nooks of your rocky country shone from the windows of your factories, reflected by quiet mill-ponds and flickering cascades. In the capitals of Europe I had seen the people gathering around those splendid exhibitions of royal pomp and giving vent to official enthusiasm. I had heard them shout “Long live King so-and-so!” and the enthusiasm died away with the fire-works. But here also, on that day and evening, I witnessed a popular demonstration, not of the noisy and official kind, nor passing away like the light of a Roman candle. As we went along from station to station, men and women, young and old, passed out and in; all well-behaved and of pleasant address, the evidence of intelligence and cheerful contentment on every face. I listened to their conversations as the train went on; some engaged in a jovial talk about small home affairs, others absorbed in grave discussion about church and state, and labor and pay, and books and lectures, and all political and social problems imaginable. There I heard thoughts expressed and opinions uttered by men whose hands showed the traces of hard manual labor, thoughts and opinions set forth in logical reasoning, which would have puzzled the philosophers of the old world and made the faces of despots turn pale; and these thoughts and opinions weighed and modified in the current of occasional but earnest discussion, brought forward with a calmness and self-reliance, as though the men who uttered them had been unaware that in almost any other country of the world their utterances would have shaken the political edifice to its very foundation.
But here we went on quietly and undisturbed through the brilliantly lighted valley, and the conviction impressed me profoundly that these calm and earnest conversations were also an homage paid to a sovereign—but to the all-powerful sovereign of this country, the freedom of inquiry. In honor of this sovereign the thousands of windows were
