the Black Lady; and as far as I could observe or ascertain of the
sacerdotal hangman of the consecrated gallery, the oldest and most
weather-stained of the pictures was made to yield precedence to the new
comer. Having profited by a stranger's privilege, and the English garb,
which is held as sacred as a herald's tabard in many a foreign land, to
unite myself to the little group, and address some casual inquiries to
its frank and overjoyous members--old Philipp Stroer himself, the hero
of the day, deigned to take the picture from the hands of the sacristan,
and to ciceronize for my especial edification. I trust his restored
vision was not yet sufficiently acute to admit of his noting the smile
which, in spite of my better will, stole over my face, as I contemplated
the phenomenon of bad taste, and worse execution, which he thrust upon
my observation. It represented his worthy but very unpicturesque self in
the hands of an oculist, and the endurance of a cataract. The eyes of
his surrounding family were fixed with eager interest upon the event of
the operation. "And what," said I, anxious to make some sympathy in this
domestic crisis--"and what is the name of the surgeon whose efforts have
been blessed by the protection of the Black Lady?"

"The surgeon!"

"Yes; the oculist who is represented in the picture."

"That, sir, is no oculist, no surgeon; it is my Karl, sir, my beloved
son!" I shall never forget the voice, struggling with emotion, in which
the old man pronounced the words "_mein sohn_!"

The story of that son was one of deep, though humble interest. Trained
in the agricultural habits of his forefathers, and destined to succeed
to the laborious honours of the Stroerische farm, young Karl, to whom