for at least three
quarters of a century, for even the cynical Voltaire said in sincerest
admiration that the compact between William Penn and the Indians was
the only treaty which was never reduced to parchment, nor ratified by
an oath and yet was never broken. When Penn, the great apostle of
peace, died in England, a disappointed, ruined, and heart-broken man,
and the news reached the Indians in their wigwams along the banks of
the Delaware, they had for him, whom they called the "white Truth
Teller" so deep a sense of gratitude that they sent to his widow a
sympathetic gift of valuable skins, in memory of the "man of unbroken
friendship and inviolate treaties."

These reflections in a time of broken friendships and violated
treaties are not calculated to fill the man of the twentieth century
with any justifiable pride.

My mind, however, as I spent the quiet evening in the historic inn
of Thackeray's Pumpernickel, did not revert to these far distant
associations but was full of other thoughts suggested by the most
interesting section of Germany, through which it had been my privilege
to pass.

I had visited Eisenach and reverentially stood within the room where
the great master of music, John Sebastian Bach, had first seen the
light of day, and as I saw the walls that he loved and which are
forever hallowed because they once sheltered this divine genius, the
question occurred to me whether he may not have done more for Germany
with his immortal harmonies, which are the foundation of all modern
music, than all the Treitschkes, and Bernhardis, with their gospel of
racial hatred, pseudo-patriotism, and imperial aggrandizement.

I had climbed the slopes of the Wartburg and from Luther's room had
gazed with delight upon the lovely Thuringian forests. Quite apart
from any ecclesiastical considerations that room seemed to suggest
historic Germany in its best estate. It recalled that scene of undying
interest at the Diet of Worms, when the peaceful adherence to an ideal
was shown to be mightier than the power of the greatest empire
since the fall of Rome. The monk of Wittenburg, standing alone
in the presence of the great Emperor, Charles the Fifth, and the
representatives of the most powerful religious organization that the
world has ever known, with his simple, "_Hier stehe ich; ich kann
nicht anders,_" represented the truest soul and highest ideal of the
nobler Germany.

These and other glorious memories, suggeste