[582] Udo Brachvogel's Narciss; E. A. Zundt's Jugurtha; Mathilde Giesler-Anneke's Oithono; P. J. Reusz's Tippo Saib, and others; K. Lorenz's Das Schandmal (a tragedy based on Hawthorne's Scarlet letter); V. Precht's Jakob Leisler; A. Schafmeyer's Ehrliche Menschen; Wilhelm Muller's Festspiel, Im gelobten Lande Amerika, and Ein lateinischer Bauer. Among writers of novels Reinhold Solger gave great promise in his Anton in Amerika, but an early death ended his career. L. A. Wollenweber, for a long time editor of the Philadelphia Demokrat, wrote sketches of Pennsylvania German life. Udo Brachvogel's Konig Korn is a picture of Western farm life. Mediocre sketches such as those of Sturenburg (Klein Deutschland) or J. Rittig (Federzeichnungen aus dem amerikanischen Stadtleben) appeared in great numbers. Max Arlberg wrote a socialistic novel called Joseph Freifeld. R. Puchner's Anna Ruland and H. Bertsch's Die Geschwister, or Bob der Sonderling, are worthy of mention in a list that might be prolonged. Among very recent works Bernhard Kellermann's Der Tunnel (1913), a fantastic dream of tunnelling the Atlantic, seems to indicate some experience or residence in the United States. The distinction of having been the master of German prose in America belongs to the brilliant Robert Reitzel (1849-1898). He is of the type of the lyrical poets and essayists who arose in Germany during the eighties, like the brothers Hart, Arno Holz, and Karl Henckell, the last of whom Reitzel often mentions as his personal friend. Like these modern ‘Stu mer und Dranger,’ Reitzel defies arbitrary power, loves truth even to a pose; he is the herald of a new socialistic age, a spokesman for the submerged class, the proletariat. Yet the most fascinating subject of his clear and sparkling prose is his own egocentric personality, a characteristic of the poet Heine, whose influence upon Reitzel is obvious. Reitzel's self-portraiture is seen to best advantage in his Abenteuer eines Grunen, the story of his life, including his initial hardships in America, when the grinding wheel of fortune made a tramp of him. But even as an outcast he keenly felt the poetry of existence:
Ich lobe mir das Leben,
Juhei! als Vagabund,
Mich drucken keine Sorgen;
Frei bin ich alle Stund:
