"These words are of the French school." Herman gave the word "French" a withering accent.
"Did the French school produce the New Testament?"
Herman did not answer, but fixed his glance upon cupid in the ceiling.
"But you are educated—why not devote yourself to one of the professions?" and Herman turned his eyes from cupid in the ceiling, to Venus in the Shell.
Dermoyne's face gleamed with a calm seriousness, a deep enthusiasm, which imparted a new life to every lineament.
"Because I do not wish to separate myself from the largest portion of humanity. No, no,—had I the intellect of a Shakspeare, or the religion of a St. Paul, I would not wish to separate myself from the greater portion of God's family—those who are born, who work, who die. No, no! I am waiting—I am waiting!"
"Waiting?" echoed Herman.
"Maybe the day will come, when, gifted with wealth, I can enter the workshops of Philadelphia, and say to the workmen, 'Come, brothers. Here is capital. Let us go to the west. Let us find a spot of God's earth unpolluted by white or black slavery. Let us build a community where every man shall work with his hands, and where every man will also have the opportunity to cultivate his mind—to work with his brain.—There every one will have a place to work, and every one will receive the fruits of his work. And there,—oh, my God!—there will we, without priest, or monopolist, or slaveholder, establish in the midst of a band of brothers, the worship of that Christ who was himself a workman, even as he is now, the workman's God.'"
Arthur Dermoyne had started from his chair; his hands were clasped; his gray eyes were filled with tears.
"French ideas—French ideas," cried Herman. "You have been reading French books, young man!"