were buried in a common ditch,
as dead things, not as men of individual character and bold distinctive
spirit. (_He points to the portraits of his ancestors._) Look upon these
pictures! Love of country, of family, of the home hearth, feelings at
war with all your ideas, are written in every line of their firm
brows--their spirit lives entire in me, their last heir and
representative. Tell me, O man without ancestors, where is your natal
soil? You spread your wandering tent each coming eve Upon the ruins of
another's home, every morning roll it up again that it may be unrolled
anew at night to blight and spoil! Yon have not yet found a _home_, a
_hearth_, and you will never find one as long as a hundred men live to
cry with me: '_Glory to our fathers_!'

PANCRATIUS. Yes, glory to your fathers in heaven and upon earth; but it
will repay us to look at them a little more closely. (_He points to one
of the portraits._) This gentleman was a famous Starost; he shot old
women in the woods, and roasted the Jews alive: this one with the
inscription, 'Chancellor,' and the great seal in his right hand,
falsified and forged acts, burned archives, stabbed knights, and sullied
the inheritance with poison; through him came your villages, your
income, your power. That dark man played at adultery with the wife of
his friend. This one, with the golden fleece on his Spanish cloak,
served in a foreign land, when his own country was in danger.

This pale lady with the raven ringlets carried on an intrigue with a
handsome page. That one with the lustrous braids is reading a letter
from her gallant; she smiles, as well she may, for night approaches, and
love is bold.

This timid beauty with the deep blue eyes and golden curls, clasping a
Roman hound in her braceleted arm, was the mistress of a king, and
soothed his softer hours.

Such is the true history of your unbroken, ancient, and unsullied line!
But I like this jolly fellow in the green riding jacket; he drank and
hunted with the nobles, and employed the peasants to run down the tall
deer with the hounds. Indeed, the ignorance, stupidity, and wretchedness
of the serf were the strength of the noble, and give convincing proof of
his own intellect.

But the Day of Judgment is approaching: I promise you that none of your
vaunted ancestors, that nought of their fame shall be forgotten in the
dark award.

THE MAN. You deceive yourself, son of the people! Neither you nor your
brethren c