the black art of steam to settle on his land, in order to educe
from it energies which it does not possess! The heaviest curse that
mortal man can know has fallen upon him. He not only becomes weaker
himself, but he deteriorates all those whom he takes into his service.
All that still remains to him is torn to fragments by the rotation of
the wheels he has madly introduced; his oxen and his horses are worn out
by the heavy demands the factory makes upon them; his worthy
farm-servants are transformed into a dirty, hungry proletariat. Where
once the necessary work at least was obediently performed, contention,
cheating, and opposition prevail. He himself is swept away in a vortex
of complicated business, claims surge in upon him wave upon wave, and
he, in his desperate struggle, drowning man that he is, has no choice
but to cling to whatever comes within his grasp, and then, wearied by
his fruitless efforts, to sink into the abyss.

Once the baron's lands had borne better crops than those of his
neighbors, his herds were acknowledged to be thoroughly healthy, bad
years, which crushed others, had passed comparatively lightly over him.
Now, all this was reversed as by some evil spell. A contagious disease
broke out among the cattle; the wheat grew tall indeed, but when it came
to be threshed the grain was light. Every where the outgoings exceeded
the incomings. Once upon a time he could have borne this calmly, now it
made him positively ill. He began to hate the sight of his farm, and
left it entirely to the bailiff. All his hopes centred in the factory,
and if he ever visited his fields, it was only to look after the
beet-root.

The new buildings rose behind the trees of the park. The voices of many
busy laborers sounded shrill around it. The first crop of beet was
brought in and heaped up ready for the mill. On the following day the
regular factory was to begin, and yet the coppersmith was still
hammering there, mechanics were working away at the great engine, and
busy women carrying off chips and fragments of mortar, and scouring the
scenes of their future labor. The baron stood before the building,
listening impatiently to the beating of the hammer which had been so
dilatory in completing its task. The morrow was to be to him the
beginning of a new era. He stood now at the door of his treasure-house.
He might now cast all his old cares away. During the next year he should
be able to pay off what he owed, and then he wo