Do you think so?  Yes, we old people owe hearty thanks to death for allowing us to run around so long among you young folks, thereby giving us an opportunity to educate ourselves.  Formerly the stupid world used to think that the father was there to educate his son.  But now the son is supposed to give his father the final touch of perfection, so that the poor, simple man will not need to feel ashamed of himself before the worms in his grave.  God be praised!  I have a fine teacher in my son Carl who, without sparing his old child by indulgence, takes the field against my prejudices.  He taught me two new lessons this very morning, and in the most clever way, without opening his mouth and without even letting me see him—­yes, by that very means.  In the first place, he showed me that it is not necessary for a man to keep his word; in the second, that it is superfluous to go to church and freshen up one’s memory of God’s laws.  Yesterday evening he promised me that he would go, and I counted on his doing it, for I thought to myself:  He will want to thank the gracious Creator for the recovery of his mother.  But he wasn’t there, and I was very comfortable all alone in my pew, which, to be sure, is a little too short for two persons anyway.  I wonder if he would like it if I myself were to act in accordance with the new doctrine, by not keeping my word with him?  I have promised him a new suit for his birthday, and I might take the opportunity to test his joy over my docility.  But prejudice!  Prejudice!  I shall not do it!

LEONARD.

Perhaps he was not well—­

ANTONY.

Possibly!  I need only to ask my wife, then I am sure to hear that he is sick.  For she tells me the truth about everything else in the world, but never about the boy.  And even if he was not sick!—­There too the younger generation has the advantage over us old folks, in that they can find their spiritual edification anywhere, and can do their worshipping when they are out trapping birds, or taking a walk, or sitting in the ale-house.  “Our Father who art in Heaven”—­“Good day, Peter, shall I see you at the dance this evening?”—­“Hallowed be Thy name”—­“Yes, laugh if you will, Catherine, but it is true”—­“Thy will be done”—­“The devil take me, I am not shaved yet!”—­and so forth.  And each one pronounces the blessing on himself, for he is a man just as much as the preacher, and the power that emanates from a black garb certainly exists in a blue one as well.  Nor have I anything to say against it; even if you want to intersperse the seven petitions with seven glasses, what of it?  I can’t prove to anybody that beer and religion don’t mix well, and perhaps it will some day get into the liturgy as a new way of taking the Eucharist.  Frankly, I myself, old sinner that I am, am not strong enough to keep pace with fashion; I cannot catch up worship in the street, as if it were a cockchafer; for me the chirping of swallows and sparrows cannot