nights in order to create such monstrosities." The
young man was even forbidden to return home for the Easter holidays.
This meant giving up the sight of Jenny, whom he had not seen for a
whole year. But fortune arranged it otherwise; for not many weeks later
death removed the parent who had loved him and whom he had loved,
though neither of them could understand the other. The father
represented the old order of things; the son was born to discontent and
to look forward to a new heaven and a new earth.

Returning to Berlin, Karl resumed his studies; but as before, they were
very desultory in their character, and began to run upon social
questions, which were indeed setting Germany into a ferment. He took
his degree, and thought of becoming an instructor at the university of
Jena; but his radicalism prevented this, and he became the editor of a
liberal newspaper, which soon, however, became so very radical as to
lead to his withdrawal.

It now seemed best that Marx should seek other fields of activity. To
remain in Germany was dangerous to himself and discreditable to Jenny's
relatives, with their status as Prussian officials. In the summer of
1843, he went forth into the world--at last an "international." Jenny,
who had grown to believe in him as against her own family, asked for
nothing better than to wander with him, if only they might be married.
And they were married in this same summer, and spent a short honeymoon
at Bingen on the Rhine--made famous by Mrs. Norton's poem. It was the
brief glimpse of sunshine that was to precede year after year of
anxiety and want.

Leaving Germany, Marx and Jenny went to Paris, where he became known to
some of the intellectual lights of the French capital, such as Bakunin,
the great Russian anarchist, Proudhon, Cabet, and Saint-Simon. Most
important of all was his intimacy with the poet Heine, that marvelous
creature whose fascination took on a thousand forms, and whom no one
could approach without feeling his strange allurement.

Since Goethe's death, down to the present time, there has been no
figure in German literature comparable to Heine. His prose was
exquisite. His poetry ran through the whole gamut of humanity and of
the sensations that come to us from the outer world. In his poems are
sweet melodies and passionate cries of revolt, stirring ballads of the
sea and tender love-songs--strange as these last seem when coming from
this cynic.

For cynic he was, deep down