mapped out a tour through the home-weaving settlements. At
Langenbielau, the textile industry had to a large extent been carried on
in mills and factories and at a higher wage. Misery was not so appalling
and hopeless there, as in the huts of the home weavers.

The following days unrolled a horrible picture before the eyes of the
poet. The figures of Baumann and Ansorge from his play "The Weavers"
became real.

With mute accusation on their lips, they moved before the human eye in
tangible shape; yet one longed to believe they were only phantoms. They
lived, but how they lived was a burning shame to civilization. Huts,
standing deep in the snow, like whitened sepulchres, and despair staring
from every nook, in these days of paternal care, just as at the time of
the famine that swept across the district in 1844.

Strewn among the hills and valleys lay bits of industry that had been
passed by technical progress, as so many damned, spooklike spots; and
yet those, who vegetated, worked and gradually perished here, were
compelled to compete with the great productive giants of steel and iron
machinery.

The poet entered these homes not with the spirit of a cool observer, nor
as a samaritan,--he came as man to man, with no appearance of one
stooping to poor Lazarus. Indeed, it seemed as though Hauptmann walked
with a much steadier gait in the path of human misery, than on the road
of conventionality.

Steinseifersdorf, situated beyond Peterswaldau. A bare snow field,
spread about huts of clay, shingles and branches, without a sign of
life. Neither a cat, dog nor sparrow, not even chimney smoke, to
indicate the activity of the inhabitants. Heated dwellings in this
stretch of land are luxuries, difficult of achievement; and how is one
to prepare a warm meal out of nothing?

We attempted to enter one of the huts to the right; there was no path
leading to it, so that we were compelled to work our way through the
deep snow. Was it possible that human beings breathed within? The old
weather-worn shanty looked as if the slightest breeze would tumble it
over. The few wooden steps, leading to the entrance, creaked underneath
our steps, and our knock was met with dead silence. We knocked again,
and this time heard a faint step slowly moving toward the door; a heavy
wooden bolt was moved aside, and we perceived a human face, with the
expression of a wounded, frightened animal. Like a delinquent, caught at
the offense, the human b