invented, but which I will quote here, in order to show what were the men who, after the revolution of February, tried to seize upon popularity in Germany, and bring over the mass to their infamous doctrines.* Here is the passage: (it is headed Berne.)

"All religion is superstition, and must be eradicated before the freedom of the people can take root." "These are the precepts inculcated by Heinzen and his disciples; alas! not entirely without effect," observes the Deutsche Zeitung, "for the greater number of the German refugees make themselves remarkable for the most disgusting and absolute atheism. As an example of this take the following: at the anniversary of Robert Blum's death, in Zurich, an individual, in the assembly of refugees, who had met together for the occasion, said, 'Of the triumph of liberty in Europe there can be no hope, so long as the belief in God and eternity is forced upon the population by a set of priests. This wild illusion' (namely, religion) must be torn out of the souls of the people before the universal overthrow of thrones and kings can break the chains of slavery. In order to 'come at' the princes we must first get rid of the priests!' Here now, resumes the newspaper, is a

* See what I have said of this party and its leaders, Blum, Vogt, &c., in Chap. 11. Vol. г.

specimen of atheistical poetry, such as it flourishes in the popular reunions and circles of which the operaives are members:

"Cd be that G-, the unseeing, unhearing,

To whom our belief bound us, praying and fearing;
We have waited and hoped in our want and our pain,
He has mocked us, our hopes and our patience are vain!
We weave on! we weave on!

"Cursed be the Fatherland, where our sole dower
Is poverty, shame and despair at each hour!
Germania! we work at thy winding sheet,
And a threefold curse thy decay shall greet.

We weave on! we weave on!'"

I had hardly come to the end of this impious rhapsody, when a strange sort of psalmody issuing from the inner apartment struck my ear. At first, I could not distinguish exactly what it was; but, after a moment's attention, the words, Pray for us, miserable sinners, now and at the hour of our death!" revealed to me the Invocation to the Immaculate the Salutation, at parting-day, to the Virgin -the Mother!

It was the hour for the Angelus, and, in the room set aside for the lower class of visitors, a peasant woman, standing before a copy of the Ave Maria,

which hung framed against the wall, recited the prayer, of which each separate phrase was repeated in chorus by the rest of the assistants.

All the guests, in both rooms, were standing and uncovered, and remained in that attitude till the end of the evening prayer.

And this, I could not help thinking, is the race they are labouring morally to destroy, and here, as my eye fell once more upon the newspaper before me, are the destroyers!

We resumed our route by the same brilliant moon as the night before, but our way lay now through less cultivated scenes: rocks, streams and woodland wilds, all lay swathed in snow; forests, as though carved in stone, rose massive and over-loaded with white wealth; the course of rivers was no longer marked, or was only pointed out by a dark line where the current had been torrent-strong, and had rebelled against the grasp of the mighty frost. As we passed over what we recognized as a very long bridge, our driver knocked at the front glass of the carriage, saying, as he pointed to a black line like what I have mentioned:

"There is the Danube."

From village to village, or, as the peasants there

VOL. II.

C

abouts call it, from "market-place to market-place," we searched that night for a bed wherein to rest, and at last, at one o'clock in the morning, we were obliged to be content with a hovel. We stopped at a picturesque "in-conveniency" called Simbach, and came to a halt in despair.

CHAPTER II.

A FRONTIER TOWN.

THERE are places which not only produce a disagreeable impression of present discomfort upon you, but which leave in your mind a memory of all that is most repugnant; the Germans have a capital word for this feeling, they call it un-heimlichkeit, and use it to express the precise contrary of what is pleasant and homely-as though, in that one word home," were contained all that human wishes could aim at. Un-homeliness, the quality of that which would appear to us most impossible as a home; of that which physically and morally mislikes us whilst we are in contact with it; that it is, and that was the sensation inspired in the highest degree by the road-side inn at Simbach. The country around was lovely, and, on the following morning, the view