or rather

God, has aimed that blow at you?"

"Yes; so I believe."

"Pardon me. I think you judge too hard of God. It is inconsistent with

his paternal goodness to afflict your beloved child with such

misfortune."

"Misfortune? It is to be doubted whether Eliza's death is a misfortune.

Perhaps her early departure from this world is precisely her happiness;

and then we must reflect that God is master of life and death. It is

not for us to call the Almighty to account, even if his divine

ordinances should be counter to our wishes."

"I respect your religious convictions, Herr Siegwart. Permit me,

however, to observe that God is much too exalted to have an eye to all

human trifles. He simply created the natural law; this he leaves to its

course. All the elements must obey these laws. Every creature is

subject to them; and when Eliza died, she died in consequence of the

course of these laws, but not through God's express will. Do you not

think that this view of our misfortunes reconciles us with the

conceptions we have of God's goodness?"

"No; I do not believe it, because such a view contradicts the Christian

faith," replied Siegwart earnestly. "What kind of a God, what kind of a

Father would he be who would let every thing go as it might? He would

be less a father than the poorest laborer who supports his family in

the sweat of his brow."