But then, and only then, the reign of peace and happiness will come for men.
In Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris an edifying and gratuitous spectacle was provided for the people in the Hotel de Ville of Paris in the reign of Louis XI. in honor of the birth of the dauphin.
He is my most dutiful Karl Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moor—they are both out of Schiller’s Robbers, and so I am the reigning Count von Moor!
But yet there was reigning in his soul a sense of the wholeness of things—something steadfast and comforting—and he was aware of it himself.
The world has proclaimed the reign of freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom of theirs?
It was not so much that he failed to grasp certain reforms enacted during the present reign, as that he made conspicuous blunders in his interpretation of them.
A profound silence reigned in the court as soon as the public had taken their seats.
I know, of course, there’s a secret in it, but they won’t tell me the secret for anything, for then perhaps, seeing the meaning of it, I might bawl hosannah, and the indispensable minus would disappear at once, and good sense would reign supreme throughout the whole world.
Our newborn and still timid press has done good service to the public already, for without it we should never have heard of the horrors of unbridled violence and moral degradation which are continually made known by the press, not merely to those who attend the new jury courts established in the present reign, but to every one.