afternoon of the fourteenth of March, 1883. I heard the
news that evening from Engels and went over to the house in
Maitland Park Road, and that night I saw him stretched out upon the
bed, the old familiar smile upon his lips. I couldn't say a word to
Engels or to poor Eleanor Marx--I could only press their hands in
silence and fight to keep back the sobs and tears.

[Illustration: THE MARX FAMILY GRAVE IN HIGHGATE CEMETERY.]

"And then on the Saturday, at noon, he was buried in Highgate
Cemetery, in the same grave with his wife. And while Engels was
speaking over the grave, telling what a wonderful philosopher Karl
was, my mind was wandering back over the years to Treves. Once more we
were boys playing together, or fighting because he would play with
little Jenny von Westphalen; once more I seemed to hear Karl telling
stories in the schoolyard as in the old days. Once again it seemed as
if we were back in the old town, marching through the streets shouting
out the verses Karl wrote about the old teacher, poor old Herr von
Holst.

"And then the scene changed and I was in Bingen with my Barbara,
laughing into the faces of Karl and his Jenny, and Karl was picking
the bits of rice from his pockets and laughing at the joke, while poor
Jenny blushed crimson. What Engels said at the grave I couldn't tell;
I didn't hear it at all, for my mind was far away. I could only think
of the living Karl, not of the corpse they were giving back to Mother
Earth.

"It seemed to me that the scene changed again, and we were back in
Cologne--Karl addressing the judge and jury, defending the working
class, I listening and applauding like mad. And then the good old
Lessner took my arm and led me away.

"Ah, lad, it was terrible, terrible, going home that afternoon and
thinking of Karl lying there in the cold ground. The sun could no
longer shine for me, and even Barbara and the little grandchild, our
Barbara's little Gretchen, couldn't cheer me. Karl was a great
philosopher, as Engels said there at the graveside, but he was a
greater man, a greater comrade and friend. They talk about putting up
a bronze monument somewhere to keep his memory fresh, but that would
be foolish. Little men's memories can be kept alive by bronze
monuments, but such men as Karl need no monuments. So long as the
great struggle for human liberty endures Karl's name will live in the
hearts of men.

"_Aye, and in the distant ages--when the struggle is over--when