"I am still a shoemaker--a workman at the bench--because I cannot, in _conscience_, enter one of the professions called learned.--I cannot separate myself from that nine-tenths of the human family, who seem to have been only born to work and die--die in mind, as well as body--in order to supply the _idle_ tenth with superfluities. Oh! sir, you, who are so learned and eloquent, could you but read the thoughts which enter the heart of the poor shoemaker, who, sitting at his work-bench, in a cramped position, is forced sometimes to reflect upon his fate!--He beholds the lawyer, with a conscience distinct from that given to him by God; a conscience that makes him believe that it is right to grow rich by the tricks and frauds of law. He beholds the doctor, also with the conscience of his class, sending human beings to death by system, and filling graveyards by the exact rule of the schools. He beholds the minister, too often also with but the _conscience_ of a class, preaching the thoughts of those who do not work, and failing to give utterance to the agonies of those who do work--who do all the labor, and suffer all the misery in the world. And these classes are respected; honored. They are the true noblemen! Their respectability is shared by the merchant, who grows rich by distributing the products of labor. But as for the shoemaker--nay, the workman, of whatever trade--whose labor produces all the physical _wealth of the world_--who works all life long, and only rests when his head is in the cold grave,--what of him? He is a serf, a slave, a Pariah. On the stage no joke is so piquant as the one which is leveled at the 'tailor,' or the 'cobbler;' in literature, the attempt of an unknown to elevate himself, is matter for a brutal laugh; and even grave men like you, when addressed by a man who, like myself, confesses that he is a--shoemaker! you burst into laughter, as though the master you profess to serve, was not himself, one day, a workman at the carpenter's bench." "These words are of the French school." Herman gave the word "French" a withering accent. "Did the French school produce the New Testament?" Herman did not answer, but fixed his glance upon cupid in the ceiling. "But you are educated--why not devote yourself to one of the professions?" and Herman turned his eyes from cupid in the ceiling, to Venus in the Shell. Dermoyne's face gleamed with a calm seriousness, a deep enthusiasm, which imparted a new life to every lineament. "Because I do not wish to separate myself from the largest portion of humanity. No, no,--had I the intellect of a Shakspeare, or the religion of a St. Paul, I would not wish to separate myself from the greater portion of God's family--those who are born, who work, who die. No, no! I am waiting--I am waiting!" "Waiting?" echoed Herman.