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_ Summer, intolerable summer, was upon the city at last. The families of
its richest citizens had fled. Even at that early day some braved the
long railroad journey to the Atlantic coast. Amongst these 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, retired to the local paradise of
their country places on the Bellefontaine road, on the cool heights above
the river. Thither, as a respite from the hot office, Stephen was often
invited by kind Mr. Brinsmade, who sometimes drove him out in his own
buggy. Likewise he had visited Miss Puss Russell. But Miss Virginia
Carvel he had never seen since the night 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 high
on wooded highlands. And under these the Meramec, crystal pure, ran
lightly on sand and pebble to her bridal with that turbid tyrant, the
Father of Waters.
To reach Glencoe you spent two dirty hours on that railroad which (it was
fondly hoped) would one day stretch to the Pacific Ocean. You generally
spied one of 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 grim figure in a linen duster and a silk
skull-cap took a seat in the forward car. That was Judge Whipple, on his
way to spend a quiet Sunday with Colonel Carvel.
To the surprise of many good people, the Judge had recently formed
another habit. At least once a week he would drop in at the little house
on Olive Street next to Mr. Brinsmade'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 watch the bob-
tailed horse-cars go by. His conversation was chiefly addressed to the
widow. Rarely to Stephen; whose wholesome respect for his employer had
in no wise abated.
Through the stifling heat of these summer days Stephen sat in the outer
office, straining at the law. Had it not been for the fact that Mr.
Whipple 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. Richter. Truly the Judge's methods were not Harvard methods. And if
there were pride in the young Bostonian, Mr. Whipple thought he knew the
cure for it.
It was to Richter Stephen owed a debt of gratitude in these days. He
would often take his midday meal in the down-town beer garden with the
quiet German. 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. Richter took him across the Rhine. The Rhine was
Market Street, and south of that street was a country of which polite
American society took no cognizance.
Here was an epic movement indeed, for South St. Louis was a great sod
uprooted from the Fatherland and set down in all its vigorous crudity in
the warm black mud of the Mississippi Valley. Here lager 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 and uncompromising, and bulky Turner
Halls, where German children were taught the German tongue. Here, in a
shady grove of mulberry and locust, two hundred families were spread out
at their ease.
For a while Richter sat in silence, puffing at a meerschaum with a huge
brown bowl. A trick of the mind opened for Stephen one of the histories
in his father's library in Beacon Street, across the pages of which had
flitted the ancestors of this blue-eyed and great-chested Saxon. He 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 the dim
ages Richter's fathers must have defended grim Eresburg. And it seemed
to him that in the end the new Republic must profit by this rugged stock,
which had good women for wives and mothers, and for fathers men in whose
blood dwelt a fierce patriotism and contempt for cowardice.
This fancy of ancestry pleased Stephen. He thought of the forefathers of
those whom he knew, who dwelt north of Market Street. Many, though this
generation of the French might know it not, had bled at Calais and at
Agincourt, had followed the court of France in clumsy coaches to Blois
and Amboise, or lived 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, over the misty Blue Ridge
after Boone and Harrod to this old St. Louis of the French, their
enemies, whose fur traders and missionaries had long followed the veins
of the vast western wilderness. And now, on to the structure builded by
these two, comes Germany to be welded, to strengthen or to weaken.
Richter put down his pipe on the table.
"Stephen," he said suddenly, "you do not share the prejudice against us
here?"
Stephen flushed. He thought of some vigorous words that Miss Puss
Russell had used on the subject of the Dutch."
"No," said he, emphatically.
"I am glad," answered Richter, with a note of sadness, in his voice. "Do
not despise us before you know more of us. We are still feudal in
Germany--of the Middle Ages. The peasant is 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 mortgaged to the nobles who tyrannize our Vaterland. Our merchants
are little merchants--shopkeepers, you would say. My poor father, an
educated man, was such. They fought our revolution."
"And now," said Stephen, "why do they not keep their hold?"
Richter sighed.
"We were unused to ruling," he answered. "We knew not how to act--what
to do. You must remember that we were not trained to govern ourselves,
as are you of the English race, from children. Those who have been for
centuries ground under heel do not make practical parliamentarians. No;
your heritage is liberty--you Americans and English; and we Germans must
desert our native land to partake of it."
"And was it not hard to leave?" asked Stephen, gently.
The eyes of the German filled at the recollection, nor did he seem
ashamed of his tears.
"I had a poor old father whose life was broken to save the Vaterland, but
not his spirit," he cried, "no, not that. My father was born in 1797.
God directed my grandfather to send him to the Kolnisches gymnasium,
where the great Jahn taught. Jahn was our Washington, the father of
Germany that is to be.
"Then our Fatherland was French. Our women wore Parisian clothes, and
spoke the language; French immorality and atheism had spread like a
plague among us Napoleon the vile had taken the sword of our Frederick
from Berlin. It was Father Jahn (so we love to call 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 Vaterland united--these two his scholars must have
written in their hearts. All summer long, in their black caps and linen
pantaloons, they would trudge after him, begging a crust here and a
cheese there, to spread his teachings far and wide under the thatched
roofs.
"Then came 1811. I have heard my father tell how in the heat of that year
a great red comet burned in the sky, even as that we now see, my friend.
God forbid that this portends blood. But in the coming spring the French
conscripts filled our 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. Napoleon at
Dresden made our princes weep. Never, even in the days of the Frankish
kings, had we been so humbled. He dragged our young men with him to
Russia, and left them to die moaning on the frozen wastes, while he drove
off in his sledge.
"It was the next year that Germany rose. High and low, rich and poor,
Jaeger and Landwehr, came flocking into the army, and even the old men,
the Landsturm. Russia was an ally, and later, Austria. My father, a
last of sixteen, was in the Landwehr, under the noble 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 under his cloak, crying 'Vorwarts! Vorwarts!' And the
Landwehr with one great shout slew their enemies with the butts of their
muskets until their arms were weary and the bodies were tossed like logs
in the foaming waters. They called Blucher Marachall Vorwarts!
"Then Napoleon was sent to Elba. But the victors quarrelled amongst
themselves, while Talleyrand and Metternich tore our Vaterland into
strips, and set brother against brother. And our blood, and the grief
for the widows and the fatherless, went for nothing."
Richter paused to light his pipe.
"After a while," he continued presently, "came the German Confederation,
with Austria at the head. Rid of Napoleon, we had another despot in
Metternich. But the tree which Jahn had planted grew, and its branches
spread. The great master was surrounded by spies. My father had gone to
Jena University, when he joined the 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
young. Twice again he was in prison because the societies met at his
house. We were very poor, my friend. You in America know not the
meaning of that word. His health broke, and when '48 came, he was an old
man. His hair was white, and he walked the streets with a crutch. But
he had saved a little money to send me to Jena.
"He was proud of me. I was big-boned and fair, like my mother. And when
I came home at the end of a Semester I can see him now, as he would
hobble to the door, wearing the red and black and gold of the
Burschenschaft. And he would keep me up half the night-telling him of
our 'Schlager' fights with the aristocrats. My father had been a noted
swordsman in his day."
He stopped abruptly, and colored. For Stephen was staring at the jagged
scar, He had never summoned the courage to ask Richter how he came by it.
"Schlager fights?" he exclaimed.
"Broadswords," answered the German, hastily. "Some day I will tell you of
them, and of the struggle with the troops in the 'Breite Strasse' in
March. We lost, as I told you because we knew not how to hold what we
had gained.
"I left Germany, hoping to make a home here for my poor father. How sad
his face as he kissed me farewell! And he said to me: 'Carl, if ever
your new Vaterland, the good Republic, be in danger, sacrifice all. I
have spent my years in bondage, and I say to you that life without
liberty is not worth the living.' Three 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,
but now he raised it. "Do you think, my friend," he cried, "do you think
that I would not die willingly for this new country if the time should
come. Yes, and there are a million like me, once German, now American,
who will give their lives to preserve this Union. For without it the
world is not fit to live in."
Stephen had food for thought as be walked northward through the strange
streets on that summer evening. Here indeed was a force not to be
reckoned, and which few had taken into account. _
Read next: BOOK II: Volume 3: Chapter II. Abraham Lincoln
Read previous: BOOK I: Volume 2: Chapter XIII. The Party
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