The Crisis, Volume 3

ese were our friends the Cluymes, who come not strongly into this history. Some went to the Virginia Springs. But many, like the Brinsmades and the Russells, the Tiptons and the Hollingsworths, re

he had danced with her. This was because, after her return from the young ladies' school at Monticello, she had gone to Glencoe, Glencoe, magic spot, perched h

the big Catherwood boys in the train, or their tall sister Maude. The Catherwoods likewise lived at Glencoe in the summer. And on some Saturday afternoons a gr

insmade's big one, which was shut up, and take tea with Mrs. Brice. Afterward he would sit on the little porch over the garden in the rear, or on the front steps, and wat

e went to his mother's house, despair would have seized him long since. Apparently his goings-out and his comings-in were noted only by Mr. Richte

n. Then there came a Sunday afternoon (to be marked with a red letter) when Richter transported him into Germany itself. Stephen's eyes were opened. Ri

ager beer took the place of Bourbon, and black bread and sausages of hot rolls and fried chicken. Here were quaint market houses squatting in the middle of wide streets; Lutheran churches, square

e saw them in cathedral forests, with the red hair long upon their bodies. He saw terrifying battles with the Roman Empire surging back and forth through the low countries. He saw a lad of twenty at the head of rugged legions clad in wild skins, sweeping Rome out of Gaul. Back in t

ved in hovels under the castle walls. Others had charged after the Black Prince at Poitiers, and fought as serf or noble. in the war of the Roses; had been hatters or tailors in Cromwell's armies, or else had sacrificed lands and fortunes for Charles Stuart. These English had toiled, slow but resistless

own his pipe

y, "you do not share the p

igorous words that Miss Puss Russell

d he, emp

s a serf. He is compelled to serve the lord of the land every year with so much labor of his hands. The small farmers, the 'Gross' and 'Mittel Bauern', we call them, are also mortg

phen, "why do they

er si

rselves, as are you of the English race, from children. Those who have been for centuries ground under heel do not make practical pa

rd to leave?" aske

at the recollection, nor did

"no, not that. My father was born in 1797. God directed my grandfather to send him to the Kolnisches

all him), it was Father Jahn who founded the 'Turnschulen', that the generations to come might return to simple German ways,-plain fare, high principles, our native tongue; and the development of the body. The downfall of the fiend Napoleon and the Vaterlan

sacred land like a swarm of locusts, devouring as they went. And at their head, with the pomp of Darius, rode that destroyer of nations and homes, Napoleon. What was Germany then? Ashes. But the red embers were beneath, fanned by Father Jahn.

oble Blucher in Silesia, when they drove the French into the Katzbach and the Neisse, swollen by the rains into torrents. It had rained until the forests were marshes. Powder would not burn. But Blucher, ah, there was a man! He whipped his great sabre from un

Talleyrand and Metternich tore our Vaterland into strips, and set brother against brot

sed to ligh

Burschenschaft, or Students' League, of which I will tell you later. It was pledged to the rescue of the Vaterland. He was sent to prison for dipping his handkerchief in the blood of Sand, beheaded for liberty at Mannheim. Afterwards he was liberated, and went to Berlin and married my mother, who died when I was youn

m now, as he would hobble to the door, wearing the red and black and gold of the Burschenschaft. And he would keep me up

s staring at the jagged scar, He had never summo

fights?" h

them, and of the struggle with the troops in the 'Breite Strasse' in March

ee months I was gone, and he was dead, without that for which he had striven so bravely. He never knew what it is to have an abundance of meat. He never knew from one day to the other when he would have to embrace me, all he owned, and march away to prison, because he was a patriot." Richter's voice had fallen low

he strange streets on that summer evening. Here indeed was a