"And the whole army of misfortunes that daily overtake the human

family? Does this army await the command of God?"

"Do not forget, Herr Assessor, that the most of these misfortunes are

deserved; brought on by our sins and passions. If excesses would cease,

how many sources of nameless calamities would disappear! For the rest,

it is my firm conviction that nothing happens or can happen in the

whole universe without the express will of God, or at least by his

permission."

The official shook his head.

"This question is evidently of great importance to every man," said

Frank. "Man is often not master of the course of his life; for it is

developed by a chain of circumstances, accidents, and providential

interferences that are not in man's power. I understand very well that

to be subject to blind chance, to an irrevocable fate, is something

disquieting and discouraging to man. Equally consoling, on the other

hand, is the Christian faith in the loving care of an all-powerful

Father, without whose permission a hair of our head cannot be touched.

But things of such great injustice, of such irresistible power, and of

such painful consequences happen on earth, that I cannot reconcile them

with divine love."

While Frank spoke, Angela's eyes rested on him with the greatest

attention; and when he concluded, she lowered her glance, and an

earnest, thoughtful expression passed over her countenance.

"There are accidents that apparently are not the result of man's

fault," said Siegwart. "Torrents sweep over the land and destroy all

the fruit of man's industry. Perhaps these torrents are only the

scourges which the justice of God waves over a lawless land. But I

admit that among the victims there are many good men. Storms wreck

ships at sea, and many human lives are lost. Avalanches plunge from the

Alps and bury whole towns in their resistless fall. It is such

accidents as these you have in view."

"Precisely--exactly so. How will you reconcile all these with the

fatherly goodness of God?" cried Hamm triumphantly.

The proprietor smiled.

"Permit me to ask a question, Herr Assessor. Why does the state make

laws?"

"To preserve order."

"I anticipated this natural reply," continued the proprietor. "If

malefactors were not punished, thieves and desperadoes, their bad

practices being permitted, would have full play. Then all order would

vanish; human society would dissolve into a chaos of disorder. God also

created laws which are necessary for the preservation of the natural

order. Storms destroy ships. If there were no storms, all growth in the

vegetable kingdom would cease. Poisonous vapors would fill the air, and

every living thing must miserably die. Avalanches destroy villages. But

if it did not snow, the torrents would no longer run, the streams would

dry up and the wells would disappear, and man and beast would die of

thirst. You see, gentlemen, God cannot abolish that law of nature

without endangering the whole creation."

"That explains some, but not all," replied Hamm. "God is all-powerful;

it would be but a trifle for him to protect us by his almighty power

from the destructive forces of the elements. Why does he not do so?"

"The reason is clear," answered Angela's father: "God would have

constantly to work miracles. Miracles are exceptions to the workings of

the laws of nature. Now, if God would constantly suppress the power,

and unceasingly interrupt the laws of nature, then there would be no

longer a law of nature. The supernatural would have devoured the

natural. The Almighty would have destroyed the present creation."

"No matter," said the official. "God might destroy the natural forces

that are inimical to man; for all that exists is only of value because

of its use to man."

"Then nothing whatever would remain. All would be lost," said Siegwart.

"We speak and write much about earthly happiness that soon passes away.

We glorify the beauty of creation; but we forget that God's curse rests

on this earth, and it does not require great penetration to see this

curse in all things."

"You believe, then, in the future destruction of the earth?" asked

Hamm.

"Divine revelation teaches it," said Siegwart. "The Holy Scriptures

expressly say there will be a new earth and a new heaven; and the Lord

himself assures us that the foundations of the earth will be overturned

and the stars shall fall from the heavens."

"The stars fall from the heavens!" cried Hamm, laughing. "If you could

only hear what the astronomers say about that."

"What the astronomers say is of no consequence. They did not create the

heavenly bodies, and cannot give them boundaries; besides, we need not

take the falling of the stars literally. This expression may signify

their disappearance from the earth, perhaps the abolition of the laws

by which they have heretofore been moved, and the reconstruction of

those relations which existed between heaven and earth prior to the

fall. God will then do what you now demand of him, Herr von Hamm,"

concluded Siegwart, smiling. "He will destroy the inimical power of

nature, so that the new earth will be free from thorns, tears, and

lamentations."

Thus they continued to dispute, and the debate became so animated that

even Angela entered the list in favor of providence.

"I believe," said she with charming blushes, "that the miseries of this

earthly life can only be explained and understood in view of man's

eternal destiny. God spares the sinner through forbearance and mercy;

he sends trials and misfortunes to the good for their purification. God

demanded of Abraham the sacrifice of his only son; but when Abraham

showed obedience to the command, and consented to make that boundless

sacrifice, he was provided with another victim to offer sacrifice to

God."

"Fraeulein Angela," exclaimed Hamm enthusiastically, "you have solved

the problem. Your comprehensive remark reconciles even the innocent

sufferers with repulsive decrees. O Fraeulein!"--and the assessor fell

into a tone of reverie--"were it permitted me to go through life by the

side of a partner who possesses your spirit and your conciliatory

mildness!"

Angela looked down blushing. She was embarrassed, and dared not raise

her eyes. Her first glance, after a few moments, was at Richard.

Frank wrote in his diary:

"Even the preaching tone becomes her admirably. Morality and religion

flow from her lips as from a pure fountain that vivifies her soul."

As yet he had not surrendered to Angela.

Frank sprang from an obstinate Westphalian stock; and that the

Westphalians have not exchanged their stiff necks for those of

shepherds, is sufficiently proved by their stubborn fight with the

powers who menaced their liberties. Had Frank been a good-natured

South-German or even Municher, he would long since have bowed head and

knees to the "Angel of Salingen." But he now maintained the last

position of his antipathy to women against Angela's superior powers.

He visited the Siegwart family not twice, but thrice, even four times a

day. He appeared suddenly and unexpectedly before Angela like a spy who

wished to detect faults.

Just as he was going over the court, on one occasion, a tall lad came

up to him. The boy came from the same fatal door through which Master

Falk had rushed out upon Richard with such bad intentions. The servant

held his hat in his right hand, and with his left fumbled the bright

buttons on his red vest.

"Herr Frank, excuse me; I have something to say to you. I have wanted

to speak to you for the last three days, but could not because my

master was always in the way. But now, as my master is in the fields, I

can state my trouble, if you will allow me."

"What trouble have you?"

"I am the Swiss through whose fault the steer came near doing you a

great injury. It is inexplicable to me, even now, how the animal got

loose. But Falk is very cunning. I cannot be too watchful of him. His

head is full of schemes; and before you can turn around, he has played

one of his tricks. The chain has a clasp with a latch, and how he broke

it, he only knows."

"It is all right," replied Frank. "I believe you are not to blame."

"I am not to blame about the chain. But I am for the door being open,

Miss Angela said; and she is perfectly right. Therefore, I beg your

pardon and promise you that nothing of the kind shall happen in

future."

"The pardon is granted, on condition that you guard the steer better."

"Miss Angela said that too; and she required me to ask your pardon,

which I have done."

Angela stood in the garden, hidden behind the rose-bushes, and heard,

smiling, the conversation.

As Frank passed over the yard, she came from the garden carrying a

basketful of vegetables. At the same time a harvest-wagon, loaded with

rapes and drawn by four horses, came into the yard.

"Your industry extends to the garden also, Miss Angela," said Frank,

"Now I know no branch of housekeeping that you cannot take a part in."

"My work is, however, insignificant," she returned. "In a large house

there is always a great deal to do, and every one must try to be

useful."

"Your garden deserves all praise," continued Richard, eyeing the

contents of the baskets. "What magnificent peas and beans!"

For the first time Frank observed in her face something like flattered

vanity, and he almost rejoiced at this small shadow on the celestial

form before him. But the supposed shadow was quickly changed into light

before his eyes. "Father brought these early beans into the

neighborhood; they are very tender and palatable. Father likes them,

and I am glad to be able to make him a salad this evening. He will be

astonished to see his young favorites of this year, eight days earlier

than formerly. There he comes; he must not see them now." She covered

them with some lettuce.

And this was the shadow of flattered vanity! Childish joy, to be able

to astonish her father with an agreeable dish.

The loaded wagon stopped in the yard; the horses snorted and pawed the

ground impatiently. The servants opened the barn-doors, and Frank saw

on all sides activity and haste to house the valuable crop.

Siegwart shook hands with the visitor.

"The first blessing of the year," said the proprietor. "The rapes have

turned out well. We had a fine blooming season, and the flies could not

do much damage."

"I have often observed those little flies in the rape-fields," said

Frank. "You can count millions of them; but I did not know that they

injured the crop."

They both went into the house, where a bottle of Munich beer awaited

them. Soon after, the servants went through the hall, and Frank heard

Angela's voice from the kitchen, where she was busily occupied. The

servants brought bread, plates, cheese, and jugs of light wine to the

servants' room.

"Neighbor," said Siegwart, "I invite you to-morrow afternoon at four

o'clock to a family entertainment--providing it will be agreeable to

you."

The invitation was accepted.

"You must not expect much from the entertainment. It will, at least, be

new to you."

Frank was much interested in the character of this ultramontane

entertainment. He thought of a May party, a coronation party; but

rejected this idea, for Siegwart promised a family entertainment, and

this could not be a May party. He thought of all kinds of plays, and

what part Angela would take in them. But the play also seemed

improbable, and at last the subject of the invitation remained an

interesting mystery to him, the solution of which he awaited with

impatience.

An hour before the appointed time Richard left Frankenhoehe, after

Klingenberg had excused him from the daily walk. He took a roundabout

way along the edge of the forest; for he knew that the Siegwart family

would be at divine service, and he did not wish to arrive at the house

a moment before the time. Sunday stillness rested on all. The mountains

rose up a deep blue; the vari-colored fields were partly yellow; the

vineyards alone were of a deep green, and when the wind blew through

them it wafted with it the pleasant odors of the vine-blossoms.

Madame Siegwart was just returning home from Salingen between her two

children. Henry, a youth of seventeen and the future proprietor of the

property, had the same manners as his father. He walked leisurely on

the road-side, examining the blooming wheat and ripening corn. When he

discovered nests of vine weevils, he plucked them off and crushed the

eggs of the hated enemies of all wine-growers. Angela remained

constantly at her mother's side, and as she accidentally raised her

eyes to where Richard stood, he made a movement as though he was caught

disadvantageously.

A short distance behind them came Siegwart, surrounded by some men.

They often stopped and talked in a lively manner. Frank thought that

these men were also invited, and hoped to become acquainted with the

_elite_ of Salingen. He was, however, disappointed; for a short

distance from Siegwart's house the men turned back to Salingen. They

had only accompanied the proprietor part of the way. The servants of

Siegwart also came hastening along the road, first the men-servants,

and some distance behind them the maid-servants. Frank had observed

this separation before, and thought it must be in consequence of the

strict orders of the master. Frank considered this narrow-minded, and

thought of finding fault with it, in true modern spirit. But then he

considered the results of his observations, which had extended to the

servants. He often admired the industry and regular conduct of these

people. He never heard any oath or rough expressions of passion; every

one knew his work, and performed it with care and attention. He

observed this regular order with admiration, particularly when he

thought of the disobedience, dissatisfaction, and untrustworthiness of

the generality of servants. Siegwart must possess a great secret to

keep these people in agreement and order; therefore he rejected his

former opinion of narrow-mindedness, and believed the proprietor must

have good reason for this separation of the sexes.

Frank remained for a time under the shadow of an oak, looked at his

watch, and finally descended the shortest way. He was expected by

Siegwart, and immediately conducted to the large room. The arrangement

of the room showed at a glance its use. There was a small altar at one

side, and religious pictures hung on the walls. There was also a

harmonium, and on the windows hung curtains on which were painted

scenes from sacred history. In the middle of the room there was a desk,

on which lay a book. To the right of the desk sat the men-servants, to

the left the maids, the Siegwart family in the centre. A smile passed

over Frank's countenance at the present religious entertainment--for

him, at least, a new sort of recreation. At his entrance the whole

assembly rose. He greeted Angela and her mother, pressed warmly the

hand of Henry, and took the seat allotted to him.

Angela ascended the pulpit, sat down and opened the book. She read the

life of the servant St. Zitta, whom the church numbers among the

saints. Angela read in a masterly manner. The narrative tone of her

soft, melodious voice ran like a quickening stream through the soul.

Some passages she pronounced with plastic force, and into the delivery

of others she breathed warm life. All listened with great attention.

Zitta's childhood passed in quick review, then her hard lot with a

master difficult to please. The servants listened with astonishment.

They heard with pious attention of Zitta's pure conduct, of her

fidelity and humility, of her industry and self-denial. They all felt

personally their own deficiency in comparison with this shining model.

When Angela closed the book, Frank saw that the servants were deeply

impressed. Meditatively they left the room, as though they had heard a

striking sermon.

"Ah!" thought Frank. "Now I know one of the means by which Siegwart

influences his people."

"Now comes the second part of the entertainment," said the proprietor,

taking Richard's arm. "We will now go into the garden."

On the way thither Frank saw under the lindens a long table set with

food and wine, and at it sat the servants. Richard heard their

conversation in passing. They talked of St. Zitta and recounted the

striking facts of her life.

Near the garden wall grew a vine-arbor, which caught the cool air as it

passed and loaded it with pleasant odors. Thousands of the flowers of

the blooming vine appeared between the indented leaves. Each of these

diminutive flowers breathed forth a fragrance which for sweetness of

odor could not be surpassed.

A young brood of goldfinches, who had taken possession of the arbor,

now cleared off. They flew up on the dwarf trees, or hid among the

roses, which of all colors and kinds grew in the garden. The hungry

young ones cried incessantly, and tested severely the parental duty of

support. But the old ones were not ashamed of this duty. Here and there

they caught flies and other insects, and carried them to the young

ones, who stood with outstretched wings and flabby bills wide open.

Then the old ones would fly away again, light on the branches--mostly

on bean-stalks--make quick dodges, wave their tails, smack their

tongues, and seize as quick as lightning a harmless passing fly. The

sparrows did not behave so harmlessly. They pecked at the bright

shining cherries that hung in full clusters on the swaying branches.

Others of this sharp-billed gentry hopped about on the strawberry-beds,

and disfigured the large berries as they tore off great pieces of the

soft meat. One of them had even the boldness to hop about on the

decorated table that stood at the upper end of the arbor, to strike his

sharp bill into the buttered bread, make an examination of the

preserves, ogle the slices of ham, and admire the black bottles that

stood on the ground. He also took to flight as the company arrived. The

vine-blossoms seemed to send forth a sweeter fragrance as Angela,

bright and beaming, approached, leaning on the arm of her mother.

"Do you have this edifying reading every Sunday?" asked Richard.

"Regularly," answered the proprietor. "It is an old custom of our

family, and I find it has such good results that I will not have it

abolished. The servants are not obliged to be present. They are free

after vespers, each one to employ himself as best suits him. But it

seldom happens that a servant or a maid is absent. They like to hear

the legends, and you may have remarked that they listen with great

attention to the reading."

"I have observed it," said Frank. "Miss Angela is also such an

excellent reader that only deaf people would not attend."

She smiled and blushed a little at this praise.

"I consider it a strict obligation of employers to have a supervision

over the conduct of the servants," said Madame Siegwart. "Many, perhaps

most, servants are treated like the slaves in old heathen times. They

work for their masters, are paid for it, and there the relation between

master and servant ends. This is why they neglect divine service on

Sundays and feast-days; their moral wants are not satisfied, their

natural inclinations are not purified by restraints of a higher order.

The servants sit in the taverns, where they squander their wages, and

the maids rove about and gossip. This is a great injustice to the

servants, and full of bad consequences. It cannot be questioned that

masters should shield their servants from error and keep them under

moral discipline."

"Precisely my opinion," returned Frank. "If servants are frequently

spoiled and general complaint is made of it, the masters are greatly in

fault. I have long since admired the conduct of your servants. I looked

upon Herr Siegwart as a kind of sorcerer, who conjured every thing

under his charge according to his will. Now a part of the sorcery is

clear to me."

"Well, you were favorable in your judgment," said the proprietor,

laughing. "So you considered me a magician; others consider me an

ultramontanist, and that is something still worse."

Richard smiled and blushed slightly.

"You no doubt have heard this honorable title applied to me, Herr

Frank?"

"Yes, I have heard of it."

"And I scarcely deceive myself in supposing," continued Siegwart

good-humoredly, "that your father has spoken to you of his neighbor,

the ultramontane."

"You do not deceive yourself at all," answered Frank. "I consider it a

great honor to have become better acquainted with the ultramontane."

"I have often wished to speak to you," continued the proprietor, "of

the reason which called forth your father's displeasure with me. I

suppose, however, that you have heard it."

"My father never spoke of it, and I am eager to know the unfortunate

cause."

"It is as follows. About ten years ago your father, with some other

gentlemen, wished to establish a great factory in this neighborhood.

The land on which it was to stand is a marsh lying near a pond, the

water of which was to be made of use to the factory. I tried with all

my power to prevent this design, and even for social and religious

reasons. Our neighborhood needed no factory. There are but few very

poor people, and these support themselves sufficiently well among the

farmers. Experience proves that factories have a bad effect on the

people in their neighborhood. Our people are firm believers. The

peasants keep conscientiously the Sundays and festivals. In all their

cares for the earthly they do not forget the eternal life. This

religious sentiment spreads happiness and peace over our quiet

neighborhood. The factory, which knows no Sunday, and the operatives,

who are sometimes very bad men, would have brought a harsh discordance

into the quiet harmony of the neighborhood. I considered these and

other injurious influences, and offered a higher price for the swamp

than your father and his friends. As there was no other convenient

place about, the enterprise had to be given up. Since that time your

father is offended with me because I made his favorite project

impossible. This is the way it stands. That it is painful to me, I need

not assure you. But according to my principles and views I could not do

otherwise. Now judge how far I am to be condemned."

"I speak freely," said Frank. "You have acted from principles that one

must respect, and which my father would have respected if he had known

them."

The proprietor could have observed that he had, in a long letter,

justified himself to Herr Frank. But he suppressed the observation, as

he felt it would be painful to his son.

"Father," said Henry, "hunger and thirst are appeased. Can I ride out

for an hour?"

"Yes, my son; but not longer. Be back by supper-time."

The young man promised, and, after a friendly bow to Frank, hastened

from the garden. The little circle continued some time in friendly

chat. The servants under the lindens became noisy and sang merry songs.

The maids sat around the tea-table in the kitchen and praised St.

Zitta.

The cook appeared in the arbor and announced that Herr von Hamm was in

the house, and wished to speak on important business to Herr and Madame

Siegwart.

"What can he want?" said the proprietor in surprise. "Excuse me, Herr

Frank; the business will soon be over. I beg you to remain till we

return. Angela, prevent him from going."

Angela, smiling, looked after her retiring parents and then at Richard.

"I must keep you, Herr Frank. How shall I begin?"

"That is very easy, Fraeulein. Your presence is sufficient to realize

your father's wish. A weak child of human nature cannot resist one who

can conquer steers."

"Now you make a steer-catcher of me. Such a thing never happened in

Spain; for there the steers are not so cultivated and docile as they

are with us."

She took out her knitting.

"This is Sunday, Miss Angela!"

"Do you consider knitting unlawful after one has fulfilled one's

religious duties?"

"The case is not clear to me," said Frank, smiling secretly at the

earnestness of the questioner. "My casuistic knowledge is not

sufficient to solve such a question reasonably."

"The church only forbids servile work," said she. "I consider knitting

and sewing as something better than doing nothing."

"I am rejoiced that you are not narrow-minded, Fraeulein. But this

little stocking does not fit your feet?"

"It is for little bare feet in Salingen," she replied, laying the

finished stocking on the table and stroking it with both hands as a

work of love.

"I have heard of your beneficence," said Frank. "You knit, sew, and

cook for the poor people. You are a refuge for all the needy and

distressed. How good in you!"

"You exaggerate, Herr Frank. I do a little sometimes, but not more than

I can do with the house-work, which is scarcely worth mentioning. I

make no sacrifice in doing it; on the contrary, the poor give me more

than I give them; for giving is to every one more pleasant than

receiving."

"To every one, Fraeulein?"

"To every one who can give without denying herself."

"But you are accustomed also to visit the sick, and the hovels of

poverty are certainly not attractive."

"Indeed, Herr Frank, very attractive," she answered quickly. "The

thanks of the poor sick are so affecting and elevating that one is paid

a thousand times for a little trouble."

Frank let the subject drop. Angela did not give charities from pride or

the gratification of vanity, as he had been prepared to assume, but

from natural goodness and inclination of the heart. He looked at the

beautiful girl who sat before him industriously sewing, and was almost

angry at his failure to detect a fault in her pure nature.

"Do you always adorn the statue of the Virgin on the mountain?" said he

after a pause.

"No; not now. The month of our dear Lady is over. I always think with

pleasure of the happy hours when in the convent we adorned her altar

with beautiful flowers."

"You must have a great reverence for Mary, or you would not ascend the

mountain daily."

"I admire the exalted virtues of Mary, and think with sorrow of her

painful life on earth; and then, a weak creature needs much her

powerful protection."

"Do you expect, Miss Angela, by such attention as you show the statue

to obtain protection of the saint?"

"No, I do not believe that. The adorning of the pictures of saints

would be idle trifling if the heart wandered far from the spirit of the

saints. Our church teaches, as you know, that the real, true veneration

of the saints consists in imitating their virtues."

Frank sat reflecting. The examination and probation were thoroughly

disgusting to him. Siegwart appeared in the garden, and came with quick

steps to the arbor. His countenance was agitated and his eyes glowed

with indignation. Without speaking a word, he drank off a glass of

wine. Frank saw how he endeavored not to exhibit his anger.

"Has Herr von Hamm departed?" asked Richard.

"Yes, he is off again," said the proprietor. "Angela, your mother has

something to say to you."

"Now guess what the assessor wanted?" said Siegwart, after his daughter

had left the arbor.

"Perhaps he wanted the Peter-pence collection," said Frank, smiling.

"No. Herr von Hamm wanted nothing more or less than to marry my

daughter!"

Frank was astonished. Although he long since saw through Hamm's

designs, he did not expect so sudden and hasty a step.

"And in what manner did he demand her?"

"It is revolting," said the proprietor, much offended. "Herr von Hamm

graciously condescends to us peasants. He showed that it would be a

great good fortune for us to give our daughter to the noble, the

official with brilliant prospects."

"Herr von Hamm does not think little of himself," said Richard drily.

"How did the man ever come to ask my daughter? He and Angela! What

opposites!"

"Which, of course, you made clear to him."

"I reminded the gentleman that identity of moral and religious

principles alone could render matrimonial happiness possible. I

reminded him that Angela was an ultramontane, whose opinions would

daily annoy him, while his modern opinions must deeply offend Angela.

This I set before him briefly. Then I told him frankly and freely that

I did not wish to make either him or Angela unhappy, and at this he

went away angrily."

"You have done your duty," said Frank. "I am also of opinion that

similar convictions in the great principles of life alone insure the

happiness of married life."

When Richard came home, he wrote in his diary:

"June 4.--Unconditional surrender. What I supposed only to exist in the

ideal world is realized in the daughter of an ultramontane. Angela,

compared to our crinolines, our flirts, our insipid coquettes--how

brilliant the light, how deep the shadow!

"My visits to that family have no longer a purpose. I feel they must be

discontinued for the sake of my peace. I dare not dream of a happiness

of which I am unworthy. But my future life will feel painfully the want

of a happiness the possibility of which I did not dream. This is a

punishment for presuming to penetrate the pure, glorious character of

the Angel of Salingen."

He buried his face in his hands, and leaned on the table. He remained

thus a long time; when he raised his head, his face was pale, and his

eyes were moist with tears.

CHAPTER VII.

POISONOUS FOOD.

"Herr Frank has not been here for four days," said Siegwart as he

returned one day from the field. "He will not come to-day, for it is

already nine o'clock, I hope the young man is not ill."

Angela started.

"Ill? May God forbid!"

"At least, I know no other reason that could prevent him from coming.

He has become a necessity to me; I seem to miss something."

Angela concealed her uneasiness in true womanly fashion. She busied

herself about the room, dusted the furniture, arranged the vases, and

trimmed the flowers; but one could see that her mind was not in the

work.

"Would it not be well, father, to send and inquire after his health?"

"It would if we were certain that he was ill. I only made a conjecture.

However, if he does not come to-morrow, I will send Henry over.

"We owe him this attention; he is sensible, modest, and very

intelligent. We find at present in the cities and first families few

young men of so little assumption and so much goodness and manliness."

Angela pricked her finger. She had incautiously wandered into the

thicket, as if she did not know that roses have thorns.

"Many things tell of his kind-heartedness," she replied, with averted

face. "He sends five dollars every week to the old blind woman in

Salingen; he often takes the money himself, and comforts the

unfortunate creature. The blind woman is full of enthusiasm about him.

He bought the cooper a full set of tools, that he might be able to

support his mother and seven little sisters."

"Very praiseworthy," said the father.

As Siegwart came home in the evening, Angela met him in the yard. She

carried a basket and was about to go into the garden.

"Herr Frank is not unwell," said he; "I saw him in the field and went

through the vineyard to meet him; but when he discovered my intention,

he turned about and hastened toward the house. That surprises me."

Angela went into the garden. She stood on the bed and gazed at the

lettuce. The empty basket awaited its contents, and in it lay the knife

whose bright blade glistened before the idle dreamer. She stood thus

meditating, lost in thought for a long time, which was certainly not

her custom.

Herr Frank had returned from the city, and was roughly received by the

doctor.

"Have you spoken to your son?" said he sharply.

"No! I have just alighted from the carriage," answered Frank in

astonishment.

The doctor walked up and down the room, and Frank saw his face growing

darker.

"You disturb me, good friend. How is Richard?"

"Bad, very bad! And it is all your fault. You gave Richard those

materialistic books which I threw out of the window. He has read the

trash--not read, but studied it; and now we have the consequences."

"Pardon me, doctor. I did not give my son those books. He was passing

the window when you threw them out, and took them to his room."

"You knew that! Why did you leave him the miserable trash?"

"I had no idea of the danger of these writings. Explain yourself

further, I entreat."

"You must first see your son. But I bind it on your conscience to use

the greatest precaution. Do not show the least surprise. We have to

deal with a dangerous disorder. Do not say a word about his changed

appearance. Then come back to me again."

Greatly disturbed, the father passed to the room of his son. Richard

sat on the sofa gazing at the floor. His cheeks had lost their bloom,

his face was emaciated, and his eyes deeply sunken. Vogt's

_Physiological Letters_ lay open near him. He did not rise quickly and

joyfully to kiss his father, as was his custom. He remained sitting,

and smiled languidly at him. Herr Frank, grieved and perplexed, sat

down near him, and took occasion to pick up the book:

"How are you, Richard?"

"Very well, as you see."

"You are industrious. What book is this?"

"A rare book, father--a remarkable book. One learns there to know what

man is and what he is not. Until now, I did not know that cats, dogs,

monkeys, and all animals were of our race. Now I know; for it is

clearly demonstrated in that book."

"You certainly do not believe such absurdities?"

"Believe? I believe nothing at all. Faith ends where proof begins."

Herr Frank read the open page.

"All this sounds very silly," said he. "Vogt asserts that man has no

soul, and proves it from the fact that men become idiotic. If the

functions of the brain are disturbed, the soul ceases, says Vogt. He

therefore concludes that the spirit consists in the brain. The man must

have been crazy when he wrote that. I am no scholar; but I see at the

first glance how false and groundless are Vogt's inferences. Every

reasonable man knows that the brain is the instrument of the mind,

which enables it to participate in the world of sense; now, when the

instrument is destroyed, the participation of the mind with the outward

world must cease. Although a man may be an expert on the violin, he

cannot play if the strings are broken or out of tune. But the player,

his ideas, the art, still remain. In like manner the spirit remains,

although it can no longer play on the injured or discordant fibres of

the brain."

"You must read the whole book, father, and then those others there."

"But, Richard, you must not read books that rob man of all dignity."

"Of course not. I should do as the ostrich. When he is in danger, he

sticks his head into the bushes not to see the danger. A prudent plan.

But I cannot close my eyes to the light, even if that light should

destroy my human respect."

Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank returned to the doctor.

"Great God! in what a condition is my poor Richard!" said the oppressed

father.

"He will, I hope, be rescued. My stay at Frankenhoehe was to end with

the month of May; but I cannot forsake a young man whom I love, in this

helpless state of mental delirium."

"I do not understand the condition of my son; and your words give me

great anxiety. Have the goodness to tell me what is the matter with

Richard, and how it came about."

"It would be very difficult to make your son's condition clear to you.

In you there is only business, lucrative undertakings, speculative

combinations. The bustle of the money market is your world. You have no

idea of the power of an intellectual struggle. You know the thoughtful,

intellectual nature of your son; and here I begin. In the first place,

I will remind you that Richard wishes to be governed by the power of

deduction. With him fantasies and passions retreat before this force,

although usually in men of his years, and even in men with gray hair,

clearness of mind and keen penetration are often swept away by the

current of stormy passions. Richard's aversion to women is the result

of cool reflection and inevitable inference, and therefore on this

question I do not dispute his views. I know it would be useless, and I

know that the study of a pure feminine nature would overcome this

prejudice. The same force of logical inferences places Richard in this

unhappy condition. He read the writings of the materialist. There he

found the physiological proofs that man is a beast. From these proofs

Richard drew all the terrible consequences contained in those

destructive doctrines. As the intellectual life predominates in him,

and as he has a strong repugnance to materialistic madness, his nature

must be stirred in its profoundest depths. If Richard succumbs, he will

act in his habitual consistent manner. All moral basis lost, morality

would be foolishness to him, since it is useless for beasts to curb the

passions by moral laws. As with immortality disappears man's eternal

destiny, it would be foolish to 'fight the giant fight of duty.' If he

is convinced that man is a beast, he will live like a beast--although

he might cloak his conduct with the varnish of decency--and thus

suddenly would the sensible Richard stand before his astonished father

a ruined man. This is one view; there is still another," said the

doctor hesitatingly. "I remember in the course of my practice a suicide

who wrote on a slip of paper, 'What do I here? Eat, drink, sleep,

worry, and fret; much suffering, little joy; therefore--' and the man

sent a bullet through his head. This suicide thought logically. This

earthly life is insupportable; it is foolishness to a man who thinks

and is at the same time a materialist."

"What prospects--horrible!" cried Herr Frank, wringing his hands.

"Accursed be those books; and I am the cause of this misfortune!"

"The involuntary cause," said Klingenberg consolingly. "You now have a

firm conviction of the devastating effects of those bad books. But how

many are there who consider every warning in this connection an

exhibition of prejudice or narrow-mindedness! How few readers are so

modest as to admit that they want the scientific culture to refute a

bad book, to separate the poison from the honey of sweet phrases and

winning style! How few can see that they cannot read those bad books

without detriment! No one would sit on a cask of powder and touch it

off for amusement; and yet those hellish books are more dangerous than

a cask full of powder. To me this is incomprehensible. Poisonous food

is always injurious; yet thousands and millions drink greedily from

this poisonous stream of bad reading which deluges all grades of

society."

"I will do immediately what must be done," said Herr Frank as he

hastily rose.

"What will you do?"

"Take from my son those execrable books."

"By no means," said Klingenberg. "This would be a psychological

mistake. Richard would buy the same books again at the book-shop, and

read them secretly. A man who has the resolution of your son must be

won by honorable combat. Authority would here be badly applied.

Therefore I forbid you to interfere. You know nothing of the matter.

Treat him kindly, and have forbearance with his sensitiveness. That is

what I must require of you."

Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank left the doctor. Overwhelming himself

with reproaches, he wandered restlessly about the house and garden. He

saw Richard standing at the open window with folded arms, dreamy and

pale, his hair in disorder like a storm-beaten wheat-field--truly a

painful sight for the father. He went up to his room, where the small

library stood in its beautiful binding. A servant stood near him with a

basket. The works of Eugene Sue, Gutzkow, and like spirits fell into

the basket.

"All to the fire!" commanded Herr Frank.

The doctor had compared bad literature to poisonous food. The

comparison was not inapt; at least, it gave Richard the appearance of a

man in whose body destructive poison was working. He was listless and

exhausted; in walking, his hands hung heavily by his side. His eyes

were directed to the ground, as if he were seeking something. If he saw

a snail, he stopped to examine the crawling creature. He sought to know

why the snail crawls about, and, to his astonishment, found that the

snail always followed an object; which is not always the case with man,

animal of the moment, who goes about without an object. If a

caterpillar accidentally got under his foot, he pushed it carefully

aside and examined if it had been hurt. It seemed to him logical that

creeping and flying things had the same claims to forbearance and

proper treatment as man, since according to Vogt and Buechner's striking

proofs, all creeping and flying things are not essentially different

from man.

He paid particular attention to the spiders. If he came to a place

where their web was stretched, he examined attentively the artistic

texture; he saw the firmly fastened knot on the twig which held the web

apart, the circular meshes, the cunning arrangement to catch the

wandering fly. He was convinced that such a spider would be a thousand

times more intelligent than Herr Vogt and Herr Buechner, with half as

big a head as those wise naturalists. The enterprising spirit of the

ants excited not less his admiration. He always found them busy and in

a bustle, to which a market-day could not be compared. Even London and

Paris were solitary in comparison to the throng in an ant-hill. They

dragged about large pieces of wood, as also leaves and fibres, to

construct their house, which was laid out with design and finished with

much care. If he pushed his cane into the hill, there forthwith arose a

great revolution. The inhabitants rushed out upon him, nipped him with

their pincers, and showed the greatest rage against the invader of

their kingdom, while others with great celerity placed the eggs in

safety. He observed that the ants gave no quarter, and considered every

one a mortal enemy who disturbed their state.

The young man sat on a stone and examined a snail that crawled slowly

from the wet grass. It carried a gray house on its back, and beslimed

the way as it went, and stretched out its horns to discover the best

direction. Its delicate touch astonished Frank. When obstacles came in

its way which it did not see nor touch, it would perceive them by means

of a wonderful sensibility.

How stupid did Richard appear to himself, beside a horned, blind snail.

How many men only discover obstacles in their way when they have run

their heads against them, and how many wish to run their heads through

walls without any reason! He arose and looked toward Angela's home. He

was dejected, and heaved a sigh.

"All is of no avail. The activity of the animal world affords no

diversion, the benumbing strokes of materialism lose their effect. The

rare becomes common, and does not attract attention. There walks an

angel in the splendor of superior excellence, and I endeavor in vain to

distract my mind from her by studying the animals. I follow willingly

the professors' exact investigations, into the labyrinth of their

studied arguments to make it appear that I am only an animal, that all

our sentiment is only imagination and fallacy. It is all in vain. Can

these gentlemen teach me how we can cease to have admiration for the

noble and exalted? Here man forcibly breaks through. Here self,

irresistible and disgusted with error, brings the nobility of human

nature to consciousness, and all the wisdom of boasted materialism

becomes idle nonsense."

"Thank God! I see you again, my dear neighbor," said Siegwart

cordially. "Where have you kept yourself this last week? Why do you no

longer visit us? My whole house is excited about you. Henry is angry

because he cannot show you the horses he bought lately. My wife bothers

her head with all kinds of forebodings, and Angela urged me to send and

see if you were ill."

A new life permeated Frank's whole being at these last words; his

cheeks flushed and his languid eyes brightened up.

"I know no good reason as an apology, dear friend. Be assured, however,

that the apparent neglect does not arise from any coolness toward you

and your esteemed family." And he drew marks in the sand with his cane.

"Perhaps your father took offence at your visits to us?"

"Oh! no. No; I alone am to blame."

Siegwart gave a searching glance at the pale face of the young man who,

broken-spirited, stood before him, and whose mental condition he did

not understand, although he had a vague idea of it.

"I will not press you further," said he cheerfully. "But, as a

punishment, you must now come with me. I received yesterday a fresh

supply of genuine Havanas, and you must try them."

He took Richard by the arm, and the latter yielded to the friendly

compulsion. They went through the vineyard. Frank broke from a twig a

folded leaf.

"Do you know the cause of this?"

"Oh! yes; it is the work of the vine-weevil," answered Siegwart. "These

mischief-makers sometimes cause great damage to the vineyards. Some

years I have their nests gathered and the eggs destroyed to prevent

their doing damage."

"You consider every thing with the eyes of an economist. But I admire

the art, the foresight, and the intelligence of these insects."

"Intelligence--foresight of an insect!" repeated Siegwart, astonished.

"I see in the whole affair neither intelligence nor foresight."

"But just look here," said Richard, carefully unfolding the leaf. "What

a degree of considerate management is necessary to fix the leaf in such

order. The ribs of this leaf are stronger than the force of the beetle.

Yet he wished to fold the eggs in it. What does he do? He first pierces

the stem with his pincers; in consequence of this, the leaf curls up

and becomes soft and pliable to the frail feet of the insect. This is

the first act of reflection. The piercing of the stem had evidently as

its object to cause the leaf to roll up. Then he begins to work with a

perfection that would do honor to human skill. The leaf is rolled up in

order to put the eggs in the folds. Here is the first egg; he rolls

further--here is the second egg, some distance from the first, in order

to have sufficient food for the young worm--again an act of reflection;

lastly, he finishes the roll with a carefully worked point, to prevent

the leaf from unfolding--again an act of reflection."

Siegwart heard all this with indifference. What Richard told him he had

known for years. His employment in the fields revealed to his observing

mind wonderful facts in nature and in the animal world. The wisdom of

the vine-weevil gave him ho difficulty. He looked again in Frank's

deep-sunken eyes and noticed a peculiar expression, and in his

countenance great anxiety.

He concluded that the work of the vine-weevil must have some connection

with the young man's condition.

"You see actions of reflection and design where I see only unconscious

instinct."

Frank became nervous.

"The common evasion of superficial examination!" cried he. "Man must be

just even to the animals. Their works are artistic, intelligent, and

considerate. Why then deny to animals those powers which operate with

intelligence and reflection?"

"I do not for a moment dispute this power of the animals," replied the

proprietor quickly. "You find mind in the animals?" interrupted Frank

hastily. "This conviction once reached, have you considered the

consequences that follow?"--and he became more excited. "Have you

considered that with this admission the whole world becomes a fabulous

structure, without any higher object? If the spider is equal to man,

then its torn web that flutters in the wind is worth as much as the

crumbling fragments of art which remain from classic antiquity. Virtue,

the careful restraining of the passions, is stark madness. The

disgusting ape, lustful and brutish, is as good as the purest virgin

who performs severe penances for her idle dreams. It is with justice

that the criminal scoffs at the good as bedlamites who, with fanatical

delusion, strive for castles in the air. Every outcast from society,

sunk and saturated in the basest vices, is precisely as good as the

purest soul and the noblest heart; for all distinction between right

and wrong, good and evil, is destroyed."

Angela's father gazed with solicitude into the perplexed look and

distorted countenance of the young man.

"You deduce consequences, Herr Frank, that could not be drawn from

my admissions," said he mildly. "There is no conscious power in

animals--no reflecting soul. The animal works with the power that is in

it, as light and heat in the fire, as in the lightning the destructive

force, as the exciting and purifying effects in the storm. The animal

does not act freely, like man; but from necessity--according to

instinct and laws which the Almighty has imposed, upon it."

"A gratuitous assumption! A shallow artifice," exclaimed Frank. "The

animal shows understanding, design, and will; we must not deny him

these faculties."

"If the lightning strikes my house and discovers with infallible

certainty all the metal in the walls, even where the sharpest eye could

not detect it, must you recognize mental faculties in the lightning in

discovering the metal?"

Frank hemmed and was silent.

"What a botcher is the most learned chemist compared with the

root-fibres of the smallest plant," continued Siegwart. "Every plant

has its own peculiar life; this I observe every day. All plants do not

flourish alike in the same soil. They only flourish where they find the

necessary conditions for their peculiar life; where they find in the

air and earth the conditions necessary for their existence. Set ten

different kinds of plants together in a small plat of ground. The

different fibres will always seek and absorb only that material in the

earth which is proper to their kind; they will pass by the useless and

injurious substances. Now, where is the chemist who with such

certainty, such power of discrimination, and knowledge of substances,

can select from the inert clod the proper material? A chemist with such

knowledge does not exist. Now, must you admit that the fibres possess

as keen an understanding and as deep a knowledge of chemistry as the

man who is versed in chemistry?"

"That would be manifest folly."

"Well," concluded Siegwart quietly, "if the vine-weevil weaves its

wrapper, the spider its web, the bird builds its nest, and the beaver

his house, they all do it in their way, as the root-fibres in theirs."

Richard remained silent, and they passed into the house.

Angela and her mother looked with astonishment and sympathy on their

friend.

Soon in the mild countenance of Madam Siegwart there appeared nearly

the same expression as in the first days after the death of Eliza--so

much did the painful appearance of the young man afflict her. Angela

turned pale, her eyes filled, and she strove to hide her emotion. Frank

only looked at her furtively. Whatever he had to say to her, he said

with averted eyes. Siegwart expended all his powers of amusement; but

he did not succeed in cheering the young man. He continued depressed,

embarrassed, and sad, and constantly avoided looking at Angela. When

she spoke he listened to the sound of her voice, but avoided her look.

Presently a low barking was heard in the room and Hector, who had

growlingly received Frank at his first visit, but who in time had

become an acquaintance of his, lay stretched at full length dreaming.

Scarcely did Richard notice the dreaming animal when he exclaimed,

"The dog dreams! See how his feet move in the chase, how he opens his

nostrils, how he barks, how his limbs reach for the game! The dog

dreams he is in the chase."

"I have often observed Hector's dreams," said Siegwart coolly.

Frank continued,

"Have you considered the consequences that follow from the dreams of

the dog? Dreams show a thinking faculty," said he hastily. "Animals,

then, think like men; thoughts are the children of the mind; therefore,

animals have minds. Animals and men are alike."

Angela started at these words. Her mother shook her head.

"You conclude too hastily, my dear friend," said Siegwart coolly. "You

must first know that animals dream like men. Men think, reflect, and

speak in dreams. The dreams of animals are very different from those

mental acts."

"How will you explain it?" said Richard excitedly.

"Very easily. Hector is now in the chase. The dog's sense of smell is

remarkable. By means of the fragrant wind Hector smells the partridges

miles away. He acts then just as in the dream; feet, nose, and limbs

come into activity. Suppose that in the surrounding fields there is a

covey of partridges. The air would indicate them to Hector's smelling

organs; these organs act, as in the waking state, on the brain of the

animal; the brain acts on the other organs. Where is there thought?

Have we not a purely material effect? The cough, the appetite, the

sneezing, the aversion--what have all these to do with mind or thought?

Nothing at all. The dream of the dog is an entirely muscular process,

the mere co-working of the muscular organs; as with us, digestion, the

flowing of the blood, the twitching of the muscles--facts with which

the mind has nothing to do."

"Your assertion is based on the assumption that partridges are near,"

said Richard; "and I will be obliged to you if, with Hector's

assistance, you convince me of this fact."

"That is unnecessary, my dear friend. Suppose there are no partridges

in the neighborhood. The same affection of the brain which would be

produced by the smell of the partridges could be produced by accident.

If it is accidental, it will have the same effect in the sleeping

condition of the dog.[2] Affections accidentally arise in man the

causes of which are not known. We are uneasy, we know not why; we are

discouraged without any knowledge of the cause. We are joyful without

being able to give any reason for it. The mind can rise above all these

dispositions, affections, and humors; can govern, cast out, and

disperse them. Proof enough that a king lives in man--the breath of

God, which is not taken from the earth, and to which all matter must

yield if that power so wills."

The dog stretched his strong legs without any idea of the important

question to which he had given occasion.

"Herr Frank," began Madam Siegwart earnestly, "I have learned to

respect you, and have often wished that my son, at your years, would be

like you. I see now with painful astonishment that you defend opinions

which contradict your former expressions, and the sentiments we must

expect from a Christian. Will you not be so good as to tell me how you

have so suddenly changed your views?"

"Esteemed madam," answered Frank, with emotion, "I thank you for this

undeserved motherly sympathy; but I beg of you not to believe that the

opinions I expressed are my firm convictions. No, I have not yet fallen

so deep that for me there is no difference between man and beast. I can

yet continue to believe that materialism is a crime against mankind. On

the other hand, I freely acknowledge that my mind is in great trouble;

that every firm position beneath my feet totters; that I have been

tempted to hold doctrines degrading to the individual and destructive

to society. I have been brought into this difficulty by reading books

whose seductive proofs I am not able to refute. Oh! I am miserable,

very miserable; my appearance must have shown you that already."

He looked involuntarily at Angela; he saw tears in her eyes; he bowed

his head and was silent.

"I see your difficulties," said the proprietor. "They enter early or

late into the mind of every man. It is good, in such uncertainties and

doubts, to lean on the authority of truth. This authority can only be

God, who is truth itself, who came down from heaven and brought light

into the darkness. We can prove, inquire, and speculate; but the

keenest human intellect is not always free from delusion. As there is

in man a spiritual tendency which raises him far above the visible and

material, God has been pleased to lead and direct that tendency by

revelation, that man may not err. I consider divine revelation a

necessity which God willed when he created the mind. As the mind has an

instinctive thirst after truth, God must, by the revelation of truth,

satisfy this thirst Therefore is revelation as old as the human race.

It reached its completion and perfection by the coming of the Lord, who

said, 'I am the truth;' and this knowledge of the truth remains in the

church through the guidance of the Spirit of truth, till the latest

generation. This is only my ultramontane conviction," said Siegwart,

smiling; "but it affords peace and certainty."

Angela had gone out, and now returned with a basket, in which lay a

little dog, of a few days old, asleep. She set the basket carefully

down before Frank, so as not to awaken the sleeper.

"As you appreciate the full worth of striking proofs, I am glad to be

able to place one before you, in the shape of this little dog," said

she, appearing desirous of cheering her dejected friend. But Frank did

not receive from her cheerful countenance either strength or

encouragement, for he did not look up.

"This little dog is only eight days old," she continued; "its eyes are

not yet open; it can neither walk nor bark; it can only growl a little;

and it does nothing but sleep and dream. I have noticed its dreams

since the first day of its birth. You can convince yourself of its

dreaming." She stooped over the basket and her soft hair disturbed the

sleeper.

For a moment Frank saw and heard nothing.

"See," she continued, "how its little feet move, and how its body

jerks. Hear the low growl, and see the hairs round the mouth how they

twitch, how the nose shrinks and expands--all the same as in Hector.

The little thing knows nothing at all of the world--no more than a

child eight days old. We certainly, therefore, will not deceive

ourselves in assuming that all these movements are only muscular

twitchings; that neither the pup nor Hector dreams like a man."

Frank first looked at the dog in great surprise, and then gazed

admiringly on Angela.

"O fraulein! how I thank you."

She appeared most lovely in his eyes. He suddenly turned toward her

father.

"Your house is a great blessing to me. It appears that the pure

atmosphere of religious conviction which you breathe victoriously

combats all dark doubts, as light dissipates darkness."

Angela stood in her room. She knew that the spirit of unbelief pervaded

the world, taking possession of thousands and destroying all life and

effort. She saw Richard threatened by this spirit, and feared for his

soul. She became very anxious, and sank on her knees before the

crucifix and cried to heaven for succor.

Night was upon all things. The black clouds, lowering deep and heavy,

shut out all light from heaven. The wind swept the mountains, the

forest moaned, and thunder muttered in the distance. Klingenberg sat

before his folios. A fitful light glimmered from the room of Richard's

father. Richard himself came home late, took his supper, and retired

to his chamber; there he walked back and forth, thinking, contending

with himself, and speaking aloud. Before his door stood a dark

figure--immovable and listening.

It knocked at the door of the elder Frank. Jacob, a servant who had

grown gray in the service of the house, entered. Frank received him

with surprise, and awaited expectantly what he had to say.

"We are all wrong," said Jacob. "My poor young master has now spoken

out clearly. He is not sick because of the foolish trash in the books.

He is in love, terribly in love."

"Ah! in love?" said Herr Frank.

"You should just have heard how he complains and laments that he is not

worthy of her. 'O Angela, Angela!' he cried at least a hundred times,

'could I only raise myself to your level, and make myself worthy! But

your soul, so pure, your character, so immaculate and good, thrusts me

away. I look up to you with admiration and longing, as the troubled

pilgrim on earth looks up to the peace and grandeur of heaven.' This is

the way he talked. He is to be pitied, sir."

"So--so--in love, and with Siegwart's daughter," said Frank sadly. "The

tragedy will change into comedy. Even if they were not so

unapproachably high, but like other people on earth, my son should

never take an ultramontane wife."

"But if he loves her so deeply, sir?"

"Be still; you know nothing about it. Has he lain down?"

"Yes; or, at least, he is quiet."

"Continue to watch him. I must immediately make known to the doctor

this love affair. He will be surprised to find the philosopher changed

into a love-sick visionary."

CHAPTER VIII.

AVOWALS.

In the same deep valley where the brook rippled over the pebbles in its

bed, where the mountain sides rose up abruptly, where the moss hung

from the old oaks, where Klingenberg plucked the tender beard of the

young professor of history, took place the meditated attack of the

doctor on the poison of materialism which was destroying the body and

soul of Richard.

Slowly and carefully the doctor advanced, as against an enemy who will

defend his position to the last. But how was he astonished, when, being

attacked, Frank showed no disposition to defend that most highly

vaunted doctrine of modern science--materialism! This was almost as

puzzling to the doctor as the eternity of matter. Tired of skirmishing,

the doctor set to work to close with the enemy, and strike him down.

"I have looked only cursorily at the writings of the materialists: you

have studied them carefully; and you will oblige me much if you would

give me the foundation on which the whole structure of materialism

rests."

"The materialistic system is very simple," answered Frank.

"Materialists reject all existence that is not sensibly perceptible.

They deny the existence of invisible and supersensible things. There is

no spirit in man or anywhere else. Matter alone exists, because matter

alone manifests its existence."

"I understand. The materialist will only be convinced by seeing and

feeling. As a spirit is neither spiritual nor tangible, then there is

none. Is it not so, friend Richard?"

"You have included in one sentence the whole of materialism," said

Frank coolly.

"I cannot understand," said Klingenberg hesitatingly, "how the

materialists can make assertions which are untenable to the commonest

understandings. Why, thought can neither be seen nor felt; yet it is an

existence."

"Thought is a function of the brain."

"Then, it is incomprehensible how the sensible can beget the

supersensible. How matter--the brain--can produce the immaterial, the

spiritual."

Richard was silent.

"At every step in materialism I meet insurmountable difficulties,"

continued the doctor. "I know perfectly the organization of the human

body, as well as the function and purpose of each part. The physician

knows the purpose of the lungs, heart, kidneys, and stomach, and all

the noble and ignoble parts of the body. But no physician knows the

origin of the activity of the organism. The blood stops, the pulse no

longer beats, the lungs, kidneys, nerves, and all the rest cease their

functions. The man is dead. Why? Because the activity, the movement,

the force is gone. What, then, is this vivifying force? In what does it

consist? What color, what taste, what form has it? No physician knows.

The vivifying principle is invisible, intangible perfectly immaterial.

Yet it exists. Therefore the fundamental dogma of materialism is false.

There are existences which can neither be felt, tasted, nor seen."

"The vivifying principle is also in animals," said Richard.

"Certainly; and in them also intangible and mysterious. Materialism

cannot even stand before animal life; for even there the vivifying

principle is an immaterial existence."

"The materialist stumbles at the existence of human spirit, because he

cannot get a conception of it."

"How could this be possible?" cried the doctor. "The conception is a

picture in the mind, an apprehension of the senses. Spiritual being is

as unapproachable by the senses as the vivifying principle, of which

also man can form no conception. To deny existence because you cannot

have a conception of it, is foolish. The blind would have the same

right to deny the existence of colors, or the deaf that of music. And

who can have a conception of good, of eternity, of justice, of virtue?

No one. These are existences that do not fall under the senses. To be

logical, the materialist must conclude that there is nothing good,

nothing noble, no justice; for we have not yet seen nor felt nor smelt

these things. Virtuous actions we can, of course, see; but these

actions are not the cause but the consequence, not the thing working

but the thing wrought. As these actions will convince every thinking

man of the existence of virtue and justice, so must the workings of the

spirit prove its existence."

"Precisely," replied Frank. "Materialism only surprises and captivates

one like a dream of the night. It vanishes the moment it is seen. I

read the works of Vogt and Buechner only for diversion; my object was

perfectly gained."

"You read for diversion! What did you wish to forget?"

"Dark clouds that lowered over my mind."

"Have you secrets that I, your old friend and well-meaning adviser,

should not know?"

Frank was confused; but his great respect for the doctor forced him to

be candid.

"You know my views of women. When I tell you that Angela, the

well-known Angel of Salingen, has torn these opinions up by the roots,

you will not need further explanation."

"You found Angela what I told you? I am glad," said Klingenberg. And

his disputative countenance changed to a pleasant expression. "I

suspected that the Angel of Salingen made a deep impression on you. I

did not guess; I read it in large characters on your cheeks. Have you

made an avowal?"

"No; it will never come to that."

"Why not? Are you ashamed to confess that you love a beautiful young

lady? That is childish and simple. There is no place here for shame.

You want a noble, virtuous wife. You have Angela in view. Woo her; do

not be a bashful boy."

"Bashfulness might be overcome, but not the conviction that I am

unworthy of her."

"Unworthy! Why, then? Shall I praise you? Shall I exhibit your noble

qualities, and convince, you why you are worth more than any young man

that I know? You have not Angela's religious tone; but the strong

influence of the wife on the husband is well known. In two or three

years I shall not recognize in the ultramontane Richard Frank the

former materialist." And the doctor laughed heartily.

"It is questionable," said the young man, "whether Angela's inclination

corresponds to mine."

"The talk of every true lover," said the doctor pleasantly. "Pluck the

stars of Bethlehem, like Faust's Grethe, with the refrain, 'She loves,

she loves not--she loves.' But you are no bashful maiden; you are a

man. Propose to her. Angela's answer will show you clearly how she

feels."

The doctor was scarcely in his room when Richard's father entered.

"All as you foretold," said Klingenberg. "Your son is cured of his

hatred of women by Angela. The materialistic studies were not in

earnest; they were only a shield held up against the coming passion.

The love question is so absorbing, and the sentiment so strong, that

Richard left me near Frankenhoehe to hasten over there. I expect from

your sound sense that you will place no obstacles in the way of your

son's happiness."

"I regret," said Frank coldly, "that I cannot be of the same opinion

with you and Richard in this affair."

"Make your son unhappy?" said Klingenberg. "Do you consider the

possible consequences of your opposition?"

"What do you understand by possible consequences?"

"Melancholy, madness, suicide, frequently come from this. I leave

tomorrow, and I hope to take with me the assurance that you will

sacrifice your prejudice to the happiness of Richard."

Among the numerous inhabitants of Siegwart's yard was a hen with a

hopeful progeny. The little chicks were very lively. They ran about

after insects till the call of the happy mother brought them to her.

Escaped from the shell some few days before, they had instead of

feathers delicate white down, so that the pretty little creatures

looked as though they had been rolled in cotton. They had black, quick

eyes, and yellow feet and bills. If a hawk flew in the air and the

mother gave a cry, the little ones knew exactly what it meant, and ran

under the protecting wings of the mother from the hawk, although they

had never seen one--had never studied in natural history the danger of

the enemy. If danger were near, she called, and immediately they were

under her wings. The whole brood now stopped under the lindens. The

little ones rested comfortably near the warm body of the mother. Now

here, now there, their little heads would pop out between the feathers.

One smart little chirper, whose ambition indicated that he would be the

future cock of the walk, undertook to stand on the back of the hen and

pick the heads of the others as they appeared through the feathers.

Angela came under the lindens, carrying a vessel of water and some

crumbs in her apron for the little ones. She strewed the crumbs on the

ground, and the old hen announced dinner. The little ones set to work

very awkwardly. The old hen had to break the crumbs smaller between her

bill. Angela took one of the chickens in her hand and fondled it, and

carried it into the house. The hen went to the vessel to drink and the

whole brood followed. It happened that the one that stood on her back

fell into the water, and cried loudly; for it found that it had got

into a strange element of which it had no more idea than Vogt and

Buechner of the form of a spirit. At this critical moment Frank came

through the yard. He saw it fluttering about in the water, and stopped.

The old hen went clucking anxiously about the vessel. And although she

could without difficulty have taken the chicken out with her bill, yet

she did not do it. Richard observed this with great interest; but

showed no desire to save the little creature, which at the last gasp

floated like a bunch of cotton on the water.

Angela may have heard the noise of the hen, for she appeared at the

door. She saw Frank standing near the lindens looking into the vessel.

At the same time she noticed the danger of one of her little darlings,

and hastened out. She took the body from the water and held it sadly in

her hands.

"It is dead, the little dear," said she sadly. "You could have saved

it, Herr Frank, and you did not do it." She looked at Frank, and forgot

immediately, on seeing him, the object of her regrets. The young man

stood before her so dejected, so depressed and sad, that it touched her

heart. She knew what darkened his soul. She knew his painful struggle,

his great danger, and she could have given her life to save him. She

was moved, tears came into her eyes, and she hastened into the house.

Siegwart was reading the paper when his daughter hastened in such an

unusual way through the room and disappeared.

This astonished him.

"What is the matter, Angela?" he exclaimed.

There was no answer. He was about to go after her when Frank entered.

"I can give you some curious news of the assessor," said the proprietor

after some careless conversation. "The man is terribly enraged against

me and full of bad designs. The reason of this anger is known to you."

And he added, "Angela is in the next room, and she must know nothing of

his proposal."

Frank nodded assent.

"About ten paces from the last house in Salingen," continued Siegwart,

"I have had a pile of dirt thrown up. It was now and then sprinkled

with slops, to make manure of it. Herr Hamm has made the discovery that

the slops smell bad; that it annoys the inhabitants of the next house;

and he has ordered it to be removed."

Richard shook his head disapprovingly.

"Perhaps Herr Hamm will come to the conclusion that, in the interest of

the noses, all like piles must be removed from Salingen."

"But that is not all," said Siegwart. "It has been discovered that the

common good forbids my keeping fowls, because my residence is

surrounded by fields and vineyards, where the fowls do great damage.

The Herr Assessor has had the goodness, accompanied by the guards, to

examine personally the amount of destruction. So I have got

instructions either to keep my fowls confined or to make away with

them."

"Mean and contemptible!" said Frank.

Angela came into the room. Her countenance was smiling and clear as

ever; but her swollen eyes did not escape Richard's observation. She

greeted the guest, and sat down in her accustomed place near the

window. Scarcely had she done this, when Frank stood up, went toward

her, and knelt down before the astonished girl.

"Miss, I have greatly offended you, and beg your pardon."

Siegwart looked on in surprise--now at his daughter, who was perplexed;

now at the kneeling young man.

"For God's sake! Herr Frank, arise," said the confused Angela. She was

about to leave the seat, but he caught her hand and gently replaced

her.

"If I may approach so near to you, my present position is the proper

one. Hear me! I have deeply offended you. I could with ease have saved

a creature that was dear to you, and I did not do it. My conduct has

brought tears to your eyes--hurt your feelings. When you went away to

regain your composure, and to show your offender a serene, reconciled

countenance, it made my fault more distressing. Forgive me; do not

consider me hard and heartless, but see in me an unfortunate who

forgets himself in musing."

She looked into Frank's handsome face as he knelt before her, in such

sadness, lowering his eyes like a guilty boy, and smiled sweetly.

"I will forgive yon, Herr Frank, on one condition."

"Only speak. I am prepared for any penance."

"The condition is, that you burn those godless books that make you

doubt about the noblest things in man, and that you buy no more."

"I vow fulfilment, and assure you that the design of those books, which

you rightly call godless, is recognized by me as a crime against the

dignity of man--and condemned."

"This rejoices no one more than me," said she with a tremulous voice.

He stood up, bowed, and returned to his former place.

"But, my dear neighbor, how did this singular affair happen?" said the

proprietor.

Frank told him about the death of the chicken.

"The love of the hen for her chickens is remarkable. She protects them

with her wings and warns them of danger, which she knows by instinct.

How easy would it have been for the hen to have taken the young one

from the water with her bill--the same bill with which she broke their

food and gave it to them. But she did not do it, because it is strange

to her nature. This case is another striking proof that animals act

neither with understanding nor reflection. Acts beyond their instinct

are impossible to them. This would not be the case, if they had souls."

The old servant stood with an empty basket before the library of the

son, as he had stood before that of the father. Buechner, Vogt, and

Czolbe fell into the fire. Jacob shook his head and regretted the

beautiful binding; but the evil spirits between the covers he willingly

consigned to the flames.

Again the cars stopped at the station; again the two gentlemen stood at

the open window of the car to receive their returning friends. The

travellers took a carriage and drove through the street.

"Baron Linden has indeed gone headlong into misery," said Lutz

humorously. "Eight days ago the young pair swore eternal fidelity. It

was signed and sealed. Until to-day no could one know that they were on

the brink of misery."

Richard remembered his remark on the former occasion, and wondered at

his sudden change of opinion.

"I wish them all happiness," said he.

"Amen!" answered Lutz. "Richard, however, considers happiness in

matrimony possible. So we may hope that he will not always remain a

bachelor. How is the Angel of Salingen? Have you seen her since that

encounter with the steer?"

"The angel is well," said Richard, avoiding the glance of his friend.

"What do you mean by the 'Angel of Salingen'?" said the father.

"Thereby I understand the unmarried daughter of Herr Siegwart, of

Salingen, named Angela, who richly deserves to be called the 'Angel of

Salingen.'"

Frank knit his brows darkly and drummed on his knees.

"And the encounter with the steer?" continued he.

The professor related the occurrence.

"Ah! you did not tell me any thing of that," said the father, turning

to Frank. "An act of such great courage deserves to be mentioned."

The carriage passed into the court of a stately mansion. The servant

sprang from his seat and opened the carriage-door. The professor looked

at his watch.

"Herr Frank, will you allow your coachman to drive me to the

university? I must be at my post in ten minutes. I cannot go on foot in

that time."

"With pleasure, Herr Professor."

"Richard," said the other friend, "shall we meet at the opera tonight?"

"Scarcely. I must to-day enter upon my usual business."

"Come, if possible. The evening promises great amusement, for the

celebrated Santinilli dances."

The accustomed routine of business began for Richard. He sat in the

counting-room and worked with his habitual punctuality. Nevertheless

invidious spirits lured him toward Salingen, so that the figures

danced before his eyes, words had no meaning, and he was often lost in

day-dreams. The watchful father had observed this, and was perplexed.

Richard's plan of studies also underwent a change. He left the house

regularly at half-past five and returned at half-past six. The father,

desiring to know what this meant, set the faithful Jacob on the watch.

"Herr Richard," reported the spy, "hears mass at the Capuchins."

Frank drummed a march on his knees.

"So, so!" he hummed. "The ultramontanes understand proselytizing. They

have turned the head of my son. If I live long enough, I may yet see

him turn Capuchin, build a cloister, and go about begging."

When Herr Frank entered the counting-room, he found his son busy at

work. He stood up and greeted his father.

"I have observed, Richard," he began after a time, "that you go out

early every morning. What does it mean?"

"I have imposed upon myself the obligation of hearing mass every

morning."

"How did you come to take that singular obligation upon yourself?"

"From the conviction that religion is no empty idea, but a power that

can give peace and consolation in all conditions of life."

"It is evident that you have breathed ultramontane air. This

churchgoing is not forbidden--but no trifling or fanatical nonsense."

"It is my constant care, father, to give you no cause of uneasiness."

"I am rejoiced at this, my son; but I must observe that a certain

gloomy, reserved manner of yours disturbs me. Your conduct is

exemplary, your industry praiseworthy, your habits regular; but you

keep yourself too much shut up; you do not give evening parties any

more. You do not visit the concert-hall or theatre. This is wrong; we

should enjoy life, and not move about like dreamers."

"I have no taste for amusements," answered Richard. "However, if you

think a change would be good, I beg you to permit me to take a run out

to Frankenhoehe for a couple of days."

"And why to Frankenhoehe? I do not know any amusement there for you."

"I have planted a small vineyard, as you know, and I would like to see

how the Burgundies thrive."

Herr Frank was not in a hurry to give the permission. He thought and

drummed.

"You can go," he said resignedly. "I hope the mountain air will cheer

you up."

Herr Siegwart had remarked the same symptoms in his daughter that Herr

Frank had in his son; but Angela did not give way to discontent. She

was always the same obedient daughter. The poor and sick of Salingen

could not complain of neglect. But she was frequently absent-minded,

gave wrong answers to questions, and sought solitude. If Frank was

mentioned, she revived; the least circumstance connected with him was

interesting to her. Her sharp-sighted father soon discovered the inmost

thoughts and feelings of his daughter. He thought of Herr Frank's

ill-humor toward him, and was disposed to regret the hour that Richard

entered his house.

The Burgundies at Frankenhoehe were scarcely looked at. The young man

hastened to Salingen. He found the landscape changed in a few weeks.

The fields had clothed themselves in yellow. The wheat-stalks bent

gracefully under their load. Everywhere industrious crowds were in the

fields. The stalks fell beneath the reapers. Men bound the sheaves.

Wagons stood here and there. The sheaves were raised into picturesque

stacks. The sun beamed down hot, and the sweltering weather wrote on

the foreheads of the men, "Adam, in the sweat of thy brow thou shalt

eat thy bread."

In the proprietor's house all was still, the old cook sat beneath the

lindens, and with spectacles on her nose tried to mend a stocking which

she held in her hand. She arose and smiled on Richard's approach.

"They are all in the fields. We have much work, Herr Frank. The grain

is ripe, and we have already gathered fifty wagon-loads. I am glad to

see you looking so much better. The family will also be glad. They

think a great deal of you--particularly Herr Siegwart."

"Give them many kind greetings from me. I will come back in the

evening."

"Off so soon? Will you not say good-day to Miss Angela? She is in the

garden. Shall I call her?"

"No," said he after a moment's reflection; "I will go into the garden

myself."

After unlatching the gate, he would have turned back, for he became

nervous and embarrassed.

Angela sat in the arbor; her embroidery-frame leaned against the table,

and she was busily working. As she heard the creaking of footsteps on

the walk, she looked up and blushed. Frank raised his hat, and when the

young woman stood up before him in beauty and loveliness, his

nervousness increased, and he would gladly have escaped; but his spirit

was in the fetters of a strange power, and necessity supplied him with

a few appropriate remarks.

"I heard that the family were absent; but I did not wish to go away

without saluting you. Miss Angela."

She observed the bashful manner of the young man, and said kindly, "I

am glad to see you again, Herr Frank," and invited him to sit down. He

looked about for a seat; but as there was none, he had to sit on the

same bench with her.

"Do you remain long at Frankenhoehe?"

"Only to-day and to-morrow. Work requires dispatch, and old custom has

so bound me to my occupation that the knowledge of work to be done

makes me feel uneasy."

"Do you work every day regularly in the counting-room?"

"I am punctual to the hours, for the work demands regularity and order.

There are every day some hours for recreation."

"And what is the most pleasant recreation for you?"

"Music and painting. I like them the best. But of late," he added

hesitatingly, "unavoidable thoughts press on me, and many hours of

recreation pass in useless dreaming."

Angela thought of his former mental troubles and looked anxiously in

his eyes.

"Now, you have promised me," she said softly, "to forget all those

things in those bad books that disturbed your mind."

"The fulfilment of no duty was lighter or more pleasant to me than to

keep my promise to you, Angela."

His voice trembled. She leaned over her work and her cheeks glowed. The

delicate fingers went astray; but Frank did not notice that the colors

in the embroidery were getting into confusion. There was a long pause.

Then Frank remembered the doctor's final admonition, "Be not like a

bashful boy; put aside all false shame and speak your mind;" and he

took courage.

"I have no right to ask what disturbs and depresses you," said she, in

a scarcely audible voice and without moving her head.

"It is you who have the best right, Angela! You have not only saved my

life, but also my better convictions. You have purified my views, and

influenced my course of life. I was deeply in error, and you have shown

me the only way that leads to peace. This I see more clearly every day.

The church is no longer a strange, but an attractive place to me. All

this you have done without design. I tell you this because I think you

sympathize with me."

He paused; but the declaration of his love hovered on his lips.

"You have not deceived yourself as to my sympathy," she answered. "The

discovery that one so insignificant as myself has any influence with

you makes me glad."

"O Angela! you are not insignificant in my eyes. You are more than all

else on earth to me!" he cried. "You are the object of my love, of my

waking dreams. If you could give me your hand before the altar in

fidelity and love, my dearest wishes would be realized."

She slowly raised her head, her modest countenance glowed in a virginal

blush, and her eyes, which met Richard's anxious look, were filled with

tears. She lowered her head, and laid her hand in that of the young

man. He folded her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, and kissed

her forehead. The swallows flew about the arbor, twittered noisily, and

threatened the robber who was trying to take away their friend. The

sparrows, through the leaves of the vines, looked with wonder at the

table where Angela's head rested on the breast of her affianced.

They arose.

"We cannot keep this from our parents, Richard. My parents esteem you.

Their blessing will not be wanting to our union."

Suddenly she paused, and stood silent and pale, as though filled with a

sudden fear. Richard anxiously inquired the cause.

"You know your father's opinion of us," she said, disturbed.

"Do not be troubled about that. Father will not object to my

arrangements. But even if he does, I am of age, and no power shall

separate me from you."

"No, Richard; no! I love you as my life; but without your father's

consent, our union wants a great blessing. Speak to him in love; beg

him, beseech him, but do not annoy him on account of your selfishness."

"So it shall be. Your advice is good and noble. As long as this

difficulty exists, I am uneasy. I will therefore go back. Speak to your

parents; give them my kind greeting, and tell them how proud I shall

feel to be acknowledged as their son." He again folded her in his arms

and hastened away.

The old cook still sat under the lindens, and the stocking lost many a

stitch as Frank, with a joyous countenance, passed her without

speaking, without having noticed her. She shook wonderingly her old

gray head.

Angela sat in the arbor. Her work lay idly on the table. With a

countenance full of sweetness she went to her room, and knelt and

prayed.

Herr Frank looked up astonished, as Richard, late in the evening,

entered his chamber.

"Excuse me, father," said he joyfully and earnestly; "something has

happened of great importance to me, and of great interest to you. I

could not delay an explanation, even at the risk of depriving you of an

hour's sleep."

"Well, well! I am really interested," said Herr Frank, as he threw

himself back on the sofa. "Your explanation must be something

extraordinary, for I have never seen you thus before. What is it,

then?"

"For a right understanding of my position, it is necessary to go back

to that May-day on which we went to Frankenhoehe. Your displeasure at my

well-grounded aversion to women you will remember."

With childish simplicity he related the whole course of his inner life

and trials at Frankenhoehe. He described the deep impression Angela had

made upon him. He took out his diary and read his observations, his

stubborn adherence to his prejudices, and the victory of a virtuous

maiden over them. The father listened with the greatest attention. He

admired the depth of his son's mind and the noble struggle of

conviction against the powerful influence of error. But when Richard

made known what had passed between himself and Angela, Herr Frank's

countenance changed.

"I have told you all," said Richard, "with that openness which a son

owes to his father. From the disposition and character of Angela, as

you have heard them, you must have learned to respect her, and have

been convinced that she and I will be happy. Therefore, father, I beg

your consent and blessing on our union."

He arose and was about to kneel, when Herr Frank stopped him.

"Slowly, my son. With the exception of what happened to-day, I am

pleased with your conduct. You have convinced yourself of the injustice

of your opinion of women. You have found a noble woman. I am willing to

believe that Angela is a magnificent and faultless creature, although

she have an ultramontane father. But my consent to your union with

Siegwart's daughter you will never receive. Now, Richard, you can

without trouble find a woman that will suit you, and who is as

beautiful and as noble-minded as the Angel of Salingen."

"May I ask the reason of your refusal, father?"

"There are many reasons. First, I do not like the ultramontane spirit

of the Siegwart family. Angela it educated in this spirit. You would be

bound to a wife whose narrow views would be an intolerable burden."

"Pardon, father! The extracts from my diary informed you that I have

examined this ultramontane spirit very carefully, and that I was forced

at last to correct my opinions of the ultramontanes--to reject an

unjust prejudice."

"The stained glass of passion has beguiled you into ultramontane

sentiments; and further, remember that Siegwart is personally

objectionable to me." And he spoke of the failure of the factory

through Angela's father.

"Herr Siegwart has told me of that enterprise, and, at the same time,

gave me the reasons that induced him to prevent its realization. He

showed the demoralizing effects of factories. He showed that the

inhabitants of that neighborhood support themselves by farming; that

the religious sentiment of the country people is endangered by Sunday

labor and other evil influences that accompany manufacturing."

"And you approved of this narrow-mindedness of the ultramontane?" cried

Frank.

"Siegwart's conduct is free from narrow-mindedness. You yourself have

often said that faith and religion had much to fear from modern

manufactories. If Siegwart has made great sacrifices, if he has

interfered against his own interest in favor of faith and morality, he

deserves great respect for it."

"Has it gone so far? Do you openly take part with the ultramontane

against your father?"

"I take no part; I express frankly my views," answered Richard

tranquilly.

"The views of father and son are very different, and we may thank your

intercourse with the ultramontanes for it."

"Your acquaintance, father, with that excellent family is very

desirable. You would soon be convinced that you ought to respect them."

"I do not desire their acquaintance. It is near midnight; go to rest,

and forget the hasty step of to-day."

"I will never regret what has taken place with forethought and

reflection," answered Richard firmly. "I again ask your consent to the

happiness of your son."

"No, no! Once for all--never!" cried Frank hastily.

The son became excited. He was about to fly into a passion, and to show

his father that he was not going to follow blind authority like an

inexperienced child, when he thought of what Angela said, "Speak to

your father in love;" and his rising anger subsided.

"You know, father," he said hesitatingly, "that my age permits me to

choose a wife without reference to your will. As the consent is

withheld without valid reasons, I might do without it. But Angela has

urgently requested me not to act against your will, and I have promised

to comply with her wishes."

"Angela appears to have more sense than you. So she requested this

promise from you? I esteem the young lady for this sentiment, although

she be a child of Siegwart, who shall never have my son for a

son-in-law."

The young man arose.

"It only remains for me to declare," said he calmly, "that to Angela,

and to her alone, shall I ever belong in love and fidelity. If you

persevere in your refusal, I here tell you, on my honor, I shall never

choose another wife."

He made a bow and left the room. It was long past midnight, and Herr

Frank was still sitting on the sofa, drumming on his knees and shaking

his head.

"An accursed piece of business!" said he. "I know he will not break his

word of honor under any circumstances. I know his stubborn head. But

this Siegwart, this clerical ultramontane fellow--it is incompatible;

mental progress and middle-age darkness, spiritual enlightenment and

stark confessionalism--it won't do. Angela certainly is not her father.

She is an innocent country creature; does not wear crinoline, dresses

in blue like a bluebell, has not a dainty stomach, and has no toilette

nonsense. The nuns, together with perverted views of the world, may,

perhaps, have taught her many principles that adorn an honorable woman;

but--but--" And Herr Frank threw himself back grumbling on the sofa.

On the following day Richard wrote Angela a warm, impassioned letter.

The vow of eternal love and fidelity was repeated. In conclusion, he

spoke of his father's refusal, but assured her that his consent would

yet be given.

Many weeks passed. The letters of the lovers came and went regularly

and without interruption. She wrote that her parents had not hesitated

a moment to give their consent. In her letters Richard admired her

tender feeling, her dove-like innocence and pure love. He was firm in

his conviction that she would make him happy, would be his loadstar

through life. He read her letters hundreds of times, and these readings

were his only recreation. He spoke not another word about the matter to

his father. He kept away from all society. He devoted himself to his

calling, and endeavored to purify his heart in the spirit of religion,

that he might approach nearer to an equality with Angela. The father

observed him carefully, and was daily more and more convinced that a

spiritual change was coming over his son. Murmuringly he endured the

church-going, and vexedly he shook his head at Richard's composure and

perseverance, which he knew time would not change. The more quietly the

son endured, the more disquieted Herr Frank became. "Sacrifice your

prejudices to your son's happiness," he heard the doctor saying; and he

felt ashamed when he thought of this advice.

"What cannot be cured must be endured," he was accustomed to say for

some days, as often as he went into his room. "The queer fellow makes

it uncomfortable for me; this cannot continue; days and years pass

away. I am growing old, and the house of Frank must not die out."

One morning he gave Richard charge of the establishment. "I have

important business," said he. "I will be back to-morrow."

The father smiled significantly as he said this. Richard heard from the

coachman that Herr Frank took a ticket for the station near

Frankenhoehe. He knew the great importance to him of this visit, and

prayed God earnestly to move his father's heart favorably. His

uneasiness increased hourly, and rendered all work impossible. He

walked up and down the counting-room like a man who feared bankruptcy,

and expected every moment the decision on which depended his happiness

for life. He went into the hall where the desks of the clerks stood in

long rows. He went to the desks, looked at the writing of the clerks,

and knew not what he did, where he went, or where he stood.

The next day Herr Frank returned. Richard was called to the library,

where his father received him with a face never more happy or

contented.

"I have visited your bride," he began, "because I had a curiosity to

know personally the one who has converted my son to sound views of

womankind. I am perfectly satisfied with your taste, and also with

myself; for I have become reconciled with Siegwart, and find that he is

as willing to live with his neighbors in harmony as in discord. You now

have my blessing on your union. The marriage can take place when you

please; only it would please me if it came off as soon as possible."

Richard stood speechless with emotion, which so overcame him that tears

burst from his eyes. He embraced his father, kissed him tenderly, and

murmured his thanks.

"That will do, Richard," said Herr Frank, much affected. "Your

happiness moves me. May it last long. And I do not doubt it will; for

Angela is truly a woman the like of whom I have never met. Her

character is as clear and transparent as crystal; and her eyes possess

such power, and her smile such loveliness, that I fear for my freedom

when she is once in the house."

Crisp, cold weather. The December winds sweep gustily through the

streets of the city, driving the well-clad wanderer before them and

sporting with the weather-vanes. A carriage stops before the door of

the Director Schlagbein. Professor Lutz steps out and directs the

driver to await him.

Emil Schlagbein, Richard's unhappy married friend, had moved his

easy-chair near the stove and leaned his head against its back. He

looked as though despair had seized him and thrown him into it. Hasty

steps were heard in the ante-room, and Lutz stood before him.

"Still in your working-clothes, Emil? Up! the tea-table of the Angel of

Salingen awaits us."

"Pardon me; my head is confused, my heart is sad; grief wastes my life

away."

"War--always war; never peace!" said Lutz. "I fear, Emil, that

all the fault is not with your wife. You are too sensitive, too

particular about principles. Man must tolerate, and not be niggardly

in compliance. Take old Frank as a model. With Angela entered

ultramontanism into his house. Frank lives in peace with this

spirit--even on friendly terms. Angela reads him pious stories from the

legends of the saints. He goes with her to church, where he listens

with attention to the word of God. He hears mass as devoutly as a

Capuchin; not to say any thing of Richard, who runs a race with Angela

for the prize of piety. Could you not also make some sacrifice to the

whims of your wife?"

"Angela and Ida--day and night!" said the director bitterly. "The two

Franks make no sacrifice to female whims. They appreciate her exalted

views, they admire her purity, her unspeakable modesty, her shining

virtues. The two Franks acted reasonably when they adopted the

principles that produced such a woman. Angela never speaks to her

husband in defiance and bad temper. If clouds gather in the matrimonial

heaven, she dissipates them with the breath of love. Is the sacrifice

of a wish wanted? Angela makes it. Is her pure feeling offended by

Richard's faults? She kisses them away and raises him to her level.

My wife--is she not just the opposite in every thing? Is she not

quick-tempered, bitter, loveless, extravagant, and stiff-necked? Has

she a look--I will not say of love--but even of respect for me? Do not

all her thoughts and acts look to the pleasures of the toilette, the

opera, balls, and concerts? O my poor children! who grow up without a

mother, in the hands of domestics. How is any concession possible here?

Must not my position, my self-respect, the last remnant of manly

dignity go to the wall?"

"Your case is lamentable, friend! Your principles and those of your

wife do not agree. Concession to the utmost point of duty, joined with

prudent reform in many things, may, perhaps, bring back, harmony and a

good understanding between you. You praise Angela: follow her example.

She abominates the air of the theatre. The opera-glasses of the young

men levelled at her offend her deeply, and bring to her angelic

countenance the blush of shame. Her fine religious feeling is offended

at many words, gestures, and dances which a pious Christian woman

should not hear and see. Yet she goes to the opera because Richard

wishes it. Her husband will at last observe this heroism of love, and

sacrifice the opera to it. What Angela cannot obtain by prayers and

representations, she gains by the all-conquering weapons of love. In

like manner and for a like object yield to your wife. She is, at least,

not a firebrand. Love must overcome her stubbornness."

Schlagbein shook his head sadly.

"A father cannot do what is inconsistent with paternal duty," said he.

"Shall I join in the course of my wife? Whither does this course lead?

To the destruction of all family ties, to financial bankruptcy--to

dishonor. For home my wife has no mind, no understanding. My means she

throws carelessly into the bottomless pit of pleasure-seeking and love

of dress. She does not think of the future of her children. Every day

brings to her new desires for prodigality. If her wishes are fulfilled,

ruin is unavoidable. If they are not fulfilled, she sits ill-humored

and obstinate in her room, and leaves the care of the house to her

domestics, and the children to the nurses. How often have I consented

to her vain desire for show, only to see her extravagant wishes thereby

increased. She is without reason."

The unfortunate man's head sunk upon his breast. Lutz stood still

without uttering a word.

"Yes, Angela is a noble woman," continued Emil, "she is the spirit of

order, the angel of peace and love. Just hear Richard's father. He

revels in enthusiasm about her. 'My Richard is the happiest man in the

world,' said he to me lately. 'I myself must be thankful to him for his

prudent choice. Abounding in every thing, my house was empty and

desolate before Angela came; but now every thing shines in the sun of

her orderly housekeeping, of her tender care. Although served with

fidelity, I have been until the present almost neglected. But now that

the angel hovers over me, observes my every want, and with her smile

lights my old age, I am perfectly happy.' Has my wife a single

characteristic of this noble woman?"

"Angela is unapproachable in the little arts that win the heart and

drive away melancholy," said Lutz. "A few weeks ago, Herr Frank came

home one day from the counting-room all out of sorts. He sat silently

in his easy-chair drumming on his knee. Angela noticed his ill-humor.

She sought to dissipate it--to cheer him; but she did not succeed. She

then arose, and, going to him, said with unspeakable affection,

'Father, may I play and sing for you the "Lied der Kapelle?"' Herr

Frank looked in her face, and smiled as he replied, 'Yes, my angel'

When her sweet voice resounded in the next room in beautiful accord

with the accompaniment, which she played most feelingly, the old man

revived and joined in her song with his trembling bass."

"How often we have twitted Richard with his views of modern women,"

said Emil. "It was his cool judgment, perhaps, that saved him from a

misfortune like mine."

Just then a carriage stopped before the house. Emil went uneasily to

the window, and Lutz followed him. Bandboxes and trunks were taken from

the house. The professor looked inquiringly at his friend, whose hand

appeared to tremble as it rested on the window-glass.

"What does this mean, Emil?"

"My wife is going to her aunt's for an indefinite time. She leaves me

to enjoy the pleasures of Christmas alone. The children also remain

here; they might be in her way."

The professor pitied his unhappy friend.

"Emil," said he, almost angrily, "it is for you to determine how a man

should act in regard to the freaks and caprices of his wife. But you

should not steep yourself in gall, even though your wife turn into a

river of bitterness. Drive away sadness and be happy. Do not let your

present humor rob you of every thing. Forget what you cannot change."

A beautiful woman approached the carriage. Schlagbein turned away from

the sight. Lutz observed the departing wife and mother. She did not

look up at the window where her husband was. She got into the carriage

without even saying farewell. She sat in the midst of bandboxes,

surrounded by finery and tinsel; and as the wheels rolled over the

pavement, the director groaned in his chair.

"A happy journey to you, Xantippe!" cried the angry professor. "Emil,

be a man. Dress yourself; forget at the Angel of Salingen's your

domestic devil."

Schlagbein moved his head disconsolately.

"What have the wretched to do in the home of the happy? There I shall

only see more clearly that I suffer and am miserable."

Lutz, out of humor, threw himself into the carriage. With knitted brows

he buried himself in one of its corners. That professional head was

perplexed with a question which ordinary men would have quickly seen

through and settled. Frank's happiness and Schlagbein's misery stood as

two irrefutable facts before the mind of the professor. Now came the

question. Why this happiness, why this misery? The dashing Ida he had

known for years; also her enlightened views of life, and her flexible

principles, perfectly conformable to the spirit of progress. Whence,

then, the dissoluteness of her desires, the bitterness of her humor,

the heartlessness of the wife, the callousness of the mother?

The professor continued his musing. He gave a scrutinizing glance at

the marriages of all his acquaintances. Everywhere he found a clouded

sky, and, in the semi-darkness, lightning and thunder. Only one

marriage stood before him bright and clear in the sunlight of

happiness, in the raiment of peace, and that was ultramontane. That

ultramontane principles had produced this happiness and peace, the

professor's industrious mind saw with clearness. He raised his head and

said solemnly, "Marriage is an image of religion. It proceeds from the

lips of God, and is perfected at the altar. The marriage duties are

children of the religious sentiment, fetters of the divine law. Ida was

faithful and true so long as it agreed with the longings of her heart.

But with the cooling of affection died love and fidelity. She

recognizes no religious duty, because she has progressed to liberty and

independence. From this follows with striking clearness the

incompatibility of Christian marriage with the spirit of the age.

Marriage will be a thing of the past as soon as intellectual maturity

conquers in the contest with religion. Sound sense, liberty of emotion

and inclination will supplant the terrible marriage yoke."

The professor paused and examined his conclusion. It smiled upon him

like a true child of nature. It clothed itself in motley flesh, and

passed through green meadows and shady forests. It pointed

encouragingly to the beasts of the field and the birds of the air, long

in possession of intellectual maturity. Sensual marriages, intended to

last only for weeks or months, danced around the professor. Cannibal

hordes, who extended to him their brotherly paws and claws, pressed

about him. In astonishment, he contemplated his conclusion; it made

beastly grimaces, knavish and jeering, and he dashed into fragments the

provoking mockery.

In strong contrast to the animal kingdom, stood before him again the

Christian marriage. He cunningly tried to give his new conclusion human

shape; but here the carriage stopped, and the speculation vanished

before the clear light in the house of the "Angel of Salingen."

FOOTNOTE TO ANGELA.

[Footnote 2: This argument is not conclusive, nor is it at all

necessary. Animals have memory; and there is no more reason why their

waking sensations, emotions, and acts should not repeat themselves in

dreams than there is in the case of men. The difference between the

soul of man and the soul of the brute is constituted by the presence of

the gift of reason, or the faculty of knowing necessary and universal

truths in the former, and its absence in the latter.--Ed. Catholic

World.]