"Or 'cannot'!" exclaimed Uncle Ernst; "quite right! Did I not take part in counsel and action as long as I could--on the barricades, in those March days, in the national convention, and everywhere and at all times when it was within human possibility--I mean when it was possible for an honorable man to put his shoulder to the wheel, as you said? I will not mention the fact that I pushed my shoulders sore in so doing--more than once; that they tricked me and molested me, dragged me from one penitential stool to another, and occasionally, too, clapped me into prison--that belonged to the game, and better people than I fared no better, but even worse, much worse. In a word, it was a struggle--a hopeless struggle, with very unequal weapons, if you will, but still a struggle! But how is it now? It is a fair, an old-clothes shop, where they dicker to and fro over the counter, and auction off one tatter after another of our proud old banner of freedom to the man who carries them all in his pocket, and who, they know, carries them all in his pocket." The cloud on his brow grew more lowering, his dark brown eyes flashed, his deep voice grew sullen--a storm was coming; Reinhold thought it advisable to reef a few sails. "I am not a politician, Uncle," he said. "I believe I have precious little talent for politics, and have at least had no time to cultivate such talent as I may possess. So I cannot contradict you when you say it is not altogether as it should be in this country. But then, too, you will grant me, as the aristocrats had to grant, that the question, viewed from the other side--I mean from abroad, from aboard ship, from a foreign harbor beyond the sea--makes a very different and much better impression; and I think you cannot blame me for thinking more favorably of the man--to put it flatly, for having a respect for him to whom we owe respect in the last analysis, a respect which the German name now enjoys throughout the world." "I know the song!" said Uncle Ernst. "He sang it often enough, the sly old fowler, and still sings it every time when the bullfinches won't go into his net: 'Who is responsible for 1864, for 1866, for 1870? I! I!! I!!!'" "And isn't he right, Uncle?" "No, and a thousand times no!" exclaimed Uncle Ernst. "Has one man sole claim to the treasure which others have dug up and unearthed from the depths of the earth with unspeakable toil and labor, simply because he removed the last shovelful of earth? Schleswig-Holstein would still be Danish today if the noblemen had conquered it; Germany would still be torn into a thousand shreds if the noblemen had had to patch it together; the ravens would still flutter about the Kyffhäuser, if thousands and thousands of patriotic hearts had not dreamed of German unity, had not thought of Germany's greatness day and night--the hearts and heads of men who were not rewarded for their services with lands and the title of Count and Prince, and were not pardoned."