On such a dreamy night, different emotions are aroused within us. We seem to be able to look into the future, and imagine ourselves able to fathom all mystery and heal all wounds. The common becomes elevated, our wishes become fate; and now we ask ourselves: What is it that causes all this within us--all these desires and wishes? It is _love_, brotherly love, that has been planted in our souls, that fills our lives; and, it is life itself. Am I not right? And now, with one bound, I will come to the point. In the revelation you will find: "God is love." Yes, God is love; and that is the most beautiful trait of our religion--that the best, the most beautiful within us, has been granted us by _Him_ above. Then how could I, this very evening, so overcome with feeling for my fellow-man--how could I pass _Him_ by? Therefore, Mr. Brauer, no matter, whether pastor or layman, I must confess my inability to grant your wish, and decline to give you a genuine pagan toast---- Brauer. [_Grasps his hand_.] That was well spoken, Pastor! Pardon me, I was only jesting! George. No, no, dear uncle, not altogether. There I must defend you against yourself. A devout and pious man like yourself, t'was not entire wantonness, your desire to hear something other than religious, and since the Pastor has so eloquently withdrawn, I will give you a toast. For, you see, my dear Pastor, something of the old pagan, a spark of heathenism, is still glowing somewhere within us all. It has outlived century after century, from the time of the old Teutons. Once every year that spark is fanned into flame--it flames up high, and then it is called "The Fires of St. John." Once every year we have "free night." Then the witches ride upon their brooms--the same brooms with which their witchcraft was once driven out of them--with scornful laughter the wild hordes sweep across the tree-tops, up, up, high upon the Blocksberg! Then it is, when in our hearts awake those wild desires which our fates could not fulfill--and, understand me well, dared not fulfill--then, no matter what may be the name of the law that governs the world on that day, in order that that one single wish may become a reality, by whose grace we prolong our miserable existence, thousand others must miserably perish. Part because they were never attainable; but the others, yes, the others, because we allowed them to escape us like wild birds, which, though already in our hands, but too listless to profit by opportunity, we failed to grasp at the right moment. But no matter. Once every year we have "free night." And yonder tongues of fire shooting up towards the heavens--do you know what they are? They are the spirits of our dead and perished wishes! That is the red plumage of our birds of paradise we might have petted and nursed through our entire lives, but have escaped us! That is the old chaos,