“We are crushed under the world which we maintain, and our groans are drowned in the sounds of music and laughter.” [Great applause.] “We have a hell that is more desperate and devilish than any dreamed of by the parsons—­for we have to suffer to maintain the pleasures of heaven, while we have no share in what we ourselves create.” [Laughter and applause.] “Do you suppose that if heaven were blown to pieces hell would be any worse off?  At least, the work would stop.” [Great applause, long-continued, with cries of “That’s so!”]

Here a great uproar broke out near the end of the hall.  A man had been caught secretly taking notes of the speaker’s remarks.  He was evidently a detective.  On the instant a hundred men sprang upon him, and he was beaten and trampled under foot, until not only life, but all semblance of humanity, had been crushed out of him; and the wretched remains were dragged out and thrown upon the pavement.  It is impossible to describe the uproar and confusion which ensued.  In the midst of it a large platoon of police, several hundred strong, with their belts strung with magazine pistols, and great clubs in their hands, broke into the room, and began to deal blows and make arrests right and left, while the crowd fled through all the doors.  Maximilian seized me and the poor clergyman, who had been sitting in a dazed and distraught state for some time, and dragged us both up a back stairway and through a rear exit into the street.  There we took a carriage, and, after we had left the bewildered clergyman at his residence, Maximilian said to me as we rode home: 

“You see, my dear Gabriel, I was right and you were wrong.  That workman told the truth.  You have arrived on the scene too late.  A hundred years ago you might have formed your Brotherhood of Justice and saved society.  Now there is but one cure—­the Brotherhood of Destruction.”

“Oh, my dear friend,” I replied, “do not say so. Destruction! What is it?  The wiping out of the slow accumulations made by man’s intelligence during thousands of years.  A world cataclysm.  A day of judgment.  A day of fire and ashes.  A world burned and swept bare of life.  All the flowers of art; the beautiful, gossamer-like works of glorious literature; the sweet and lovely creations of the souls of men long since perished, and now the inestimable heritage of humanity; all, all crushed, torn, leveled in the dust.  And all that is savage, brutal, cruel, demoniac in man’s nature let loose to ravage the face of the world.  Oh! horrible—­most horrible!  The mere thought works in me like a convulsion; what must the inexpressible reality be?  To these poor, suffering, hopeless, degraded toilers; these children of oppression and the dust; these chained slaves, anything that would break open the gates of their prison-house would be welcome, even though it were an earthquake that destroyed the planet.  But you and I, my dear friend, are educated to higher thoughts.  We know