Villa Eden: The Country-House on the Rhine

by Berthold Auerbach

BOOK XV.

EXTRACTS OF LETTERS FROM AND TO THE NEW WORLD.

[Eric to his Mother.]

On board the BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

Our ship bears the name which my father always uttered with peculiar fervor.

My mother!

I am transformed into a life full of novel excitement. I have seen the sea for the first time. Now I am living upon it, and I seem to be writing to you from another world.

A joyful event ushered us out of the Fatherland.

As we drew near the shore, on the first evening, I espied a broad, benevolent, comfortable-looking man, at the window of the corner-house at the landing. He bowed to me, I returned the salutation, but did not recognize him. But when we were on board, he came up to us; it was Master Ferdinand, whom I had helped out at the musical festival.

I quickly told him our story, and he, with a despatch which could only have been inspired by disinterested kindness, collected his fellow artists, together with some cultivated amateurs of the town, and we sang and played far into the night.

With music in our souls we left the Rhine,—we left Germany.

Manna and Roland will write to you themselves; they are now on deck, reading the Odyssey: it is the only thing one ought to read here. All movement on the highways on shore, all household interests and surroundings, seem far removed.

Such a ship is a world in itself.

Herr Knopf, too, has had a wonderful meeting. He is writing to the Major: get him to show you the letter. One thing more I must tell you about.

We reached Liverpool at evening, and intended to rest there a day. On the next morning I was standing alone, looking at the harbor, and thinking how Liverpool was the first English port in which slave-ships were fitted out, when I was roused from my reverie over the changing events of history, by seeing an outward-bound vessel weighing anchor. On the deck stood a man, who, I cannot doubt, was Sonnenkamp. He now wears a full beard; but I recognized him in spite of it. He has either been in Europe all the time, or else has returned here. He seemed to recognize me, took off his broad-brimmed hat, beckoned to some one, and a figure appeared which I could not recognize with certainty, but I think it was Bella.

I learned from the brother-masons, to whom Weidmann had given me a letter of introduction, that a man quite answering to the description of Sonnenkamp, was sending a shipload of arms and ammunition to some Southern port.

I dare not think how terrible, at this juncture, a meeting would have been.

Strangely enough, as I was walking with Manna at noon, through the city, she said to me: "I feel as if I must meet father here. I keep thinking he will come round some corner, on one side or the other!" I do not think I have done wrong in not telling her of what I saw.

Most agonizing is the thought that, perhaps, father and son may fight against each other in opposing armies. My consolation is, that Sonnenkamp, being an old sailor, will probably enter the navy.

Roland is the darling of the whole ship. He is indefatigably zealous to learn about the arrangement of the vessel, and about all the duties of the crew. He is busy with them first in one place, then in another, and I am glad to see that, by this means, all his hard thinking and speculation are driven away.

We have favoring winds.

Very merry, too, is the chirping and singing of the birds that Claus has brought with him. The blackbird strikes an attitude on her perch, like that of a renowned singer on the stage, looks coquettishly round on the bystanders, and sings her "Rejoice in your life." You know she never gets beyond that: but we like to have it said and sung to us: "Rejoice in your life."

On the second evening out.

Now it is night. Manna is alone on deck, looking at the stars. What a wondrous world! Overhead the innumerable stars, and around us the boundless sea. I feel as if I must, on this voyage, let all hard thinking, reflection, and speculation take wings and fly away, in order that I may tread the soil of the New World as simply a man of resolute action. There has always been a vein of romance running through my life and nature. What is it that leads me thither, to stake my whole being in a great crisis of human history? No longer to be a mere spectator, but to act, to live, and, perhaps—no, mother, an inward assurance tells me I shall come home alive from this conflict.

Home! Home! Oh, mother, my soul wings its way across to it, over the boundless billows of life: we are with you, and Villa Eden makes true its name. And yet, if Fate has otherwise decreed, be firm: your son has been perfectly happy; he has enjoyed all the fulness of life. I have had you, father, Manna, knowledge, pure aspirations, action. All has been mine.

Here I sit, and the billows bear me on. We rise and fall with the waves, and well for him who feels, as I now do, that the goal at which he aims is a good one.

It seems as if your hand were on my brow: I am well and free. And, oddly enough, I see myself in my mind's eye, transported to the University town again. Now it is evening; in the parlor at the "Post," the regular guests are seated, who meet there every evening, though, in truth, they cannot endure each other. They sit round a table covered with black oil-cloth, with their glasses before them, discussing the affairs of the world, telling anecdotes, and hoaxing one another, and then the talk turns upon that unsteady adventurer, Doctor Dournay. I am a fruitful theme for them. Tall Professor Whitehead lights a match, and says with satisfaction, "I always knew he would desert Science," and then the everlasting "Extraordinary" says—Enough! I was once on another planet, and believed myself at home there.

* * * * * *

I have not written for five days, and now, mother, the man who is writing to you has been, with his nearest and dearest, in the jaws of death.

We have lived through a storm such as our captain, a seaman of three-and-twenty years experience, has never seen before.

I must confess, I was not among the brave. And, in the midst of the tempest,—such is the double-action of the soul,—I could not help often thinking of the everlasting "Extraordinary," at the long table in the Post, speaking of my death, and lamenting his having abandoned poetical composition: our end would have made a fine subject. The coolest in the midst of the storm were Roland and Knopf. The latter, however, was not with us, but on the forward deck with his betrothed. Manna held me clasped in her arms. We wished to die together.

Oh, why should I recount our dangers? They are past. Now that we are safe, we talk of them no more.

On the next morning, when the sky was so clear, and the sea so calm, we celebrated a betrothal on board. It was friend Knopf who was betrothed; he will write you a more detailed account of it all. The cask of virgin wine, which had been given to us, was shared among the crew on that day. The Rhine poured joy into the veins of us all.

There was singing, dancing, jubilation. All the flags were hoisted, and at table friend Knopf made an address no less amusing than touching. I believe he is going to send Fräulein Milch his speech. We had music, too; Knopf played the flute, and persuaded Manna to bring her harp on deck. All the passengers and the sailors stood around her with suspended breath, and, when she had ended, shouted and huzzaed.

In three days we shall each land; I do not know whether I shall write again till then; my first step on the soil of the New World will be to send you this letter, unless we should meet, on the way, some vessel which will take it to Europe.

To Europe!

I feel raised so high above the world, that it seems as if I could play with whole continents.

Be joyful in thinking of your happy son,

Eric.

[Knopf to the Major and Fräulein Milch.]

Dear Brother and Sister,

Oh, how delightful it is that I, who have never been able to call any one by these names, can now apply them to you!

In the red blank-book which you, dear sister, gave me, are many notes of travel, which I hope to be able, some time, to write out: now I cannot. Out with the best thing: I am betrothed!!! It occurs to me, while making these three exclamation marks, that their form has a meaning. They seem to me like the image of a comet. Do ask Professor Einsiedel if I have not made a great scientific discovery.

Do you remember, dear sister, my telling you of my meeting a girl with two boys in the forest, that time when I was coming to find our friend Herr Dournay? That girl is my betrothed. Her name is Rosalie, like yours. She looks enough like you to be your sister. Yes, she is your sister. She has brown eyes, like you.

"But who is she, then?" I hear you ask, laying aside your sewing and looking at me with both eyes—I had almost said, with both hands.

Well, just let me tell you quietly.

Now, then, the maiden whom I met in the green-wood, my wood-maiden, is the daughter of a teacher, and—I beg you to hear this respectfully—she has passed her own examination as a teacher, and her brothers are splendid fellows. I did not venture to approach the girl, although I recognized her at the first glance. I tried to ingratiate myself with the brothers and said one day to the smaller one, who took to me at once—"Tell your sister I met her in the forest, last May, on her way to chapel with you; she had on a brown dress."

"Why don't you tell her so yourself?" asked the little fellow.

I had no time to answer him; for just then my wood-maiden came along, and began reproving her brother for annoying the strange gentleman, when the little one shouted, "Why, it's the gentleman you imitate, when you show how he looked over his spectacles at you."

Now it was out. She had made fun of me? She too? I took off my glasses, and must confess, I should have liked to throw them into the sea, and myself after them.

"What did she say?" you ask.

She spoke kindly and heartily: she said she had not ridiculed me—Oh, I don't remember the rest—she gave me her hand, and-—-

I cannot write it; you shall hear all about it sometime, and, even if I don't describe it, you know just the same: I, Emil Knopf, girls' tutor through so many generations, am engaged to an angel. That is a hackneyed phrase. Who knows whether angels could stand the teachers' examination?

I say with Herr Weidmann: I should just like to know how men can manage not to believe in God. Could only human understanding devise such a story as this? I had not the slightest idea where she came from, or who she was; and now she is put aboard the same ship for me, or you may say, I am put on board, and now the war breaks out, and she has an uncle in America—It is a fine thing that there is an uncle in America. I think I have met my father-in-law. And do you know what is the best thing?

To have a beloved one to live through a storm.

In the midst of the storm, and it was no ordinary one, I thought, How would it have been, if you had been obliged to sink into the sea alone, and had never known what it is to kiss a maiden's lips, and how it feels to have a soft hand stroke your face, and even to be told, "You are handsome,"—just think of it! I, Emil Knopf, famous as the least dangerous of men, I am handsome! Oh, how blind were all mothers and daughters in the blessed land of Uniformingen! Rosalie has a little mirror, and when I look into it, I am really handsome—I am pleased with myself. But do not think I have gone mad; I am in full possession of my mental powers. Herr Major, I pledge myself to explain to you the law of the centre of gravity and of the line of gravitation. I retain my understanding intact.

One thing, however, is hard for me. I find that I am no poet. If I were, I should now, of necessity, compose such poems that the whole world would hear of nothing else. The sailors could not refrain from singing them, nor the soldiers, coming away from the parade ground, nor the white-handed young lady at the piano, nor the journeyman by the roadside, when he takes off his oil-cloth hat and lays his head on his pack. Oh, I feel as if I must have something which should appease the hunger of the whole world, crying to all men, "Do you not see how beautiful the world is?"

But now I beg for a wedding gift. You and Fräulein Milch must have your photographs taken, for my sake. Oh, excuse my writing Fräulein Milch—I mean the Majorin. I see that I have kept writing Fräulein Milch throughout the whole letter. Do not be vexed if I do not alter it.

In the New World I shall write again; but now not another word. I have written enough, my whole life long, and now I wish to do nothing but frolic and kiss. Oh! that beautiful air from Don Giovanni occurs to me.

I will say but this one thing more: Manna behaves sweetly and kindly to my Rosalie, and so do Adams and our three doctors and young Fassbender. Every one rejoices in our happiness, and my young brothers-in-law are jolly fellows. We are all practising English, but we mean to remain true Germans.

In sight of land.

In three days we shall be in New York.

I don't know what I may have to encounter there. Rosalie, says too that I must write now: she is sitting beside me. But I really cannot write my inmost thoughts, when any one is in the same room with me, and especially when such dear eyes are looking at me. I will try, though: Rosalie thinks I have spoken so beautifully that it ought not to be lost. She makes me vain, she thinks so much of everything I say.

You know that we had a frightful storm, and that we were formally betrothed the« day after. It was only a little betrothal feast; but in spirit we invited the best people to it, and I summoned and addressed you all; you first, dear Major—or, rather, pardon me, dear brother, and then you, dear sister. Your cap with the blue ribbon was a good centre for my thoughts.

I spoke as follows:—

Oh, you good people, I cannot. They all say, I spoke as if I had received the gift of tongues. It may be so, but write it I cannot. I must give my Rosalie a kiss. Major, give yours to the Majorin.

There, that's enough.

P. S. I have given Rosalie what I have written to read. She is taking notes of a severe criticism for me. Yes, that is the way with teachers that have passed their examination.

New York.

To put into a letter what one has experienced in New York in three days, nay, in one, would be like holding fast in our hands the changeful images in the clouds. I have given up writing in my diary; there is too much to say.

When we landed, the Uncle was waiting for us, but did not accept me as a nephew very willingly. I wish I had you here, dear Brother Major, to explain to him who I really am, and how circumstanced. Now I must wait till he finds it out for himself; perhaps that will never happen. I don't blame the Uncle, he had already picked out a husband for Rosalie. When I introduced Captain Dournay to him, he said:—

"Dournay—Dournay?" but nothing more. He must have had to do with one of the family, some time or other.

The Uncle is very reserved; but great as his reticence is the openness of every one in Dr. Fritz's house. Ah, dear brother and sister, now I know what Herr Weidmann's home must have been when he was young, only Herr Weidmann has more sons, and here there are daughters. And what splendid creatures they are! And such a wife! I can only say, when she looks at you with her great eyes you are satisfied.

Oh, what glorious people we Germans are! Wherever we are transplanted, here in the air of freedom especially, we shoot up, and show, for the first time, what we really are.

I stood by when Roland and Lilian met; they must have some secret sign of recognition, for their first word was "Pebble." Yes, in love affairs some secret understanding is always formed. They merely held each other by the hand, and then went out together. Children live here in great independence.

Things go on beautifully at Dr. Fritz's, only nobody has any time.

I now understand the American saying, 'Time is money.' There is an extraordinary restlessness everywhere.

Here is war—war! Most people think it will soon be over, but Dr. Fritz says that the obstinacy of the Southern States is great, and that they are the better armed.

What is to become of me? you ask. Dr. Fritz thinks it strange that I still wish, in earnest, to become a teacher of negroes, especially as I do not yet speak the language with ease. He gives me hope, however, of being able to carry out my plan, by-and-by. And my thoughts go even further. A Normal School must be founded for negro youths; I shall keep this in view. Meantime I am giving music lessons here, and it seems so strange, when I come out of a house where we have been practising, to hear in the street the noisy roll of the drum.

Adams is in despair; the President will not yet permit any blacks to enlist. Adams has been told to work on the fortifications, but this he will not do.

Young Fassbender will have nothing to do with the bird-trade which Claus wanted to draw him into with his brother; he has undertaken to furnish supplies for the army. I hope he will behave honorably, for, sad to say, I hear that a great deal of cheating and embezzlement is carried on even in this Republic.

[Knopf to Fassbender.]

.... and tell me, did I ever meet at your house a teacher by the name of Runzler? It is very important to me to know, this, for he was my father-in-law.

I think he was at your house, and took snuff out of a large box.

Yes, it is so. I have just, asked my Rosalie. Her father used to take snuff from a big beech-wood box. So my idea was correct. Memory is a whimsical thing. We ought, professionally, to take it into consideration far more than we do. I remember actually nothing but the beech-wood snuff-box; but I beg you to tell me what we talked about at that time. You recollect, or rather I remind you, that I was at that time much saddened by the childish prank which Roland had played off upon me. I was so troubled, that I cannot remember any thing that passed. So write me all about it, and you will be doing me a great favor. You will soon receive a card inscribed thus:

EMIL KNOPF,

Rosalie Knopf, née Runzler,

Married.

I tell you the world is full of romances; the whole of life is but a romance.

The philosopher Schelling is right; poetry, art, government, religion, everything, had their origin in myths.

My good Roland has described to me his visit to Abraham Lincoln, and I have a good poem about it in my head. Unfortunately I have as yet only the title; but it is a beautiful one, for the piece is to be called: 'In Abraham's bosom.' Think how much can be included under such a heading!

Your son is an extremely practical man, you will have much satisfaction in him.

If your under-master chooses to come here, I can procure him much employment in piano lessons. We have teachers enough in Germany to export some.

[Roland to the Professorin.]

Pardon me if I no longer venture to call you mother. It seems to me like an injustice to my dead mother that I ever did so. I entreat you to have her grave carefully attended to, and to keep it strewn with her favorite flowers, ericas and pinks.

Now that is off my mind, I will write of other things.

When I think of the green cottage, it always seems to me as if it were floating on the sea, and must come hither to us.

Eric and Manna have, of course, described our voyage to you. While at sea, I learned tolerably well how the ship was managed, and I should have liked best to enlist in the navy; but Eric would not hear of it.

It is probable that my father is fighting against us by sea, so it is better for me to be in the army.

I have seen Lilian again. I can say to you alone that we are engaged. Do not say that I am but seventeen, and she but fourteen years old. Events have made us older. Why, Franklin wanted to marry Miss Read, when he was only eighteen. We have vowed to belong to one another when the war is over.

Please let these lines be seen by no eyes but yours.

We have been at Washington; I have seen the Acropolis of the New World. I wished first to make a pilgrimage to Franklin's grave, but it was better for me that I could first see one of his greatest successors, Abraham Lincoln.

I have seen, for the first time, a man of immortal glory. Face to face with him, I have uttered the name which will be handed down to posterity. Those lips, whose words now resound throughout the world of to-day, and shall be reëchoed by future ages, have pronounced my name. I have looked on greatness, and how simple it is!

It was at Carlsbad, in the course of that memorable conversation,—I do not remember much of it, but this struck me,—that some one, the Cabinetsrath, I think, said: "He who has walked through a portrait gallery of his ancestors, traverses the whole of life accompanied, as it were, by those eyes." Oh, from Lincoln's eyes the spirit of Socrates and Aristides, the spirit of Moses, of Washington, of Franklin, gazed upon me. And then I felt those to be the forefathers whom every one can earn for himself by honorable labor, by loyalty and self-sacrifice. I have the loftiest ancestry, and I will be worthy of it.

I enclose a photograph of Lincoln. He resembles Weidmann, not in appearance, but in the impression he makes on one. I told him about Adams, and how unhappy the negro was that he could not enter the army, but could only be employed on fortifications. Lincoln told me to trust mature discretion, and not to forget, in the exuberance of youth, that we must use all means in our power to bring about an understanding, in order to be justified before our own conscience and before God, if obliged to go further, saying that this was a fraternal strife, a war, not of annihilation, but of reconciliation.

I should like to enter a negro regiment, and told him so. He was silent, and only laid his broad, powerful hand on my head. Manna remains at Dr. Fritz's. Eric has probably already told you of his entering the army with the rank of Major. I have a comrade, Hermann; Lilian's brother, who bears a strong resemblance to Rudolph Weidmann, and is of the same age, but much older in character. Here, one is much older at eighteen than with us. He talks very little; but what he says, is so sensible and decided! Ah, he has had a beautiful youth!—but I will say no more of that. I left Griffin behind, in Lilian's care. We are in the cavalry. If we only had our Villa Eden horses here! Tell the Major to write me word who has bought them. My heart aches if I think of Villa Eden.

Just now, having written that word, I was obliged to stop. Have patience with me: you shall see that your great goodness to me has not been thrown away. You shall hear of manly behaviour on the part of

Your

Roland Dournay.

I have taken the name of Dournay here. You will understand why.

[Manna to the Professorin.]

.... I long to throw myself upon your breast, and there to say, "Mother!" and nothing more. The pen trembles in my hand, but I hear you say, "Be strong." I will. I dare not think how it will be when we are again with you. You are our home. We must wait, who knows how long? Who knows with what sacrifices? I dare, not think that Eric may be taken from me—from us.

It seemed like a dream to me, when we trod the soil of this continent—of my native land. I would gladly have floated on with the ship forever. I am living in the house of Dr. Fritz. Eric and Roland have to-day gone to Washington to see Lincoln. I do not realize that Eric is not with me, and yet I must soon let him go, how differently! We will not be afraid, will we, mother? A wonderful destiny has brought us together and preserved us together; it will remain true to us.

I should like to tell you much of the home where I dwell, and of all the good, intellectually wide-awake people, and often, when I hear the wife and children talking and see them acting, I want to say, "That you get from Eric's mother, from my mother." There exists, over the whole earth, a common fund of noble thought, as every one finds who bears a portion of it within himself. This is, to me, the meaning of the words, "Seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you." You have given me the power of seeking, of knocking, and I find that it is opened unto me. Oh, mother! Why must it be by means of such tremendous events, poised so narrowly between life and death, that the greatness and goodness, the readiness for martyrdom of the human heart, must be developed? Why not in peace, in love, in quiet cares?

That will be the millennium, you have often said, when the best qualities will no longer unfold in struggle, but in beauty and peacefulness. You, my mother, are a messenger and a witness from the paradise-world beyond the strife. Rejoice, as we rejoice, that you are this messenger, this witness. I will become like you, I am and will be your daughter, and will grow ever more truly so.

It is well that I was interrupted in this. Lilian has a fresh voice, and our friend Knopf's betrothed sings beautifully. We have practised pieces in which I accompany Lilian's singing on the harp. Oh, if we could send some of those tones over the sea! In the midst of the uproar of life around us, here we sit and sing by the hour together. Now I understand anew that saying, that art is a redeemer;—that saying of father's.

Why is the word father so harrowing to my soul? How happy it was for my mother to be snatched away as she was! When I fall into this train of thought, I always feel as if entering a desert, far, far away; nowhere anything cheering to the eye or refreshing to the soul. We must bear it.

I see with sorrow that I am writing confusedly; but you know and believe me, when I say that I am really calm, and, above all, you are to know that I never burden our Eric with these heavy thoughts. It is less from intention than—no, as soon as he comes, all dread and grief vanish; everything is light, sunshine, day.

Three days later.

Eric has returned with Roland from Washington. They have much to tell, and Roland is in a state of enthusiasm which you can easily picture to yourself.

Have I already told you that our friend Knopf has found a charming little wife? She is full of intelligence, modesty, and energy. She, too, has had religious conflicts to undergo, as I have, not so severe; but then she has had a hard fight with herself. Lilian, too, young as she is, is far riper than her years, on account of her zeal for making converts.

She was sent to Germany, and our friend Knopf there accomplished a good work. Lillian has become a sister to me, and we talk much of how she shall go with us to the Rhine. She thinks, however, that Eric and I will remain here; but that will never be. Our home is there. You are our home. I kiss your eyes, cheeks, mouth, hands. Ah, let me kiss you once more, once more! You are my—ah! you do not know at all what you are; but you know that I am

Your daughter,

Manna Dournay.

P.S. Dear Aunt Claudine, send me a great deal more good music, some soprano songs with harp accompaniment, and send them soon. At every tone I will think of you, and my naughty little finger, which you took so much trouble to train, is now perfectly obedient.

[Eric to Weidmann.]

When I stood before Abraham Lincoln, I thought of you, my revered friend. And because I have known, in my short life, what purely noble men breathe the same air with me, I was unembarrassed and at my ease. My lot is an exalted one: I can look in the faces of the best men of my age. And if wiseacres ever again tell me, condescendingly, that I am an idealist, I can reply to them, "I must be one, for I have met some of the noblest of men on my life-road; I not only believe in the elevation of pure humanity—I know it."

I will only give one incident of our interview.

We heard the opinion expressed, among those who surrounded Lincoln, that the negroes ought not to be set free, because they would do no work unless forced.

Roland said to me in a low voice:—

"Do the slaveholders work without being forced?"

Lincoln noticed that the boy was saying something to me, and encouraged him to speak without reserve. Roland repeated his question quietly but earnestly. You, who have helped me to awaken this young spirit, will sympathize in my pleasure.

And now I will tell you about your nephew.

Oh, our blessed German life! In old times travellers took with them into foreign countries the images of their saints. We Germans carry our poets, our philosophers and musicians over the face of the whole globe; and your nephew's pleasant, comfortable, free home is the abode of true culture. Here, in the midst of the tumult of political and private life, reign immortal spirits, who bring a devotion, a serenity, a holy quiet, of a peculiar sort.

Your nephew has done well in always telling me not to believe, with most people here, that this war will be over in a few months. I now think not of the end, but only of the next day.

And, in the midst of this growth and change of historic movement, I feel that the individual is like the single cell in a tree, or else that we are like boys on the school-bench. We do not know the entire educational plan. We do not know the end to which all this leads. We must learn our lessons; and cell is built upon cell, knowledge is added to knowledge, until—who knows the end?

In the first great struggle, in the New World's war of independence, there were Germans sold by German princes, to fight for the English against the Americans, and but few of our countrymen, towering up among them like Steuben and Kalb, did battle for the Republic. At that period the French—Lafayette's name rings out clear among them—stood foremost among the New World's champions of freedom. To-day the Union army contains thousands of Germans, witnesses who have emigrated or been exiled. Why are there no Frenchmen? I know the reason, and so do you.

I see the poet of the future draw near. The great drama of our epoch, the strife between Cæsarism and self-government, is presented to his gaze in dimensions such as no past age could know; he will compress the struggle within narrow limits.

The Republic of the United States has not yet existed a century. Oh, how different is the aspect of things here from what we had pictured to ourselves! I have found many who doubt the continuance of the Union; cultivated clergymen even told me that there was certainly more power of endurance in the monarchical form of government. That is the feeling of dejection and despair: but it is, I believe, only to be met with in single instances.

How often I am obliged to hear myself called a philosophical idealist! And they tell me I shall soon be converted. Your nephew, whose comprehensive glance sees all sides of a subject, has solved this enigma for me. The people here have lived so long for their own ease alone, feeling their claims of the State only occasionally, as voters. They must now pass through the school of military discipline, of staking their lives for the life of the nation—only as an education, of course, to be free again afterwards.

The so-called slavery question is not so nearly decided, by a great deal, as we supposed.

Your nephew thinks the complete abolition of slavery will become a necessary war measure of vital importance to the continued existence of the nation; that patriotism must be wedded to humanity—that the pure ideal must give place to utilitarianism and necessity—that the logic of events will bring about a decision not to be effected by the logic of thought. There is still a strong party here in the North who do not wish to proceed to the one extreme measure, as they call the absolute abolition of slavery; but hope to subdue the South by war instead.

We hope they will not succeed. The words "necessity of State," so often misused by tyrants, will now, we trust lead to Liberty.

How much one is obliged to hear against the negroes in this country!

That the four million slaves represent twenty hundred million dollars, is, of course, the point first mentioned; then that the blacks have many vices, as though a perfect model of virtue were to be expected from a down-trodden race. Any nation, so long held in bondage, tortured, martyred, condemned to ignorance, would have been just what they are. Moreover, tyranny has, in all ages, proclaimed the oppressed to be low beings, ignoring, of course, the fact that if they have some base tendencies, it is the oppression that has prepared the soil and implanted them.

I have made the acquaintance here of a distinguished negro, whose oration on the present situation and the future of his race I had heard. There was a touch of Demosthenes in it. He was a slave twenty-two years, and has acquired a complete scientific education.

Sometimes there is in his voice a quivering tone of lament, as of one drooping under a weight of sorrow, and I admire him for suppressing an avengeful anger. If a single man can do much for his race, this man, or one like him, might become an historic character.

But the heroic age is past, entirely and forever; now we must depend on community of action.

We are transported into the midst of an historical or logical unfolding of events. The attempts at peaceful reconciliation have been of no avail. In spite of the cry "No coërcion!" an army had to be raised, and now the cry is, "No confiscation of property!" That means, no abolition of slavery, and yet this must be the second result, since it could not be the first.

The moral debt, neither noted down nor paid interest on, nor cancelled on change, is now becoming a great national debt of the Union, which the country will be obliged to liquidate with money and blood.

[Manna to the Mother.]

.... What a small matter was that night-riot made by men with blackened faces! I have lived through a pro-slavery riot. Doctor Fritz says it arose from the bitter opposition to the conscription. Many blacks were murdered, our friend Knopf's school was laid in ruins, and the negro orphan asylum burned to the ground, the poor black children rolling crying on the pavement. We have much to do. The world has much to make amends for.

[Eric to the Banker.]

.... I perfectly understand your sorrow over the fact that there are some Jews among the Secessionists. General Twiggs, commanding in Texas, who went over to the rebels with his army, fortress, and munitions of war, was a Jew.

And that speculators on change also lend assistance to the defenders of slavery! Why should they less than the professedly pious English?

Why do you require all the Jews, collectively and individually, to stand on the side of moral principle? They have the right of equality, even in ill-doing. They are, if one may be permitted to say so, equally justified in crime with other men. It must be shown, it is now being shown, that no religion has the monopoly of morality.

You complain that the passion for enjoyment has invaded even your innermost circle of friends.

That belongs under the heading above indicated. The more I think over your letter, the more surely I arrive at this conclusion; the Jews, so long and so cruelly excluded from participation in national affairs, and condemned to a sad cosmopolitism, will now, in their days of liberation, behave like natives of the different communities in which it is their lot to be, and will, above all, remain patriotic.

Moreover, I can assure you that many Jews are here among us, fighting with valor and self-sacrifice.

The young physician equipped by you is exceedingly able.

The money which you sent over is being conscientiously expended.

I hope yet to sing with your daughter-in-law, to whom please present my kind regards.

My wife joins me in cordial remembrances of you.

[The Professorin to Eric and Manna.]

All is well. Would that I, could send you some of the spring fragrance and beauty which surround us here. No tree bears blossoms as countless as the blessings which go out from my heart to you. Here we sit in peace, and you are out there in the battle. We can do nothing for you, only I say to you, my son, and to you, my daughter: whatever may come, abide quietly in the assurance, that having followed the leadings of the spirit, we must silently recognize and bear our part. I have been in the next village; it must be like a recent settlement in America.

It is a beautiful and great thing to be able to help so many human beings to a cheerful and active existence.

My son, why do you not write whether you have inquired for Uncle Alphonso? Do not delay doing so. If he is yet living, tell him that I have never judged him unkindly, though he has been so hard upon us; and tell him that your father always preserved a brotherly feeling for him. But ah, I do not know whether he is still alive. Do not delay to get some positive information.

Our friend Einsiedel is busy in arranging your father's papers.

Our good Major wants to have a room built in the hot-house, and, next winter, live there all day long among the plants, breathing in their fragrance; then, he asserts, he should live to be a hundred years old.

[Claudine to Manna.]

If you feel overwhelmed by the hard experiences which you must bear, do not forget to keep up your study of astronomy; it takes us out of all our small troubles.

You will have to make new applications of your astronomical knowledge to new conditions in America.

[Lina to Manna.]

To-morrow I give my first large coffee-party; look upon me with respect. I spread fine damask table-cloths, and have my own gilt-edged cups. Ah, why can you not be here? People say that my voice is much stronger now that I am a mother. O Manna, the most beautiful song is that which one sings to her child. I hope it won't be long before you know it.

Pranken and his wife have come back, but they are not to remain with us. He is to be ambassador somewhere on the Lower Danube, near Turkey; I don't know the name of the country.

I have thought of a beautiful plan for you. When you come home, you must establish a special singing-club of all the matrons and maidens in the neighborhood, and we'll sing in your garden, and in the beautiful music-room, and in the pretty boats on the river, and on the flat-roofs, and everywhere. Ah, that will be life! If to-morrow were only here!

[Einsiedel to Eric.]

Elevating thoughts are in these papers which your father left behind him. It is much to be regretted that one of them has not been given to the world before this. He foresaw this war in America quite clearly. Connected and logical thought is a kind of prophecy. I shall publish the sheets with my positive assurance that they were written by a noble recluse many years before the events foretold.

[Weidmann to Eric.]

We are in the midst of all sorts of work. You wanderers took much of our peace away with you, but now all is in its habitual order again.

Thank you, dear Dournay, for your letter. My nephew always sends me the newspapers regularly. Do not allow yourself to be distracted by thoughts of Europe, and by too great a variety of interests; you are stationed at a post where you must keep only the next duty before your eyes. Forgive me for permitting myself to admonish you thus. It was high time that this disgrace should be wiped out from the consciousness of our age, for it had begun to appear that long habit was weakening the keen and bitter sense of its sin and shame.

I am finding surprising confirmation of this opinion. Herr Sonnenkamp corrupted our district more than he knew; people now speak well of him. "Ah, only a slave-trader!" "Nothing worse!" may be heard on all sides.

There is always something commanding in heroism; the bold scoundrel is more attractive than the unobtrusively virtuous man. Not only the frivolous, but quite sober-minded men think that the Prince was unnecessarily scrupulous in refusing to ennoble Herr Sonnenkamp.

A plant has become common in Europe which is called the water-pest: you may have read of it; it came from Canada, probably attached to some vessel, and has almost choked the Thames with its roots and entangled stems; it has crept far into the continent, and has now reached us, but we will conquer it. Such a water-pest spreads too in spiritual matters.

[Doctor Richard to Eric.]

All the others have no doubt written most edifying and sentimental letters; I have something better for you. First, let me tell you to rejoice that you have something to do, and have done with speculating.

And now for a fine story:—

Otto von Pranken—for whom I always had a sympathy, like all the rest of the profane world; he is no paragon of virtue, but there's a good deal in him—has beaten the black-coats in shrewdness; he got himself recommended to Rome by them and there he has played a smart trick. He entered the Papal army with the rank of Major, but got into some difficulty, on purpose, as I believe. He wrote a letter full of dissatisfaction over the organization of the army, and this gave him an excuse for resigning, and marrying the young widow, the daughter of Herr von Endlich. When you come home you will have some new neighbors. They say, though, that Pranken is to enter on a diplomatic career, and I think he has talent for it.

Have you seen or heard nothing of Frau Bella?

[The Majorin Grassler late Fräulein Milch, to Knopf.]

You can fancy how your letter rejoiced us. My good husband was cheered up by it into better spirits than he has had for a long time. I am sorry to say that since you all went off, he has been full of trouble. For months he has not been able to get rid of the thought why he was not younger, so that he could have gone with you. And then, don't laugh at us, we have a real family trial, for our Laadi has grown blind, and no physician can help her. People laughed at us for tending the dog so carefully: they want us to have her shot, but that we can't do, and so we take care of poor Laadi. My husband sits for hours by her, talking to her, and even takes her out for a little walk every day. Why must the dog grow blind? Ah, but I'm asking stupid questions; one has to be careful not to grow sentimental; Mother Nature is a hard mother.

I knew the father of your Rosalie; he was once at our house with the school-master Fassbender.

[Eric to Weidmann.]

Adams was ordered to work in the trenches, and a great number of negroes with him, but he would not take the pick in his hand; then Roland did what I once dissuaded him from doing, when he wanted to labor among the workmen at the castle. I think I told you about it. Now he joined the negroes and used his pick with them, and when I went to him once, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, I saw a light in the youth's eye, which said that the crown of human honor rests on the brow from which runs the sweat of toil.

Beginning this letter to you composes me, in the midst of the constant excitement of camp-life.

There is much discontent in the army; men are blaming Lincoln for maintaining a vacillating, uncertain policy, or, to say the least, for his extreme slowness.

I must leave it to Dr. Fritz, or rather to time, to prove the truth of his words when he says, Lincoln is not a genius, an individual towering above the mass; he is an average man, the exact exponent of the spirit of the people at its present stage of progress. He is not remarkably distinguished, but a man of just the right stamp.

Perhaps that is true, and it is much to say. This is not greatness in the old sense of the word, and we may have entered upon an age which has outgrown the heroic, and those representatives of heroism around whom all others seemed grouped as minor figures.

Opposed to the Monarchic, the Aristocratic, and the Monotheistic, stand the Republican, the Democratic, and the Pantheistic: they are only three different names for three unfoldings of the same principle.

[Roland to the Professorin.]

My first lines from camp shall be to you, dear Frau Professorin. I thank you for the motto which you once gave me; I feel as if I were not the same person to whom all that happened. I promise you, and this is a new oath of allegiance, to be true to your motto.

Ah, why do you not know Lilian? she deserves that you should know her.

I have told her a great deal about you; she thinks she should stand in awe of any one so wise and learned, but I tell her she need not.

And oh, Dr. Fritz is such a noble man. He told me that he was a pupil of your husband, and it must make you happy that your husband's spirit lives on in such a man, here in the New World.

I must try not to think too much of you and of the past: I ought now to give my thoughts only to what we have before us; and I am tired out. I have had a very fatiguing drill.

Eric is held in great respect here. All is still; in camp it is said that to-morrow we shall come under fire for the first time.

Morning.

The battle is beginning; I hope to do my duty.

Evening.

I have been promoted on the field.

[Eric to Weidmann.]

In Camp.

We have fought a battle; we have been defeated. Roland has distinguished himself, and been promoted. I have to use all my influence to restrain his daring.

The coolness and deliberation of your grand-nephew Hermann are a great help to me.

The hardest thing in this war is, that thousands must necessarily be sacrificed in order to teach the officers the art of war. There is a deficiency of experienced and tried leaders; and it is no small thing that the army, wholly without any confidence in the military skill of its generals, maintains itself so bravely. They must learn how to fight by fighting; and in this particular the Southern States have the advantage.

I have very great doubts whether our opponents fight with the hope of triumph; I mean, whether they honestly believe, that if they conquer, their principle can be permanently established.

Their very bitterness, which exceeds all bounds of a common humanity, the very vindictiveness with which they carry on the contest, shows me that they believe in a victory by war, but not by peace. And here the question presents itself to me: Why must an acknowledged ideal principle always and forever be attained through blood?

This is the great enigma of history. But it is the same as it is in a smaller sphere and in individual life; humanity is rational, but its predominating characteristic is passion, impulsive affection, which urges forward and renovates the life of humanity as it does that of the individual. I am reminded of an expression of yours, that nothing is so conducive to the growth of vegetation as a thunder-storm. It is perhaps the same in the history of man and of humanity. Schiller's dream, that the highest form of poetry would be the peaceful idyl of an equilibrium of opposite forces without any great sacrifice, is but a dream. It is not found in the sphere of pure thought or poesy, because it is nowhere found in actual life.

As Goethe said, this America has no middle ages to conquer, but he was mistaken in saying that it had no basaltic strata, for it is now just coming out of its own peculiar condition of feudalism. Its history, like that of a dramatic poem, is condensed into a briefer period of time, and brought more directly under our view.

This America has been engaged in no war for dynasty or religion, and it must now fight for an idea. Independence was the first great question, and that may be also an egoistic question. The emancipation of others is the second and purely ideal one; and to be taken entirely out of the strife for wealth and material goods where external well-being is the sole interest, the final and supreme concern, and to be placed in a period of history where life must be imperilled for an idea, this gives ideal power. America now for the first time brings her new element, her sacrificial gift, into the Pantheon of humanity. Until now, it might be said that the historical greatness of America bore no comparison with its natural greatness.

America has had, compressed into a single epoch of existence, its migration of the nations, its crusades, and its thirty years' war; and there is something of the rapidity and the instantaneousness of the electric telegraph in its history.

Here I am, sitting in camp, and writing like a schoolmaster. But it has done me good. I feel collected, refreshed, and strengthened while turning my thoughts to you.

[Roland to the Professorin.]

We have been beaten! Mother, we have been beaten! Eric consoles me and consoles us all; he says that it is good for us, we must learn to stand the brunt. Well, I will learn.

(Eric's Postscript.) Mother! I found these lines which Roland left behind, and I send them to you. Roland is missing, and has either fallen or been taken prisoner; he has borne himself bravely, and had been promoted to be an officer. O my Roland!

[Eric to Weidmann.]

In Camp.

The great, the necessary step has been taken; the negroes have been called to serve in the army, and we have enlisted in a negro regiment,—Roland, Hermann, and I. Now the contest is for the first time complete. The negroes show themselves willing and docile, and are always merry. This discipline of the army is an excellent preparatory school for life.

We have learned from one of our spies that a man who calls himself Banfield, but who from the description I think is Sonnenkamp, is in the army in front of us, and with him there is a woman in man's dress, a great beauty, who receives the homage of all. I had hoped that he would enter the Navy; it is horrible to me that he and his son are now fighting in hostile ranks, so directly face to face with each other. I trust that Roland will hear nothing of it.

But it is very pleasant to see the beautiful comradeship of Roland and your grand-nephew, Hermann; they are inseparable.

[Roland to the Professorin.]

The final step has been taken. Eric, Hermann, and I have enlisted in a black regiment. This, is just what I wanted. I may be allowed to say it to you, these bondmen now struggling for a manhood which would not have been accorded to them in peace, they love me. I think of Parker's word. Oh, what a day that was when I heard his name from you for the first time, there going out of church, and then-—-

Forward! this is now our watchword; there must be no looking back now. One thing more. I have found a friend, and a better one you could not have wished for me out of your own full loving heart; and my Hermann is Lilian's brother. I dare not dwell upon the thought that he is fighting from his own voluntary choice, and I—No, I, too, stake all freely.

[Eric to Weidmann.]

In Camp.

O my friend! Roland is missing. We have gained a victory. I have searched the battle-field with our surgeon, Adams, and Hermann. O what a sight! We did not find Roland. Our hope is that he has been taken prisoner.

What a hope!

I am obliged to console myself while consoling Hermann. The youth feels to the very depth of his true soul sorrow for the lost one, but he is far from exhibiting any weakness; the good training of a free Commonwealth, and of the German parental home, has now its effect. Hermann is now my tent companion; he is entirely different from Roland. Here in America every one has room for development, and all the branches live and spread forth on the tree; and besides, Hermann has no sorrowful conflict with fate in his soul, such as my poor Roland had.

I beg you, if any news comes from Sonnenkamp addressed to me, that you would write to him that his son is a prisoner.

I am tired to death. The images of the wounded, the dead, the trampled under foot, will never fade from my memory.

I don't know when I shall write you again, but I entreat you to let Sonnenkamp know about Roland immediately; perhaps you could insert it in some English newspaper which circulates in the Southern States.

Confer with Professor Einsiedel about everything, but I beg you not to say anything about it to my mother.

[Lilian to the Professorin.]

"Write at once to Eric's mother," says Roland to me.

So you see, honored lady, that I have found him.

The terrible tidings reached us that Roland had either been killed or taken prisoner, and I could no longer endure it. I went down into the enemy's country. Oh, how much I have gone through! I have been on the battle-field, and looked into the faces of hundreds of the mangled and the dead. I have been in hospitals, and heard the moans and the groans of the sick and the wounded, but nowhere Roland, nowhere any trace of him.

I still travelled onward, and they had compassion for me, those terrible people; they pitied the lonely maiden who was seeking her beloved.

I found him at last—no, not I. Griffin found him, for the faithful animal was with me. We found him in a barn. He is wounded. Oh, he looked so emaciated, so changed, that I scarcely knew him! But now all is well.

Roland relates that a woman in man's clothing had him taken into the barn, and he asserts that it was the Countess Bella. I saw her once when I was at Mattenheim, I have seen her now. I think it was she—rushing past on horseback, and dressed like a man. She looked at me, and must have recognized me.

On, mother! it is very wonderful. Perhaps Roland has told you that he gave me a pebble, and I gave one to him, when we saw each other at Mattenheim. This pebble he kept and wore over his heart, and the pebble saved his life.

I have sent an account of everything to New York, but I do not know whether the letter will get there. Letters will reach Europe, and I beg you to forward the tidings to my father and to Eric. Say, besides, that Roland is wholly out of danger; a German physician in the army here gives me this assurance.

Send the news also to Mattenheim, to uncle and aunt and all the relatives.

Roland has just waked, having had a good sleep.

He wants me to request you to take the deaf mute to the Villa, and give him something to do in the garden; he talks a great deal about him.

[Eric to Weidmann.]

Now the worst is over! I don't know how to put it into words.

It was a hot day, and the battle was a severely contested one on both sides. We have gained the victory, and our loss is great. Adams came to me; he was bleeding, and foaming at the mouth. I wanted to bind up his wounds, but he pushed me away, crying,—

"Come! come! I did not kill him, he gave the masonic sign—I dared not kill him—he's lying outside there."

"Who?"

"The man—the man."

I had great difficulty in getting him to speak the name. It was Sonnenkamp.

I took a physician with me, and we hurried past the wounded calling for help.

We came to a hill; there he lay. I could hardly get my breath as I stood there before him, but at last I cried,—

"Father!"

"Father!" screamed he. "Away! leave me!"

He stared at me with glassy eyes. He tore up the grass, and digging out the earth, he buried his face in the fresh mould, trying to inhale that peculiar odor which had always refreshed him; but he shook his head, appearing unable to perceive the earthy smell.

He now turned round and stared at me.

The physician made preparations to dress his wounds, from several of which the blood was flowing. He thrust the physician away with violence.

"I will not be bound! Off with the whole of you!"

I kneeled down, and said that he had not been fighting against his son; that Roland had, been missing for three months, and had evidently been taken prisoner.

"A prisoner! woe! woe! woe!" he shrieked. "A prisoner! Oh, she is to blame—she! she! I did not want to! I had to—she wanted to ride on horseback—she sits splendidly—to play the amazon."

He burst into a scornful laugh. "On the sea—on the ocean—" continued he, "there I wanted to be—I had to follow—I saw her fall—she was beautiful even in death—an enchantress—an enchantress!"

The physician beckoned to me; I knew what he meant. I asked him if he desired anything.

He stared at me.

"Yonder—give me that—give!"

He pointed to a beautiful heath-plant not far off. Adams had observed our look and the words. He tore up a whole bunch of ericas, and gave them into the hand of the dying man, who gazed at him with eyes almost starting out of his head. Then a smile came over his face; drawing himself up with a mighty energy, he fell back uttering one terrible shriek, and his limbs were straightened in death. He died with the heath-plants in his clenched hand.

Oh, how much I have gone through, how much I have been forced to suffer! Nothing harder can ever befall me.

As we buried him in the earth, and covered him over with heaths, I wept over a man whose vast powers had led him astray. What would have been his fate, if-—-

Here I was interrupted in the midst of my writing. Since those lines were penned, I have buried another corpse.

I was called to Adams, who had neglected having his wounds attended to, and now it was too late. He asked after me. I stood at his bed-side, and with a last exertion of strength, he asked me;—

"Herr Major, can any one steal a thing like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Can a man like that belong to our order, and have the sign?"

"You see that he can."

"What do the brethren have swords for then? Why did I not—" cried he, gnashing his teeth.

He clenched his fists, raised himself up, and then sank back. His savage nature, which had been only repressed and held in constraint, broke out in the last death-struggle.

Oh, I can write nothing more. I have been deceived in myself. I believed myself fortified against everything, but I am not. I beg you, dear Herr Weidmann, to inform my mother of the death of Manna's and Roland's father.

If I could only go to sleep, if I could only rest!

[Postscript in Manna's hand-writing.]

This letter, written thus far, was found in my Eric's pocket when he was drawn from under his horse's hoofs. In his excited, and, in fact, delirious state, he had mounted his horse, thinking he was going into battle. He was thrown. I send the letter. He does not yet recognize any one, and is still delirious, but the physician gives me some hope.

I shall keep the letter until I can give some more favorable tidings.

Three days later.

My husband says that he finds invigoration in thinking of you. I have also to-day written to the Mother.

[Manna to the Professorin.]

Mother, he is saved! All anxiety has fled. He is saved! He was down with a fever days and nights, and did not recognize me; he knew my dogs, Rose and Thistle, but not me. But once he exclaimed:—

"Oh, the harp-tones!"

I telegraphed at once to New York for my harp to be sent to me; the telegraphist told me of a woman in the place who had a harp; she lived alone, and her lot had been a hard one, as she had learned after her marriage that her husband had another wife living. I went to see the woman, and this woman is the mother of my Heimchen. The Superior had written to her of the love of her child for me, and I had to relate many things to the mother. And now—yes, we are always living in the midst of wonders! Heimchen gave to me the harp from which the tones are to come that will give my husband rest.

I stationed myself in the next room, and with the physician's consent, I played upon the harp. Eric went to sleep, and when he waked, said:—

"Why does not Manna come?"

The physician forbade my entering the room, as it was important he should receive no violent shock. And so I could see him only when his eyes were closed, until at last the surgeon gave his permission.

In the wanderings of fever he always saw me as I was in the convent when I had on the wings, and he spoke French and laughed at sister Seraphine. The shock of my father's death had affected Eric so deeply, that, as the physician told me, he had been for a long time without an hour's sleep.

Sedatives were given to Eric, but they seemed to be attended with some risk, and had to be discontinued. Then there was another battle. All besought him to keep quiet, as he had already distinguished himself so highly; but he mounted his horse and rode off. The horse stumbled and threw him headlong, and he was taken up for dead and carried into the hospital. I received the news and hastened hither. Everything is going on well now, but he is still very weak.

But he begged me, and it is just like him, to confer the pleasure upon the rest of the wounded, so I have to play the harp for hours together. It is an unspeakable refreshment to the patients, and the surgeons assert that the wounds heal more rapidly, on account of the cheerful state of mind thereby induced. And when I come back to Eric, and the surgeon tells him how beneficial the music is to the sick, his countenance lights up. He speaks but little; he holds my hand silently, and only says that he has, during his life, talked too much. But, mother, you may feel easy.

Eric wants to be allowed to write a word to you.

(In a trembling hand was written as follows:)

Thy living, loving, beloved son Eric.

(Then in Manna's hand-writing:)

Don't be alarmed at these unsteady strokes. The physician says that all danger is over, and nothing is needed but absolute rest.

Oh, mother! How can I adequately thank the Eternal Spirit that my Eric lives; that I am not a widow, and that a life is not made fatherless from its very birth? Be easy; I remain strong, and I have a threefold duty in living.

[Manna to Professor Einsiedel.]

I was called in the hospital to a prisoner from the Southern army, severely wounded, who had heard my harp-playing. He asked about me, and was told that I was a German. The man related to me that he had an uncle in Germany, who had been a book-keeper in a large banking establishment. One evening when his uncle was at the theatre, he robbed him and fled. I told him that I had become acquainted with such a man through you at Carlsbad, that is to say, I had seen him; I gave as good a description of him as I could. The wounded man asserted that it was his uncle, and begged me to write to him that he repented of what he had done. He had always hoped that he should become wealthy some day, so as to return and make full restitution; this could not be realized now, as he must die poor; but he desired that his uncle should know of his repentance.

You will impart all this to the man.

[Eric to his mother.]

In the midst of the wanderings of my fever, I kept saying to myself: Thou hast promised thy mother to return home safe and sound. Thou must not be ill, must not die. Thou must keep thy word. And this thought was ever by me, sometimes making me quiet, sometimes restless. I was forever thinking that I could certainly do something to force nature to remove the shadows, the heaviness, the dullness which weighed me down. There were two souls in me. And once I very plainly heard you saying to me: Keep perfectly quiet; you are undermining your life with your perpetual thinking; for once let thinking alone. And then I was standing on the stage at the music festival to sing, but I could not bring out a solitary note. I have gone through a great deal of suffering, but I am now in perfectly good spirits.

[Doctor Fritz to Weidmann.]

A strange riddle has been solved by means of Eric's being wounded, an account of which was given in the newspapers in connection with the victory. A small, delicate-looking old man came to me, who addressed me in German, but with difficulty, showing that he had probably not made use of the language for many years. He asked me if I was acquainted with a Major Dournay. I said yes, and after a great deal of trouble, I succeeded in finding out that this was Eric's uncle, a man of very great wealth. He wanted to know all about the family, and especially whether, his sister Claudine was yet living. Luckily, Knopf could tell him all the particulars.

[Eric to his mother.]

Mother! My uncle has been found! Through my fall from the horse, but yet more through Manna's playing on the harp, that was spoken of in the newspapers as some marvellous tale, my uncle came to see Dr. Fritz. My uncle visited me while I was very ill, and I thought that I had seen my father. They tell me that I became so excited that my life was again endangered, and they had to withhold the news until I had wholly recovered. I showed your letter to my uncle, and the old man, who has heard nothing from Europe for ten years, wept bitterly. He will go back to Europe with us.

[Knopf to Fassbender.]

The classic age had great, noble, heroic forms, but it had no uncle in America. And how did the world before Columbus' day get on without any uncles in America? I think that our good Lord, as he rested on the seventh day, dreamed, in his mid-day sleep, of the uncle in America, meditated, and created him.

My friend, Major Dournay, has now found his uncle with a fortune; I don't know how much it is, but a large one, and all honorably earned. Now he is himself put in a position to solve the riddle of what should be done with so much money. He will not build my music hall, but he will do something else that's great.

[Doctor Fritz to Weidmann.]

Two children are born to us. Manna has a son, and Frau Knopf a daughter. I was with Knopf when his daughter was born, and when he saw her face the first time, he exclaimed aloud:—

"Pure Caucasian race!"

Then he acknowledged to me, that in spite of his liking for the negroes, he had always feared that his Rosalie's child would be black, because she had black children so constantly around her, since she had been their teacher with him. And now he is delighted that his daughter, who is to be named Manna Erica, is a pure Caucasian, and he merrily extols the late which has decreed that the first-born of the girls' teacher shall be a girl.

Manna's child has received the name of Benjamin Alphonso. Uncle Alphonso is god-father; he has, in his will, divided his property equally between his sister Claudine and his brother's son, and already transferred one-half of it. He means to go to Europe with his nephew, but I do not think the good little man will live long. I have already told you that my daughter Lilian sought out our young Roland in the enemy's country, and rescued him. Roland is still very weak, but his youthful vigor will restore him.

The great war is drawing to a close, and with the rejoicings over victory we shall celebrate Roland's and Lilian's wedding. They are to remain here with us.

Roland has borne himself bravely. We are to use the greater part of his property to buy land for the negroes, furnish them with all necessary supplies, and establish schools for them.

[Eric to his mother.]

Mother! Grandmother! all is well. Ah, what more is there to say? After all our suffering we are happy. And, mother, I am coming, coming home with my wife and child, and Uncle Alphonso. The waves will bear us up, the ship will carry us, the land will stand firm, and, mother, I shall hold you in my arms again, and lay my child in your arms; we shall live and work.

[Eric to Weidmann.]

We have entered Richmond with our black regiment.

The noblest experience has been mine: I have been allowed to take part in the greatest struggle of our country.

Slavery is no more.

Now let the gentlemen in gowns and bands come, and show us heretics a deed which shall bear such mighty consequences as this.

Later.

Read this! A murder, an assassination! Why was it not to be? Why can nothing be carried out purely to perfection? Lincoln assassinated!

Does it not often seem as if a malicious demon ruled the world?

This deed is a standing proof of how far the supporters of an aristocracy, the defenders of a privileged class, the deniers of human rights, have sunk into barbarism. In future days such wickedness will not be believed; but now it stands plainly before us as assassination, and not the deed of a single individual; it is the work of a sworn band of conspirators.

The fanaticism of the Southern States had burst forth in war, now it has its seal of blood.

[Knopf to Weidmann.]

Our friend Dournay's uncle is dead; he was ill, and the news of the assassination of President Lincoln killed him.

Eric, Manna, and their child are going home.

[Eric to Professor Einsiedel.]

What I am now interested in arranging is not the filling out of my own life, the new calling into which I have entered. It is the torment attendant on the self-renovation of the modern mind, that doubts and questions immediately set themselves in opposition to action.

I want to establish a refuge for laborers in the intellectual field, but the question comes up to me:—

Is not this a direct contradiction to the spirit of this modern age?

Is not the desire for solitude a necessary part of that free individual life which is our noblest characteristic?

Could I imagine a Lessing, in his old age, in this house of refuge which I would found?

Is not the quiet communion with one's self, which is our most precious treasure, destroyed or banished by living in such close relations with others?

I think that it is not, and only those who pine for rest shall enter the home.

I beg you not to consider this as the roof of my life-building; it is to be only a merry green bough which I would set up.

[Eric to Weidmann.]

This letter goes only three days before us to Europe, to the Rhine.

I am coming home.

Deliver the enclosed legal document to the proper authorities.

I herein declare that only a life interest is retained in Villa Eden for myself and Manna, my wife. I herein declare the house, the garden, the park, as described in the Registry office, and a sufficient sum, hereafter to be determined, irrevocably assigned for the maintenance of deserving scientific men and artists.

My friend and teacher, Professor Einsiedel, is commissioned to draw up the rules regulating the admission and the mode of life of those who are to be inmates of Villa Eden.

My wish is, that there should be a peaceful refuge for deserving intellectual labor, a home for voluntary work, in VILLA EDEN, THE COUNTRY HOUSE ON THE RHINE.

(P.S.) I have promised Roland, if I live until the year 1887, to come back here to celebrate the hundredth birthday of the American Republic. Then will we see and compare what each of us has accomplished in his father-land and for his fellow-men.