the memory of the singer whom the Hohenzollern family
pride forbids honor in his native place, is immortal in its presence.

On the way back to their hotel, March made some reflections upon the
open neglect, throughout Germany, of the greatest German lyrist, by
which the poet might have profited if he had been present. He contended
that it was not altogether an effect of Hohenzollern pride, which could
not suffer a joke or two from the arch-humorist; but that Heine had
said things of Germany herself which Germans might well have found
unpardonable. He concluded that it would not do to be perfectly frank
with one's own country. Though, to be sure, there would always be the
question whether the Jew-born Heine had even a step-fatherland in the
Germany he loved so tenderly and mocked so pitilessly. He had to own
that if he were a negro poet he would not feel bound to measure terms
in speaking of America, and he would not feel that his fame was in her
keeping.

Upon the whole he blamed Heine less than Germany and he accused her of
taking a shabby revenge, in trying to forget him; in the heat of his
resentment that there should be no record of Heine in the city where
he was born, March came near ignoring himself the fact that the poet
Freiligrath was also born there. As for the famous Dusseldorf school of
painting, which once filled the world with the worst art, he rejoiced
that it was now so dead, and he grudged the glance which the beauty of
the new Art Academy extorted from him. It is in the French taste, and
is so far a monument to the continuance in one sort of that French
supremacy, of which in another sort another denkmal celebrates the
overthrow. Dusseldorf is not content with the denkmal of the Kaiser on
horseback, with the two Victories for grooms; there is a second, which
the Marches found when they strolled out again late in the afternoon. It
is in the lovely park which lies in the heart of the city, and they felt
in its presence the only emotion of sympathy which the many patriotic
monuments of Germany awakened in them. It had dignity and repose, which
these never had elsewhere; but it was perhaps not so much for the dying
warrior and the pitying lion of the sculpture that their hearts were
moved as for the gentle and mournful humanity of the inscription, which
dropped into equivalent English verse in March's note-book:

Fame was enough for the Victors, and glory and verdurous laurel;
Tears by their moth