Hyperion

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

1882

CONTENTS. 

BOOK I. 

Epigraph

CHAPTER I. THE HERO. 

CHAPTER II. THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH. 

CHAPTER III. HOMUNCULUS. 

CHAPTER IV. THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 

CHAPTER V. JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE. 

CHAPTER VI. HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON. 

CHAPTER VII. LIVES OF SCHOLARS. 

CHAPTER VIII. LITERARY FAME. 

BOOK II. 

Epigraph

CHAPTER I. SPRING. 

CHAPTER II. A COLLOQUY. 

CHAPTER III. OWL-TOWERS. 

CHAPTER IV. A BEER-SCANDAL. 

CHAPTER V. THE WHITE LADY'S SLIPPER AND THE PASSION-FLOWER. 

CHAPTER VI. GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND. 

CHAPTER VII. MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS. 

CHAPTER VIII. OLD HUMBUG. 

CHAPTER IX. THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS, AND THE FALLING STAR. 

CHAPTER X. THE PARTING. 

BOOK III. 

Epigraph

CHAPTER I. SUMMER-TIME. 

CHAPTER II. FOOT-TRAVELLING. 

CHAPTER III. INTERLACHEN. 

CHAPTER IV. THE EVENING AND THE MORNING STAR. 

CHAPTER V. A RAINY DAY. 

CHAPTER VI. AFTER DINNER, AND AFTER THE MANNER OF THE BEST CRITICS. 

CHAPTER VII. TAKE CARE!

CHAPTER VIII. THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

CHAPTER IX. A TALK ON THE STAIRS. 

BOOK IV. 

Epigraph

CHAPTER I. A MISERERE. 

CHAPTER II. CURFEW BELLS. 

CHAPTER III. SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 

CHAPTER IV. MUSICAL SUFFERINGS OF JOHN KREISLER. 

CHAPTER V. SAINT GILGEN. 

CHAPTER VI. SAINT WOLFGANG. 

CHAPTER VII. THE STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS. 

CHAPTER VIII. FOOT-PRINTS OF ANGELS. 

CHAPTER IX. THE LAST PANG. 

BOOK I. 

Epigraph

"Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful, midnight hours

Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. "

CHAPTER I. THE HERO. 

In John Lyly's Endymion, Sir Topas is made to say; "Dost thouknow what a Poet is? Why, fool, a Poet is as much as one shouldsay, --a Poet!" And thou, reader, dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say, --a hero! Some romance-writers, however, say much more than this. Nay, the old Lombard, Matteo MariaBojardo, set all the church-bells in Scandiano ringing, merelybecause he had found a name for one of his heroes. Here, also, shallchurch-bells be rung, but more solemnly. 

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. Thebrightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection, --itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming, lonely night. The soul withdrawsinto itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy. 

Paul Flemming had experienced this, though still young. Thefriend of his youth was dead. The bough had broken "under the burdenof the unripe fruit. " And when, after a season, he looked up againfrom the blindness of his sorrow, all things seemed unreal. Like theman, whose sight had been restored by miracle, he beheld men, astrees, walking. His household gods were broken. He had no home. Hissympathies cried aloud from his desolate soul, and there came noanswer from the busy, turbulent world around him. He did notwillingly give way to grief. He struggled to be cheerful, --to bestrong. But he could no longer look into the familiar faces of hisfriends. He could no longer live alone, where he had lived with her. He went abroad, that the sea might be between him and the grave. Alas! betweenhim and his sorrow there could be no sea, but that oftime. 

He had already passed many months in lonely wandering, and wasnow pursuing his way along the Rhine, to the south of Germany. Hehad journeyed the same way before, in brighter days and a brighterseason of the year, in the May of life and in the month of May. Heknew the beauteous river all by heart;--every rock and ruin, everyecho, every legend. The ancient castles, grim and hoar, that hadtaken root as it were on the cliffs, --they were all his; for histhoughts dwelt in them, and the wind told him tales. 

He had passed a sleepless night at Rolandseck, and had risenbefore daybreak. He opened the window of the balcony to hear therushing of the Rhine. It was a damp December morning; and cloudswere passing over the sky, --thin, vapory clouds, whose snow-whiteskirts were "often spotted with golden tears, which men call stars. "The day dawned slowly; and, in the mingling of daylightandstarlight, the island and cloister of Nonnenwerth made together butone broad, dark shadow on the silver breast of the river. Beyond, rose the summits of the Siebengebirg. Solemn and dark, like a monk, stood the Drachenfels, in his hood of mist, and rearward extendedthe Curtain of Mountains, back to the Wolkenburg, --the Castle of theClouds. 

But Flemming thought not of the scene before him. Sorrowunspeakable was upon his spirit in that lonely hour; and, hiding hisface in his hands, he exclaimed aloud;

"Spirit of the past! look not so mournfully at me with thy great, tearful eyes! Touch me not with thy cold hand! Breathe not upon mewith the icy breath of the grave! Chant no more that dirge ofsorrow, through the long and silent watches of the night!"

Mournful voices from afar seemed to answer, "Treuenfels!" and heremembered how others had suffered, and his heart grew still. 

Slowly the landscape brightened. Down therushing stream came aboat, with its white wings spread, and darted like a swallow throughthe narrow pass of God's-Help. The boatmen were singing, but not thesong of Roland the Brave, which was heard of old by the weepingHildegund, as she sat within the walls of that cloister, which nowlooked forth in the pale morning from amid the leafless lindentrees. The dim traditions of those gray old times rose in thetraveller's memory; for the ruined tower of Rolandseck was stilllooking down upon the Kloster Nonnenwerth, as if the sound of thefuneral bell had changed the faithful Paladin to stone, and he werewatching still to see the form of his beloved one come forth, notfrom her cloister, but from her grave. Thus the brazen clasps of thebook of legends were opened, and, on the page illuminated by themisty rays of the rising sun, he read again the tales of Liba, andthe mournful bride of Argenfels, and Siegfried, the mighty slayer ofthe dragon. Meanwhile the mists had risen from the Rhine, and thewhole air was filled with golden vapor, through which hebeheld thesun, hanging in heaven like a drop of blood. Even thus shone the sunwithin him, amid the wintry vapors, uprising from the valley of theshadow of death, through which flowed the stream of hislife, --sighing, sighing!

CHAPTER II. THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH. 

Paul Flemming resumed his solitary journey. The morning was stillmisty, but not cold. Across the Rhine the sun came wading throughthe reddish vapors; and soft and silver-white outspread the broadriver, without a ripple upon its surface, or visible motion of theever-moving current. A little vessel, with one loose sail, wasriding at anchor, keel to keel with another, that lay right underit, its own apparition, --and all was silent, and calm, andbeautiful. 

The road was for the most part solitary; for there are fewtravellers upon the Rhine in winter. Peasant women were at work inthe vineyards; climbing up the slippery hill-sides, like beasts ofburden, with large baskets of manureupon their backs. And onceduring the morning, a band of apprentices, with knapsacks, passedby, singing, "The Rhine! The Rhine! a blessing on the Rhine!"

O, the pride of the German heart in this noble river! And rightit is; for, of all the rivers of this beautiful earth, there is noneso beautiful as this. There is hardly a league of its whole course, from its cradle in the snowy Alps to its grave in the sands ofHolland, which boasts not its peculiar charms. By heavens! If I werea German I would be proud of it too; and of the clustering grapes, that hang about its temples, as it reels onward through vineyards, in a triumphal march, like Bacchus, crowned and drunken. 

But I will not attempt to describe the Rhine; it would make thischapter much too long. And to do it well, one should write like agod; and his style flow onward royally with breaks and dashes, likethe waters of that royal river, and antique, quaint, and Gothictimes, be reflected in it. Alas! this evening my style flows not atall. Flow, then, into this smoke-colored goblet, thou blood of theRhine! out of thy prison-house, --out of thy long-necked, taperingflask, in shape not unlike a church-spire among thy native hills;and, from the crystal belfry, loud ring the merry tinkling bells, while I drink a health to my hero, in whose heart is sadness, and inwhose ears the bells of Andernach are ringing noon. 

He is threading his way alone through a narrow alley, and now upa flight of stone steps, and along the city wall, towards that oldround tower, built by the Archbishop Frederick of Cologne in thetwelfth century. It has a romantic interest in his eyes; for he hasstill in his mind and heart that beautiful sketch of Carové, inwhich is described a day on the tower of Andernach. He finds the oldkeeper and his wife still there; and the old keeper closes the doorbehind him slowly, as of old, lest he should jam too hard the poorsouls in Purgatory, whose fate it is to suffer in the cracks ofdoors and hinges. But alas! alas! the daughter, the maiden withlong, dark eyelashes! she is asleep in her little grave, under thelinden trees of Feldkirche, with rosemary in her folded hands!

Flemming returned to the hotel disappointed. As he passed alongthe narrow streets, he was dreaming of many things; but mostly ofthe keeper's daughter, asleep in the churchyard of Feldkirche. Suddenly, on turning the corner of an ancient, gloomy church, hisattention was arrested by a little chapel in an angle of the wall. It was only a small thatched roof, like a bird's nest; under whichstood a rude wooden image of the Saviour on the Cross. A real crownof thorns was upon his head, which was bowed downward, as if in thedeath agony; and drops of blood were falling down his cheeks, andfrom his hands and feet and side. The face was haggard and ghastlybeyond all expression; and wore a look of unutterable bodilyanguish. The rude sculptor had given it this, but his art could gono farther. The sublimity of death in a dying Saviour, the expiringGod-likeness of Jesus of Nazareth was not there. The artist hadcaught no heavenly inspiration from his theme. All was coarse, harsh, and revolting to a sensitive mind; and Flemming turned awaywith a shudder, as he saw this fearful image gazing at him, with itsfixed and half-shut eyes. 

He soon reached the hotel, but that face of agony still hauntedhim. He could not refrain from speaking of it to a very old woman, who sat knitting by the window of the dining-room, in a high-backed, old-fashioned arm-chair. I believe she was the innkeeper'sgrandmother. At all events she was old enough to be so. She took offher owl-eyed spectacles, and, as she wiped the glasses with herhandkerchief, said;

"Thou dear Heaven! Is it possible! Did you never hear of theChrist of Andernach?"

Flemming answered in the negative. 

"Thou dear Heaven!" continued the old woman. "It is a verywonderful story; and a true one, as every good Christian inAndernach will tell you. And it all happened before the deathof myblessed man, four years ago, let me see, --yes, four years ago, comeChristmas. "

Here the old woman stopped speaking, but went on with herknitting. Other thoughts seemed to occupy her mind. She wasthinking, no doubt, of her blessed man, as German widows call theirdead husbands. But Flemming having expressed an ardent wish to hearthe wonderful story, she told it, in nearly the following words. 

"There was once a poor old woman in Andernach whose name was FrauMartha, and she lived all alone in a house by herself, and loved allthe Saints and the blessed Virgin, and was as good as an angel, andsold pies down by the Rheinkrahn. But her house was very old, andthe roof-tiles were broken, and she was too poor to get new ones, and the rain kept coming in, and no Christian soul in Andernachwould help her. But the Frau Martha was a good woman, and never didanybody any harm, but went to mass every morning, and sold pies bythe Rheinkrahn. Now one dark, windy night, when all the goodChristians in Andernachwere abed and asleep in the feathers, FrauMartha, who slept under the roof, heard a great noise over her head, and in her chamber, drip! drip! drip! as if the rain were droppingdown through the broken tiles. Dear soul! and sure enough it was. And then there was a pounding and hammering overhead, as if somebodywere at work on the roof; and she thought it was Pelz-Nickel tearingthe tiles off, because she had not been to confession often enough. So she began to pray; and the faster she said her Pater-noster andher Ave-Maria, the faster Pelz-Nickel pounded and pulled; and drip!drip! drip! it went all round her in the dark chamber, till the poorwoman was frightened out of her wits, and ran to the window to callfor help. Then in a moment all was still, --death-still. But she sawa light streaming through the mist and rain, and a great shadow onthe house opposite. And then somebody came down from the top of herhouse by a ladder, and had a lantern in his hand; and he took theladder on his shoulder and went down thestreet. But she could notsee clearly, because the window was streaked with rain. And in themorning the old broken tiles were found scattered about the street, and there were new ones on the roof, and the old house has neverleaked to this blessed day. 

"As soon as mass was over Frau Martha told the priest what hadhappened, and he said it was not Pelz-Nickel, but, without doubt, St. Castor or St. Florian. Then she went to the market and told FrauBridget all about it; and Frau Bridget said, that, two nightsbefore, Hans Claus, the cooper, had heard a great pounding in hisshop, and in the morning found new hoops on all his old hogsheads;and that a man with a lantern and a ladder had been seen riding outof town at midnight on a donkey, and that the same night the oldwindmill, at Kloster St. Thomas, had been mended up, and the oldgate of the churchyard at Feldkirche made as good as new, thoughnobody knew how the man got across the river. Then Frau Martha wentdown to the Rheinkrahn and told all thesestories over again; and theold ferryman of Fahr said he could tell something about it; for, thevery night that the churchyard-gate was mended, he was lying awakein his bed, because he could not sleep, and he heard a loud knockingat the door, and somebody calling to him to get up and set him overthe river. And when he got up, he saw a man down by the river with alantern and a ladder; but as he was going down to him, the man blewout the light, and it was so dark he could not see who he was; andhis boat was old and leaky, and he was afraid to set him over in thedark; but the man said he must be in Andernach that night; and so heset him over. And after they had crossed the river, he watched theman, till he came to an image of the Holy Virgin, and saw him putthe ladder against the wall, and go up and light his lamp, and thenwalk along the street. And in the morning he found his old boat allcaulked, and tight, and painted red, and he could not for hisblessed life tell who did it, unless it werethe man with thelantern. Dear soul! how strange it was!

"And so it went on for some time; and, whenever the man with thelantern had been seen walking through the street at night, so sureas the morning came, some work had been done for the sake of somegood soul; and everybody knew he did it; and yet nobody could findout who he was, nor where he lived;--for, whenever they came nearhim, he blew out his light, and turned down another street, and, ifthey followed him, he suddenly disappeared, nobody could tell how. And some said it was Rübezahl; and some, Pelz-Nickel; and some, St. Anthony-on-the-Health. 

"Now one stormy night a poor, sinful creature was wandering aboutthe streets, with her babe in her arms, and she was hungry, andcold, and no soul in Andernach would take her in. And when she cameto the church, where the great crucifix stands, she saw no light inthe little chapel at the corner; but she sat down on a stone at thefoot of the cross and began to pray, and prayed, till she fellasleep, with her poor little babe on her bosom. But she did notsleep long; for a bright light shone full in her face; and, when sheopened her eyes, she saw a pale man, with a lantern, standing rightbefore her. He was almost naked; and there was blood upon his handsand body, and great tears in his beautiful eyes, and his face waslike the face of the Saviour on the cross. Not a single word did hesay to the poor woman; but looked at her compassionately, and gaveher a loaf of bread, and took the little babe in his arms, andkissed it. Then the mother looked up to the great crucifix, butthere was no image there; and she shrieked and fell down as if shewere dead. And there she was found with her child; and a few daysafter they both died, and were buried together in one grave. Andnobody would have believed her story, if a woman, who lived at thecorner, had not gone to the window, when she heard the scream, andseen the figure hang the lantern up in its place, and then set theladder against the wall, and go up and nailitself to the cross. Since that night it has never moved again. Ach! Herr Je!"

Such was the legend of the Christ of Andernach, as the old womanin spectacles told it to Flemming. It made a painful impression onhis sick and morbid soul; and he felt now for the first time in fullforce, how great is the power of popular superstition. 

The post-chaise was now at the door, and Flemming was soon on theroad to Coblentz, a city which stands upon the Rhine, at the mouthof the Mosel, opposite Ehrenbreitstein. It is by no means a longdrive from Andernach to Coblentz; and the only incident whichoccurred to enliven the way was the appearance of a fat, red-facedman on horseback, trotting slowly towards Andernach. As they met, the mad little postilion gave him a friendly cut with his whip, andbroke out into an exclamation, which showed he was from Münster;

"Jesmariosp! my friend! How is the Man in the Custom-House?"

Now to any candid mind this would seem a fair question enough;but not so thought the red-faced man on horseback; for he waxedexceedingly angry, and replied, as the chaise whirled by;

"The devil take you, and your Westphalian ham, andpumpernickel!"

Flemming called to his servant, and the servant to the postilion, for an explanation of this short dialogue; and the explanation was, that on the belfry of the Kaufhaus in Coblentz, is a huge head, witha brazen helmet and a beard; and whenever the clock strikes, at eachstroke of the hammer, this giant's head opens its great jaws andsmites its teeth together, as if, like the brazen head of FriarBacon, it would say; "Time was; Time is; Time is past. " This figureis known through all the country round about, as "The Man in theCustom-House"; and, when a friend in the country meets a friend fromCoblentz, instead of saying, "How are all the good people inCoblentz?"--he says, "How is the Man in the Custom-House?" Thus thegiant has a great partto play in the town; and thus ended the firstday of Flemming's Rhine-journey; and the only good deed he had donewas to give an alms to a poor beggar woman, who lifted up hertrembling hands and exclaimed;

"Thou blessed babe!"

CHAPTER III. HOMUNCULUS. 

After all, a journey up the Rhine, in the mists and solitude ofDecember, is not so unpleasant as the reader may perhaps imagine. You have the whole road and river to yourself. Nobody is on thewing; hardly a single traveller. The ruins are the same; and theriver, and the outlines of the hills; and there are few livingfigures in the landscape to wake you from your musings, distractyour thoughts, and cover you with dust. 

Thus, likewise, thought our traveller, as he continued hisjourney on the morrow. The day is overcast, and the clouds threatenrain or snow. Why does he stop at the little village of Capellen?Because, right above him on the high cliff, the glorious ruin ofStolzenfels is looking at him with itshollow eyes, and beckoning tohim with its gigantic finger, as if to say; "Come up hither, and Iwill tell thee an old tale. " Therefore he alights, and goes up thenarrow village lane, and up the stone steps, and up the steeppathway, and throws himself into the arms of that ancient ruin, andholds his breath, to hear the quick footsteps of the falling snow, like the footsteps of angels descending upon earth. And that ancientruin speaks to him with its hollow voice, and says;

"Beware of dreams! Beware of the illusions of fancy! Beware ofthe solemn deceivings of thy vast desires! Beneath me flows theRhine, and, like the stream of Time, it flows amid the ruins of thePast. I see myself therein, and I know that I am old. Thou, too, shalt be old. Be wise in season. Like the stream of thy life, runsthe stream beneath us. Down from the distant Alps, --out into thewide world, it bursts away, like a youth from the house of hisfathers. Broad-breasted and strong, and with earnest endeavours, like manhood, it makes itself a way through these difficultmountainpasses. And at length, in its old age, its stops, and its steps areweary and slow, and it sinks into the sand, and, through its grave, passes into the great ocean, which is its eternity. Thus shall it bewith thee. 

"In ancient times there dwelt within these halls a follower ofJesus of Jerusalem, --an Archbishop in the church of Christ. He gavehimself up to dreams; to the illusions of fancy; to the vast desiresof the human soul. He sought after the impossible. He sought afterthe Elixir of Life, --the Philosopher's Stone. The wealth, thatshould have fed the poor, was melted in his crucibles. Within thesewalls the Eagle of the clouds sucked the blood of the Red Lion, andreceived the spiritual Love of the Green Dragon, but alas! waschildless. In solitude and utter silence did the disciple of theHermetic Philosophy toil from day to day, from night to night. Fromthe place where thou standest, he gazed at evening upon hills, andvales, and waters spread beneath him; and saw how the setting sunhad changed them allto gold, by an alchymy more cunning than hisown. He saw the world beneath his feet; and said in his heart, thathe alone was wise. Alas! he read more willingly in the book ofParacelsus, than in the book of Nature; and, believing that `wherereason hath experience, faith hath no mind, ' would fain have madeunto himself a child, not as Nature teaches us, but as thePhilosopher taught, --a poor homunculus, in a glass bottle. And hedied poor and childless!"

Whether it were worth while to climb the Stolzenfels to hear sucha homily as this, some persons may perhaps doubt. But Paul Flemmingdoubted not. He laid the lesson to heart; and it would have savedhim many an hour of sorrow, if he had learned that lesson better, and remembered it longer. 

In ancient times, there stood in the citadel of Athens threestatues of Minerva. The first was of olive wood, and, according topopular tradition, had fallen from heaven. The second was of bronze, commemorating the victory of Marathon; and the third of gold andivory, --a great miracle of art, in the age of Pericles. And thus inthe citadel of Time stands Man himself. In childhood, shaped of softand delicate wood, just fallen from heaven; in manhood, a statue ofbronze, commemorating struggle and victory; and lastly, in thematurity of age, perfectly shaped in gold and ivory, --a miracle ofart!

Flemming had already lived through the oliveage. He was passinginto the age of bronze, into his early manhood; and in his hands theflowers of Paradise were changing to the sword and shield. 

And this reminds me, that I have not yet described my hero. Iwill do it now, as he stands looking down on the gloriouslandscape;--but in few words. Both in person and character heresembled Harold, the Fair-Hair of Norway, who is described, in theold Icelandic Death-Song of Regner Hairy-Breeches, as "the youngchief so proud of his flowing locks; he who spent his mornings amongthe young maidens; he who loved toconverse with the handsomewidows. " This was an amiable weakness; and it sometimes led him intomischief. Imagination was the ruling power of his mind. His thoughtswere twin-born; the thought itself, and its figurative semblance inthe outer world. Thus, through the quiet, still waters of his souleach image floated double, "swan and shadow. "

These traits of character, a good heart and a poetic imagination, made his life joyous and the world beautiful; till at length Deathcut down the sweet, blue flower, that bloomed beside him, andwounded him with that sharp sickle, so that he bowed his head, andwould fain have been bound up in the same sheaf with the sweet, blueflower. Then the world seemed to him less beautiful, and life becameearnest. It would have been well if he could have forgotten thepast; that he might not so mournfully have lived in it, but mighthave enjoyed and improved the present. But this his heart refused todo; and ever, as he floated upon the great sea of life, he lookeddown through thetransparent waters, checkered with sunshine andshade, into the vast chambers of the mighty deep, in which hishappier days had sunk, and wherein they were lying still visible, like golden sands, and precious stones, and pearls; and, half indespair, half in hope, he grasped downward after them again, anddrew back his hand, filled only with seaweed, and dripping withbriny tears!--And between him and those golden sands, a radiantimage floated, like the spirit in Dante's Paradise, singing"Ave-Maria!" and while it sang, down-sinking, and slowly vanishingaway. 

The truth is, that in all things he acted more from impulse thanfrom fixed principle; as is the case with most young men. Indeed, his principles hardly had time to take root; for he pulled them allup, every now and then, as children do the flowers they haveplanted, --to see if they are growing. Yet there was much in himwhich was good; for underneath the flowers and green-sward ofpoetry, and the good principles which would have taken root, had hegiven them time, therelay a strong and healthy soil of commonsense, --freshened by living springs of feeling, and enriched by manyfaded hopes, that had fallen upon it like dead leaves. 

CHAPTER IV. THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 

"Allez Fuchs! allez lustig!" cried the impatient postilion to hishorses, in accents, which, like the wild echo of the Lurley Felsen, came first from one side of the river, and then from theother, --that is to say, in words alternately French and German. Thetruth is, he was tired of waiting; and when Flemming had at lengthresumed his seat in the post-chaise, the poor horses had to make upthe time lost in dreams on the mountain. This is far oftener thecase, than most people imagine. One half of the world has to sweatand groan, that the other half may dream. It would have been adifficult task for the traveller or his postilion to persuade thehorses, that these dreams were all for their good. 

The next stopping-place was the little tavern of the Star, anout-of-the-way corner in the town of Salzig. It stands on the banksof the Rhine; and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water'sedge, rise the mountains of Liebenstein and Sternenfels, each withits ruined castle. These are the Brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at each other face to face; and beneath them in thevalley stands a cloister, --meek emblem of that orphan child, theyboth so passionately loved. 

In a small, flat-bottomed boat did the landlady's daughter rowFlemming "over the Rhine-stream, rapid and roaring wide. " She was abeautiful girl of sixteen; with black hair, and dark, lovely eyes, and a face that had a story to tell. How different faces are in thisparticular! Some of them speak not. They are books in which not aline is written, save perhaps a date. Others are great familybibles, with all the Old and New Testament written in them. Othersare Mother Goose and nursery tales;--others bad tragedies orpickle-herring farces; and others, like that of the landlady'sdaughter at the Star, sweet love-anthologies, and songs of theaffections. It was on that account, that Flemming said to her, asthey glided out into the swift stream;

"My dear child! do you know the story of the Liebenstein?"

"The story of the Liebenstein, " she answered, "I got by heart, when I was a little child. "

And here her large, dark, passionate eyes looked into Flemming's, and he doubted not, that she had learned the story far too soon, andfar too well. That story he longed to hear, as if it were unknown tohim; for he knew that the girl, who had got it by heart when achild, would tell it as it should be told. So he begged her torepeat the story, which she was but too glad to do; for she lovedand believed it, as if it had all been written in the Bible. Butbefore she began, she rested a moment on her oars, and taking thecrucifix, which hung suspended from her neck, kissed it, and thenlet it sink down into her bosom, as if it were an anchor she wasletting down into her heart. Meanwhile her moist, dark eyes wereturned to heaven. Perhaps her soul was walking with the souls ofCunizza, and Rahab, and Mary Magdalen. Or perhaps she was thinkingof that Nun, of whom St. Gregory says, in his Dialogues, that, having greedily eaten a lettuce in a garden, without making the signof the cross, she found herself soon after possessed with adevil. 

The probability, however, is, that she was looking up to theruined castles only, and not to heaven, for she soon began herstory, and told Flemming how, a great, great many years ago, an oldman lived in the Liebenstein with his two sons; and how both theyoung men loved the Lady Geraldine, an orphan, under their father'scare; and how the elder brother went away in despair, and theyounger was betrothed to the Lady Geraldine; and how they were ashappy as Aschenputtel and the Prince. And then the holy SaintBernard came and carried away all the young men to the war, just asNapoleon did afterwards; and the young lord went to the Holy Land, and the Lady Geraldine sat in her tower and wept, and waited for herlover's return, while the old father built the Sternenfels for themto live in when they were married. And when it was finished, the oldman died; and the elder brother came back and lived in theLiebenstein, and took care of the gentle Lady. Ere long there camenews from the Holy Land, that the war was over; and the heart of thegentle Lady beat with joy, till she heard that her faithless loverwas coming back with a Greek wife, --the wicked man! and then shewent into a convent and became a holy nun. So the young lord ofSternenfels came home, and lived in his castle in great splendorwith the Greek woman, who was a wicked woman, and did what she oughtnot to do. But the elder brother was angry for the wrong done thegentle Lady, and challenged the lord of Sternenfels to singlecombat. And, while they were fighting with their great swords in thevalley of Bornhofen behind the castle, the convent bells began toring, and the Lady Geraldine came forth with a train of nunsalldressed in white, and made the brothers friends again, and toldthem she was the bride of Heaven, and happier in her convent thanshe could have been in the Liebenstein or the Sternenfels. And whenthe brothers returned, they found that the false Greek wife had goneaway with another knight. So they lived together in peace, and werenever married. And when they died--"

"Lisbeth! Lisbeth!" cried a sharp voice from the shore, "Lisbeth!Where are you taking the gentleman?"

This recalled the poor girl to her senses; and she saw how fastthey were floating down stream. For in telling the story she hadforgotten every thing else, and the swift current had swept themdown to the tall walnut trees of Kamp. They landed in front of theCapucin Monastery. Lisbeth led the way through the little village, and turning to the right pointed up the romantic, lonely valleywhich leads to the Liebenstein, and even offered to go up. ButFlemming patted her cheek and shook his head. He went up the valleyalone. 

CHAPTER V. JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE. 

The man in the play, who wished for `some forty pounds of lovelybeef, placed in a Mediterranean sea of brewis, ' might have seen hisample desires almost realized at the table d'hôte of the RheinischenHof, in Mayence, where Flemming dined that day. At the head of thetable sat a gentleman, with a smooth, broad forehead, and large, intelligent eyes. He was from Baireuth in Franconia; and talkedabout poetry and Jean Paul, to a pale, romantic-looking lady on hisright. There was music all dinner-time, at the other end of thehall; a harp and a horn and a voice; so that a great part of the fatgentleman's conversation with the pale lady was lost to Flemming, who sat opposite to her, and could look right into her large, melancholy eyes. But what heheard, so much interested him, --indeed, the very name of the beloved Jean Paul would have been enough forthis, --that he ventured to join in the conversation, and asked theGerman if he had known the poet personally. 

"Yes; I knew him well, " replied the stranger. "I am a native ofBaireuth, where he passed the best years of his life. In my mind theman and the author are closely united. I never read a page of hiswritings without hearing his voice, and seeing his form before me. There he sits, with his majestic, mountainous forehead, his mildblue eyes, and finely cut nose and mouth; his massive frame cladloosely and carelessly in an old green frock, from the pockets ofwhich the corners of books project, and perhaps the end of a loaf ofbread, and the nose of a bottle;--a straw hat, lined with green, lying near him; a huge walking-stick in his hand, and at his feet awhite poodle, with pink eyes and a string round his neck. You wouldsooner have taken him for a master-carpenter than for a poet. Is hea favorite author of yours?"

Flemming answered in the affirmative. 

"But a foreigner must find it exceedingly difficult to understandhim, " said the gentleman. "It is by no means an easy task for usGermans. "

"I have always observed, " replied Flemming, "that the trueunderstanding and appreciation of a poet depend more uponindividual, than upon national character. If there be a sympathybetween the minds of writer and reader, the bounds and barriers of aforeign tongue are soon overleaped. If you once understand anauthor's character, the comprehension of his writings becomeseasy. "

"Very true, " replied the German, "and the character of Richter istoo marked to be easily misunderstood. Its prominent traits aretenderness and manliness, --qualities, which are seldom found unitedin so high a degree as in him. Over all he sees, over all he writes, are spread the sunbeams of a cheerful spirit, --the light ofinexhaustible human love. Every sound of human joy and of humansorrow finds a deep-resoundingecho in his bosom. In every man, heloves his humanity only, not his superiority. The avowed object ofall his literary labors was to raise up again the down-sunken faithin God, virtue, and immortality; and, in an egotistical, revolutionary age, to warm again our human sympathies, which havenow grown cold. And not less boundless is his love for nature, --forthis outward, beautiful world. He embraces it all in his arms. "

"Yes, " answered Flemming, almost taking the words out of thestranger's mouth, "for in his mind all things become idealized. Heseems to describe himself when he describes the hero of his Titan, as a child, rocking in a high wind upon the branches of afull-blossomed apple-tree, and, as its summit, blown abroad by thewind, now sunk him in deep green, and now tossed him aloft in deepblue and glancing sunshine, --in his imagination stood that treegigantic;--it grew alone in the universe, as if it were the tree ofeternal life; its roots struck down into the abyss; the white andred clouds hung as blossoms upon it; the moon asfruit; the littlestars sparkled like dew, and Albano reposed in its measurelesssummit; and a storm swayed the summit out of Day into Night, and outof Night into Day. "

"Yet the spirit of love, " interrupted the Franconian, "was notweakness, but strength. It was united in him with great manliness. The sword of his spirit had been forged and beaten by poverty. Itstemper had been tried by a thirty years' war. It was not broken, noteven blunted; but rather strengthened and sharpened by the blows itgave and received. And, possessing this noble spirit of humanity, endurance, and self-denial, he made literature his profession; as ifhe had been divinely commissioned to write. He seems to have caredfor nothing else, to have thought of nothing else, than livingquietly and making books. He says, that he felt it his duty, not toenjoy, nor to acquire, but to write; and boasted, that he had madeas many books as he had lived years. "

"And what do you Germans consider the prominent characteristicsof his genius?"

"Most undoubtedly his wild imagination and his playfulness. Hethrows over all things a strange and magic coloring. You arestartled at the boldness and beauty of his figures andillustrations, which are scattered everywhere with a recklessprodigality;--multitudinous, like the blossoms of early summer, --andas fragrant and beautiful. With a thousand extravagances are mingledten thousand beauties of thought and expression, which kindle thereader's imagination, and lead it onward in a bold flight, throughthe glow of sunrise and sunset, and the dewy coldness and starlightof summer nights. He is difficult to understand, --intricate, --strange, --drawing his illustrations from every by-corner of science, art, and nature, --a comet, among the bright stars of Germanliterature. When you read his works, it is as if you were climbing ahigh mountain, in merry company, to see the sun rise. At times youare enveloped in mist, --the morning wind sweeps by you with ashout, --you hear the far-off muttering thunders. Wide beneath youspreads the landscape, --field, meadow, town, and winding river. Theringing of distant church-bells, or the sound of solemn villageclock, reaches you;--then arises the sweet and manifold fragrance offlowers, --the birds begin to sing, --the vapors roll away, --up comesthe glorious sun, --you revel like the lark in the sunshine andbright blue heaven, and all is a delirious dream of soul andsense, --when suddenly a friend at your elbow laughs aloud, andoffers you a piece of Bologna sausage. As in real life, so in hiswritings, --the serious and the comic, the sublime and the grotesque, the pathetic and the ludicrous are mingled together. At times he issententious, energetic, simple; then again, obscure and diffuse. Histhoughts are like mummies embalmed in spices, and wrapped about withcurious envelopements; but within these the thoughts themselves arekings. At times glad, beautiful images, airy forms, move by you, graceful, harmonious;--at times the glaring, wild-looking fancies, chained together by hyphens, brackets, and dashes, brave and base, high and low, all in their motley dresses, go sweeping down thedusty page, like the galley-slaves, that sweep the streets of Rome, where you may chance to see the nobleman and the peasant manacledtogether. "

Flemming smiled at the German's warmth, to which the presence ofthe lady, and the Laubenheimer wine, seemed each to have contributedsomething, and then said;

"Better an outlaw, than not free!--These are his own words. Andthus he changes at his will. Like the God Thor, of the old Northernmythology, he now holds forth the seven bright stars in the brightheaven above us, and now hides himself in clouds, and pounds awaywith his great hammer. "

"And yet this is not affectation in him, " rejoined the German. "It is his nature, it is Jean Paul. And the figures and ornaments ofhis style, wild, fantastic, and oft-times startling, like those inGothic cathedrals, are not merely what they seem, but massivecoignes and buttresses, which support the fabric. Remove them, andthe roofand walls fall in. And through these gurgoyles, these wildfaces, carved upon spouts and gutters, flow out, like gathered rain, the bright, abundant thoughts, that have fallen from heaven. 

"And all he does, is done with a kind of serious playfulness. Heis a sea-monster, disporting himself on the broad ocean; his verysport is earnest; there is something majestic and serious about it. In every thing there is strength, a rough good-nature, all sunshineoverhead, and underneath the heavy moaning of the sea. Well may hebe called `Jean Paul, the Only-One. '"

With such discourse the hour of dinner passed; and after dinnerFlemming went to the Cathedral. They were singing vespers. A beadle, dressed in blue, with a cocked hat, and a crimson sash and collar, was strutting, like a turkey, along the aisles. This importantgentleman conducted Flemming through the church, and showed him thechoir, with its heavy-sculptured stalls of oak, and the beautifulfigures in brown stone, over the bishops' tombs. He then led him, bya side-door, into theold and ruined cloisters of St. Willigis. Through the low gothic arches the sunshine streamed upon thepavement of tombstones, whose images and inscriptions are mostlyeffaced by the footsteps of many generations. There stands the tombof Frauenlob, the Minnesinger. His face is sculptured on anentablature in the wall; a fine, strongly-marked, and seriouscountenance. Below it is a bas-relief, representing the poet'sfuneral. He is carried to his grave by ladies, whose praise he sang, and thereby won the name of Frauenlob. 

"This then, " said Flemming, "is the grave, not of Praise-GodBare-bones, but of Praise-the-Ladies Meissen, who wrote songs`somewhat of lust, and somewhat of love. ' But where sleeps the dustof his rival and foe, sweet Master Bartholomew Rainbow?"

He meant this for an aside; but the turkey-cock picked it up andanswered;

"I do not know. He did not belong to this parish. "

It was already night, when Flemming crossedthe Roman bridge overthe Nahe, and entered the town of Bingen. He stopped at the WhiteHorse; and, before going to bed, looked out into the dim starlightfrom his window towards the Rhine, and his heart leaped up to beholdthe bold outline of the neighbouring hills crested with Gothicruins;--which in the morning proved to be only a high, slated roofwith fantastic chimneys. 

The morning was bright and frosty; and the river tinged with gaycolors from the rising sun. A soft, thin vapor floated in the air. In the sunbeams flashed the hoar-frost, like silver stars; andthrough a long avenue of trees, whose dripping branches bent andscattered pearls before him, Paul Flemming journeyed on intriumph. 

I will not prolong this journey, for I am weary and way-worn, andwould fain be at Heidelberg with my readers, and my hero. It wasalready night when he reached the Manheim gate, and drove down thelong Hauptstrasse so slowly, that it seemed to him endless. Theshops werelighted on each side of the street, and he saw faces atthe windows here and there, and figures passing in the lamp-light, visible for a moment and then swallowed up in the darkness. Thethoughts that filled his mind were strange; as are always thethoughts of a traveller, who enters for the first time a strangecity. This little world had been going on for centuries before hecame; and would go on for centuries after he was gone. Of all thethousands who inhabited it he knew nothing; and what knew they, orthought, of the stranger, who, in that close post-chaise, weary withtravel, and chilled by the evening wind, was slowly rumbling overthe paved street! Truly, this world can go on without us, if wewould but think so. If it had been a hearse instead of apost-chaise, it would have been all the same to the people ofHeidelberg, --though by no means the same to Paul Flemming. 

But at the farther end of the city, near the Castle and theCarls-Thor, one warm heart was waiting to receive him; and this wasthe German heart of his friend, the Baron of Hohenfels, with whom hewas to pass the winter in Heidelberg. No sooner had the carriagestopped at the irongrated gate, and the postilion blown his horn, toannounce the arrival of a traveller, than the Baron was seen amongthe servants at the door; and, a few moments afterwards, the twolong-absent friends were in each other's arms, and Flemming receiveda kiss upon each cheek, and another on the mouth, as the pledge andseal of the German's friendship. They held each other long by thehand, and looked into each other's faces, and saw themselves in eachother's eyes, both literally and figuratively; literally, inasmuchas the images were there; and figuratively, inasmuch as each wasimagining what the other thought of him, after the lapse of someyears. In friendly hopes and questionings and answers, the eveningglided away at the supper-table, where many more things werediscussed than the roasted hare, and the Johannisberger; and theysat late into the night, conversing of the thoughts and feelings anddelights, which fill the hearts of young men, who have alreadyenjoyed and suffered, and hoped and been disappointed. 

CHAPTER VI. HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON. 

High and hoar on the forehead of the Jettenbühl stands the Castleof Heidelberg. Behind it rise the oak-crested hills of the Geissbergand the Kaiserstuhl; and in front, from the broad terrace ofmasonry, you can almost throw a stone upon the roofs of the city, soclose do they lie beneath. Above this terrace rises the broad frontof the chapel of Saint Udalrich. On the left, stands the slenderoctagon tower of the horologe, and, on the right, a huge roundtower, battered and shattered by the mace of war, shores up with itsbroad shoulders the beautiful palace and garden-terrace ofElisabeth, wife of the Pfalzgraf Frederick. In the rear are olderpalaces and towers, forming a vast, irregular quadrangle;--Rodolph'sancientcastle, with its Gothic gloriette and fantastic gables; theGiant's Tower, guarding the drawbridge over the moat; the RentTower, with the linden-trees growing on its summit, and themagnificent Rittersaal of Otho-Henry, Count Palatine of the Rhineand grand seneschal of the Holy Roman Empire. From the gardensbehind the castle, you pass under the archway of the Giant's Towerinto the great court-yard. The diverse architecture of differentages strikes the eye; and curious sculptures. In niches on the wallof Saint Udalrich's chapel stand rows of knights in armour, allbroken and dismembered; and on the front of Otho's Rittersaal, theheroes of Jewish history and classic fable. You enter the open anddesolate chambers of the ruin; and on every side are medallions andfamily arms; the Globe of the Empire and the Golden Fleece, or theEagle of the Cæsars, resting on the escutcheons of Bavaria and thePalatinate. Over the windows and door-ways and chimney-pieces, aresculptures and mouldings of exquisite workmanship; and the eyeisbewildered by the profusion of caryatides, and arabesques, androsettes, and fan-like flutings, and garlands of fruits and flowersand acorns, and bullocks'-heads with draperies of foliage, andmuzzles of lions, holding rings in their teeth. The cunning hand ofArt was busy for six centuries, in raising and adorning these walls;the mailed hands of Time and War have defaced and overthrown them inless than two. Next to the Alhambra of Granada, the Castle ofHeidelberg is the most magnificent ruin of the Middle Ages. 

In the valley below flows the rushing stream of the Neckar. Closefrom its margin, on the opposite side, rises the Mountain of AllSaints, crowned with the ruins of a convent; and up the valleystretches the mountain-curtain of the Odenwald. So close and manyare the hills, which eastward shut the valley in, that the riverseems a lake. But westward it opens, upon the broad plain of theRhine, like the mouth of a trumpet; and like the blast of a trumpetis at times the wintry wind through this narrow mountain pass. Theblue Alsatian hills rise beyond; and, on a platform or strip of levelland, between the Neckar and the mountains, right under the castle, stands the city of Heidelberg; as the old song says, "a pleasantcity, when it has done raining. "

Something of this did Paul Flemming behold, when he rose the nextmorning and looked from his window. It was a warm, vapory morning, and a struggle was going on between the mist and the rising sun. Thesun had taken the hill-tops, but the mist still kept possession ofthe valley and the town. The steeple of the great church rosethrough a dense mass of snow-white clouds; and eastward, on thehills, the dim vapors were rolling across the windows of the ruinedcastle, like the fiery smoke of a great conflagration. It seemed tohim an image of the rising of the sun of Truth on a benighted world;its light streamed through the ruins of centuries; and, down in thevalley of Time, the cross on the Christian church caught its rays, though the priests were singing in mist and darkness below. 

In the warm breakfast-parlour he found the Baron, waiting forhim. He was lying upon a sofa, in morning gown and purple-velvetslippers, both with flowers upon them. He had a guitar in his hand, and a pipe in his mouth, at the same time smoking, playing, andhumming his favorite song from Goethe;

"The water rushed, the water swelled, A fisher sat thereby. "

Flemming could hardly refrain from laughing at the sight of hisfriend; and told him it reminded him of a street-musician he oncesaw in Aix-la-Chapelle, who was playing upon six instruments atonce; having a helmet with bells on his head, a Pan's-reed in hiscravat, a fiddle in his hand, a triangle on his knee, cymbals on hisheels, and on his back a bass-drum, which he played with his elbows. To tell the truth, the Baron of Hohenfels was rather a miscellaneousyouth, rather a universal genius. He pursued all things witheagerness, but for a short time only; music, poetry, painting, pleasure, even the study of the Pandects. Hisfeelings were keenlyalive to the enjoyment of life. His great defect was, that he wastoo much in love with human nature. But by the power of imagination, in him, the bearded goat was changed to a bright Capricornus:--nolonger an animal on earth, but a constellation in heaven. An easyand indolent disposition made him gentle and childlike in hismanners; and, in short, the beauty of his character, like that ofthe precious opal, was owing to a defect in its organization. Hisperson was tall and slightly built; his hair light; and his eyesblue, and as beautiful as those of a girl. In the tones of hisvoice, there was something indescribably gentle and winning; and hespoke the German language, with the soft, musical accent of hisnative province of Curland. In his manners, if he had not `Antinous'easy sway, ' he had at least an easy sway of his own. Such, in fewwords, was the bosom friend of Flemming. 

"And what do you think of Heidelberg and the old castle upthere?" said he, as they seated themselves at thebreakfast-table. 

"Last night the town seemed very long to me, " replied Flemming; "andas to the castle, I have as yet had but a glimpse of it through themist. They tell me there is nothing finer in its way, excepting theAlhambra of Granada; and no doubt I shall find it so. Only I wishthe stone were gray and not red. But, red or gray, I foresee that Ishall waste many a long hour in its desolate halls. Pray, doesanybody live up there now-a-days?"

"Nobody, " answered the Baron, "but the man, who shows theHeidelberg Ton, and Monsieur Charles de Grainberg, a Frenchman, whohas been there sketching ever since the year eighteen-hundred andten. He has, moreover, written a super-magnificent description ofthe ruin, in which he says, that during the day only birds of preydisturb it with their piercing cries, and at night, screech-owls, and other fallow deer. These are his own words. You must buy hisbook and his sketches. "

"Yes, the quotation and the tone of your voice will certainlypersuade me so to do. "

"Take his or none, my friend, for you will find no others. Andseriously, his sketches are very good. There is one on the wallthere, which is beautiful, save and except that straddle-bug figureamong the bushes in the corner. "

"But is there no ghost, no haunted chamber in the old castle?"asked Flemming, after casting a hasty glance at the picture. 

"Oh, certainly, " replied the Baron; "there are two. There is theghost of the Virgin Mary in Ruprecht's Tower, and the Devil in theDungeon. "

"Ha! that is grand!" exclaimed Flemming, with evident delight. "Tell me the whole story, quickly! I am as curious as a child. "

"It is a tale of the times of Louis the Debonnaire, " said theBaron, with a smile; "a mouldy tradition of a credulous age. Hisbrother Frederick lived here in the castle with him, and had aflirtation with Leonore von Luzelstein, a lady of the court, whom heafterwards despised, and was consequently most cordially hated byher. Frompolitical motives he was equally hateful to certain pettyGerman tyrants, who, in order to effect his ruin, accused him ofheresy. But his brother Louis would not deliver him up to theirfury, and they resolved to effect by stratagem, what they could notby intrigue. Accordingly, Leonore von Luzelstein, disguised as theVirgin Mary, and the father confessor of the Elector, in the costumeof Satan, made their appearance in the Elector's bed-chamber atmidnight, and frightened him so horribly, that he consented todeliver up his brother into the hands of two Black Knights, whopretended to be ambassadors from the Vehm-Gericht. They proceededtogether to Frederick's chamber; where luckily old Gemmingen, abrave soldier, kept guard behind the arras. The monk went foremostin his Satanic garb; but, no sooner had he set foot in the prince'sbed-chamber, than the brave Gemmingen drew his sword, and saidquaintly, `Die, wretch!' and so he died. The rest took to theirheels, and were heard of no more. And now the souls of Leonore andthe monk haunt the scene of their midnight crime. You will find thestory in Grainberg's book, worked up with a kind of red-morocco andburnt-cork sublimity, and great melo-dramatic clanking of chains, and hooting of owls, and other fallow deer!"

"After breakfast, " said Flemming, "we will go up to the castle. Imust get acquainted with this mirror of owls, this modern TillEulenspiegel. See what a glorious morning we have! It is truly awondrous winter! what summer sunshine; what soft Venetian fogs! Howthe wanton, treacherous air coquets with the old gray-beard trees!Such weather makes the grass and our beards grow apace! But we havean old saying in English, that winter never rots in the sky. So hewill come down at last in his old-fashioned, mealy coat. We shallhave snow in spring; and the blossoms will be all snow-flakes. Andafterwards a summer, which will be no summer, but, as Jean Paulsays, only a winter painted green. Is it not so?"

"Unless I am much deceived in the climate of Heidelberg, " repliedthe Baron, "we shall not have to wait long for snow. We have suddenchanges here, and I should not marvel much if it snowed beforenight. "

"The greater reason for making good use of the morning sunshine, then. Let us hasten to the castle, after which my heart yearns. "

CHAPTER VII. LIVES OF SCHOLARS. 

The forebodings of the Baron proved true. In the afternoon theweather changed. The western wind began to blow, and its breath drewa cloud-veil over the face of heaven, as a breath does over thehuman face in a mirror. Soon the snow began to fall. Athwart thedistant landscape it swept like a white mist. The storm-wind camefrom the Alsatian hills, and struck the dense clouds aslant throughthe air. And ever faster fell the snow, a roaring torrent from thosemountainous clouds. The setting sun glared wildly from the summit ofthe hills, and sank like a burning ship at sea, wrecked in thetempest. Thus the evening set in; and winter stood at the gatewagging his white and shaggy beard, like an old harper, chanting anold rhyme:--"How cold it is! how cold it is!"

"I like such a storm as this, " said Flemming, who stood at thewindow, looking out into the tempest and the gathering darkness. "The silent falling of snow is to me one of the most solemn thingsin nature. The fall of autumnal leaves does not so much affect me. But the driving storm is grand. It startles me; it awakens me. It iswild and woful, like my own soul. I cannot help thinking of the sea;how the waves run and toss their arms about, --and the wind plays onthose great harps, made by the shrouds and masts of ships. Winter ishere in earnest! Whew! How the old churl whistles and threshes thesnow! Sleet and rain are falling too. Already the trees are beardedwith icicles; and the two broad branches of yonder pine look likethe white mustache of some old German Baron. "

"And to-morrow it will look more wintry still, " said his friend. "We shall wake up and find that the frost-spirit has been at workall night building Gothic Cathedrals on our windows, just as thedevil built the Cathedral of Cologne. Sodraw the curtains, and comesit here by the warm fire. "

"And now, " said Flemming, having done as his friend desired, "tell me something of Heidelberg and its University. I suppose weshall lead about as solitary and studious a life here as we did ofyore in little Göttingen, with nothing to amuse us, save our ownday-dreams. "

"Pretty much so, " replied the Baron; "which cannot fail to pleaseyou, since you are in pursuit of tranquillity. As to the University, it is, as you know, one of the oldest in Germany. It was founded inthe fourteenth century by the Count Palatine Ruprecht, and had inthe first year more than five hundred students, all busilycommitting to memory, after the old scholastic wise, the rules ofgrammar versified by Alexander de Villa Dei, and the extracts madeby Peter the Spaniard from Michel Psellus's Synopsis of Aristotle'sOrganon, and the Categories, with Porphory's Commentaries. Truly, Ido not much wonder, that Eregina Scotus should have been put todeath byhis scholars with their penknives. They must have beenpushed to the very verge of despair. "

"What a strange picture a University presents to the imagination. The lives of scholars in their cloistered stillness;--literary menof retired habits, and Professors who study sixteen hours a day, andnever see the world but on a Sunday. Nature has, no doubt, for somewise purpose, placed in their hearts this love of literary labor andseclusion. Otherwise, who would feed the undying lamp of thought?But for such men as these, a blast of wind through the chinks andcrannies of this old world, or the flapping of a conqueror's banner, would blow it out forever. The light of the soul is easilyextinguished. And whenever I reflect upon these things I becomeaware of the great importance, in a nation's history, of theindividual fame of scholars and literary men. I fear, that it is fargreater than the world is willing to acknowledge; or, perhaps Ishould say, than the world has thought of acknowledging. Blot outfrom England's history the names of Chaucer, Shakspere, Spenser, andMilton only, and how much of her glory would you blot out with them!Take from Italy such names as Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, MichelAngelo, and Raphael, and how much would still be wanting to thecompleteness of her glory! How would the history of Spain look ifthe leaves were torn out, on which are written the names ofCervantes, Lope de Vega, and Calderon! What would be the fame ofPortugal, without her Camoens; of France, without her Racine, andRabelais, and Voltaire; or Germany, without her Martin Luther, herGoethe, and Schiller!--Nay, what were the nations of old, withouttheir philosophers, poets, and historians! Tell me, do not these menin all ages and in all places, emblazon with bright colors thearmorial bearings of their country? Yes, and far more than this; forin all ages and all places they give humanity assurance of itsgreatness; and say; Call not this time or people wholly barbarous;for thus much, even then and there, could the human mind achieve!But the boisterous world has hardlythought of acknowledging allthis. Therein it has shown itself somewhat ungrateful. Else, whencethe great reproach, the general scorn, the loud derision, withwhich, to take a familiar example, the monks of the Middle Ages areregarded! That they slept their lives away is most untrue. For in anage when books were few, --so few, so precious, that they were oftenchained to their oaken shelves with iron chains, like galley-slavesto their benches, these men, with their laborious hands, copied uponparchment all the lore and wisdom of the past, and transmitted it tous. Perhaps it is not too much to say, that, but for these monks, not one line of the classics would have reached our day. Surely, then, we can pardon something to those superstitious ages, perhapseven the mysticism of the scholastic philosophy, since, after all, we can find no harm in it, only the mistaking of the possible forthe real, and the high aspirings of the human mind after along-sought and unknown somewhat. I think the name of Martin Luther, the monk of Wittemberg, alone sufficient to redeem all monkhoodfromthe reproach of laziness! If this will not, perhaps the vast foliosof Thomas Aquinas will;--or the countless manuscripts, stilltreasured in old libraries, whose yellow and wrinkled pages remindone of the hands that wrote them, and the faces that once bent overthem. "

"An eloquent homily, " said the Baron laughing, "a most touchingappeal in behalf of suffering humanity! For my part, I am no friendof this entire seclusion from the world. It has a very injuriouseffect on the mind of a scholar. The Chinese proverb is true; asingle conversation across the table with a wise man, is better thanten years' mere study of books. I have known some of these literarymen, who thus shut themselves up from the world. Their minds nevercome in contact with those of their fellow-men. They read little. They think much. They are mere dreamers. They know not what is newnor what is old. They often strike upon trains of thought, whichstand written in good authors some century or so back, and are evencurrent in the mouths of men aroundthem. But they know it not; andimagine they are bringing forward something very original, when theypublish their thoughts. "

"It reminds me, " replied Flemming, "of what Dr. Johnson said ofGoldsmith, when he proposed to travel abroad in order to bring homeimprovements;--`He will bring home a wheelbarrow, and call that animprovement. ' It is unfortunately the same with some of thesescholars. "

"And the worst of it is, " said the Baron, "that, in solitude, some fixed idea will often take root in the mind, and grow till itovershadow all one's thoughts. To this must all opinions come; nothought can enter there, which shall not be wedded to the fixedidea. There it remains, and grows. It is like the watchman's wife, in the tower of Waiblingen, who grew to such a size, that she couldnot get down the narrow stair-case; and, when her husband died, hissuccessor was forced to marry the fat widow in the tower. "

"I remember an old English comedy, " said Flemming laughing, "inwhich a scholar is described, as a creature, that can strike fire inthe morning at his tinder-box, --put on a pair of linedslippers, --sit ruminating till dinner, and then go to his meat whenthe bell rings;--one that hath a peculiar gift in a cough, and alicense to spit;--or, if you will have him defined by negatives, heis one that cannot make a good leg;--one that cannot eat a mess ofbroth cleanly. What think you of that?"

"That it is just as people are always represented in Englishcomedy, " said the Baron. "The portrait isover-charged, --caricatured. "

"And yet, " continued Flemming, "no longer ago than yesterday, inthe Preface of a work by Dr. Rosenkranz, Professor of Philosophy inthe University of Halle, I read this passage. "

He opened a book and read. 

"Here in Halle, where we have no public garden and no Tivoli, noLondon Exchange, no Paris Chamber of Deputies, no Berlin nor ViennaTheatres, no Strassburg Minster, nor Salzburg Alps, --no Grecianruins nor fantastic Catholicism, in fine, nothing, which after one'sdaily task is finished, can divert and refresh him, without hisknowing or caring how, --I consider the sight of a proof-sheet quiteas delightful as a walk in the Prater of Vienna. I fill my pipe veryquietly, take out my ink-stand and pens, seat myself in the cornerof my sofa, read, correct, and now for the first time really setabout thinking what I have written. To see this origin of a book, this metamorphosis of manuscript into print, is a delight to which Igive myself up entirely. Look you, this melancholy pleasure, whichwould have furnished the departed Voss with worthy matter for morethan one blessed Idyl--(the more so, as on such occasions, I amgenerally arrayed in a morning gown, though I am sorry to say, not acalamanco one, with great flowers;) this melancholy pleasure wasalready grown here in Halle to a sweet, pedantic habit. Since Ibegan my hermit's life here, I have been printing; and so long as Iremain here, I shall keep on printing. In all probability, I shalldie with a proof-sheet in my hand. "

"This, " said Flemming, closing the book, "is no caricature by awriter of comedy, but a portrait by a man's own hand. We can see byit how easily, under certain circumstances, one may glide intohabits of seclusion, and in a kind of undress, slipshod hardihood, with a pipe and a proof-sheet, defy the world. Into this statescholars have too often fallen; thus giving some ground for theprevalent opinion, that scholarship and rusticity are inseparable. To me, I confess, it is painful to see the scholar and the worldassume so often a hostile attitude, and set each other at defiance. Surely, it is a characteristic trait of a great and liberal mind, that it recognises humanity in all its forms and conditions. I am astudent;--and always, when I sit alone at night, I recognise thedivinity of the student, as she reveals herself to me in the smokeof the midnight lamp. But, because solitude and books are notunpleasant to me, --nay, wished-for, --sought after, --shall I say tomy brother, Thou fool! Shall I take the world by the beard and say, Thou art old, and mad!--Shall I look society in the face and say, Thou art heartless!--Heartless! Beware of that word! Life, says verywisely the good Jean Paul, Life in every shape, should be preciousto us, for the same reason that the Turks carefully collect everyscrap of paper that comes in their way, because the name of God maybe written upon it. Nothing is more true than this, yet nothing moreneglected!"

"If it be painful to see this misunderstanding between scholarsand the world, " said the Baron, "I think it is still more painful tosee the private sufferings of authors by profession. How many havelanguished in poverty, how many died broken-hearted, how many gonemad with over-excitement and disappointed hopes! How instructive andpainfully interesting are their lives! with so many weaknesses, --somuch to pardon, --so much to pity, --so much to admire! I think he wasnot so far out of the way, who said, that, next to the NewgateCalendar, the Biography of Authors is the most sickening chapter inthe history of man. "

"It is indeed enough to make one's heart ache!" interruptedFlemming. "Only think of Johnson and Savage, rambling about thestreets of London at midnight, without a place to sleep in; Otwaystarved to death; Cowley mad, and howling like a dog, through theaisles of Chichester Cathedral, at the sound of church music; andGoldsmith, strutting up Fleet Street in his peach-blossom coat, toknock a bookseller over the pate with one of his own volumes; andthen, in his poverty, about to marry his landlady in Green ArbourCourt. "

"A life of sorrow and privation, a hard life, indeed, do thesepoor devil authors have of it, " replied the Baron; "and then at lastmust get them to the work-house, or creep away into some hospital todie. "

"After all, " said Flemming with a sigh, "poverty is not avice. "

"But something worse, " interrupted the Baron; "as Dufresny said, when he married his laundress, because he could not pay her bill. Hewas the author, as you know, of the opera of Lot; at whoserepresentation the great pun was made;--I say the great pun, as wesay the great ton of Heidelberg. As one of the performers wassinging the line, `L'amour a vaincu Loth, ' (vingt culottes, ) a voicefrom the pit cried out, `Qu'il en donne une à l'auteur!'"

Flemming laughed at the unseasonable jest; and then, after ashort pause, continued;

"And yet, if you look closely at the causes of these calamitiesof authors, you will find, that many of them spring from false andexaggerated ideas of poetry and the poetic character; and fromdisdain of common sense, upon which all character, worth having, isfounded. This comes from keeping aloof from the world, apart fromour fellow-men; disdainful of society, as frivolous. By too muchsitting still the body becomes unhealthy; and soon the mind. This isnature's law. She will never see her children wronged. If the mind, which rules the body, ever forgets itself so far as to trample uponits slave, the slave is never generousenough to forgive the injury;but will rise and smite its oppressor. Thus has many a monarch mindbeen dethroned. "

"After all, " said the Baron, "we must pardon much to men ofgenius. A delicate organization renders them keenly susceptible topain and pleasure. And then they idealize every thing; and, in themoonlight of fancy, even the deformity of vice seems beautiful. "

"And this you think should be forgiven?"

"At all events it is forgiven. The world loves a spice ofwickedness. Talk as you will about principle, impulse is moreattractive, even when it goes too far. The passions of youth, likeunhooded hawks, fly high, with musical bells upon their jesses; andwe forget the cruelty of the sport in the dauntless bearing of thegallant bird. "

"And thus doth the world and society corrupt the scholar!"exclaimed Flemming. 

Here the Baron rang, and ordered a bottle of Prince Metternich. He then very slowly filled his pipe, and began to smoke. Flemmingwas lost in a day-dream. 

CHAPTER VIII. LITERARY FAME. 

Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continuallyrecording illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is writtenthere, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminatedcharacters, never to be effaced. These are the high nobility ofNature, --Lords of the Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shallnever question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in theindiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten, asif they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their mindsto this; well knowing, that, as their bodies must ere long beresolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them; somusttheir names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their mostcherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer anindividual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated intothe universe of thought. If, then, the imagination can trace thenoble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping a beer-barrel, andknow that

"Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, May stop a hole to keep the wind away;"

not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great men, till itfinds them mouldered into the common dust of conversation, and usedto stop men's mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out the flawsof opinion. Such, for example, are all popular adages and wiseproverbs, which are now resolved into the common mass of thought;their authors forgotten, and having no more an individual beingamong men. 

It is better, therefore, that men should soon make up their mindsto be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for somehigher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which isFame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietlyat work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leavingtheir fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, inour imperfection; impossible perhaps to achieve it wholly. Yet theresolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much, --at timeseven this victory over himself; being persuaded, that fame comesonly when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it isdestiny. 

It has become a common saying, that men of genius are always inadvance of their age; which is true. There is something equallytrue, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, thebest and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but ofevery age. As the German prose-poet says, every possible future isbehind them. We cannot suppose, that a period of time will evercome, when the world, or any considerable portion of it shall havecome up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to comprehendthem. 

And oh! how majestically they walk in history; some like the sun, with all his travelling glories round him; others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the else silent darknessof the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime visionof an earthly Paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lightsbefore them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with sevenlisted colors, as from the trail of pencils!

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy, --not all happy, inthe outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and inpain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls ofdungeons! Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those, who, in sorrowand privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is theshadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment of theirgreat purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling much;--andthen, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laidthemselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death, --and theworld talks of them, while they sleep!

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had butsanctified them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched themwith the hem of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand ofdisease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign ofthe cross upon their souls! And as in the sun's eclipse we canbehold the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this lifeeclipse have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and forever!

This was Flemming's reverie. It was broken by the voice of theBaron, suddenly exclaiming;

"An angel is flying over the house!--Here; in this goblet, fragrant as the honey of Hymettus, fragrant as the wild flowers inthe Angel's Meadow, I drink to the divinity of thy dreams. "

"This is all sunshine, " said Flemming, as he drank. "The wine ofthe Prince, and the Prince of wines. By the way, did you ever readthat brilliant Italian dithyrambic, Redi's Bacchus in Tuscany? an odewhich seems to have been poured out of the author's soul, as from agolden pitcher, `Filled with the wine

Of the vine

Benign, That flames so red in Sansavine. '

He calls the Montepulciano the king of all wines. "

"Prince Metternich, " said the Baron, "is greater than any king inItaly; and I wonder, that this precious wine has never inspired aGerman poet to write a Bacchus on the Rhine. Many little songs wehave on this theme, but none very extraordinary. The best are MaxSchenkendorf's Song of the Rhine, and the Song of Rhine Wine, byClaudius, a poet who never drank Rhenish without sugar. We willdrink for him a blessing on the Rhine. "

And again the crystal lips of the goblets kissed each other, witha musical chime, as of evening bells at vintage-time from thevillages on the Rhine. Of a truth, I do not much wonder, that theGermanpoet Schiller loved to write by candle-light with a bottle ofRhine-wine upon the table. Nor do I wonder at the worthyschoolmaster Roger Ascham, when he says, in one of his letters fromGermany to Mr. John Raven, of John's College; `Tell Mr. Maden I willdrink with him now a carouse of wine; and would to God he had avessel of Rhenish wine; and perchance, when I come to Cambridge, Iwill so provide here, that every year I will have a little piece ofRhenish wine. ' Nor, in fine, do I wonder at the German Emperor ofwhom he speaks in another letter to the same John Raven, and says, `The Emperor drank the best that I ever saw; he had his head in theglass five times as long as any of us, and never drank less than agood quart at once of Rhenish wine. ' These were scholars andgentlemen. 

"But to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout, "said the Baron, with an unusual glow, caught no doubt from thegolden sunshine, imprisoned, like the student Anselmus, in the glassbottle; "where should the scholar live? In solitudeor in society? Inthe green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart ofnature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feelthe throbbing heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, inthe dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err, who think, that thestars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore that thepoet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the greenroof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets andharvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. Butafter all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery inthe great theatre of human life? What are they but the coarsematerials of the poet's song? Glorious indeed is the world of Godaround us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There liesthe Land of Song; there lies the poet's native land. The river oflife, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearingalong so manygallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity;--the many homes andhouseholds, each a little world in itself, revolving round itsfireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass;--and to be in this and be a partof this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with hisfellow-men;--such, such should be the poet's life. If he woulddescribe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of thescholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should comein contact with other minds. It is better that his armour should besomewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rustingon the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, becauseapparently shut in between the walls of houses, and having merelythe decorations of street scenery. A ruined character is aspicturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawninggulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only bybridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, as Challey bridgedthe Savine in Switzerland, and Telford the sea between Anglesea andEngland, with chain bridges. These are the great themes of humanthought; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, themere external forms of Nature we make our own, and carry with usinto the city, by the power of memory. "

"I fear, however, " interrupted Flemming, "that in cities the soulof man grows proud. He needs at times to be sent forth, like theAssyrian monarch, into green fields, `a wonderous wretch andweedless, ' to eat green herbs, and be wakened and chastised by therain-shower and winter's bitter weather. Moreover, in cities thereis danger of the soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and forgetful ofits high vocation. There have been souls dedicated to heaven fromchildhood and guarded by good angels as sweet seclusions for holythoughts, and prayers, and all good purposes; wherein pious wishesdwelt like nuns, and every image was a saint; and yet in life'svicissitudes, by the treachery of occasion, by the throngingpassionsof great cities, have become soiled and sinful. Theyresemble those convents on the river Rhine, which have been changedto taverns; from whose chambers the pious inmates have longdeparted, and in whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers haveeffaced the images of buried saints, and whose walls are writtenover with ribaldry and the names of strangers, and resound no morewith holy hymns, but with revelry and loud voices. "

"Both town and country have their dangers, " said the Baron; "andtherefore, wherever the scholar lives, he must never forget his highvocation. Other artists give themselves up wholly to the study oftheir art. It becomes with them almost religion. For the most part, and in their youth, at least, they dwell in lands, where the wholeatmosphere of the soul is beauty; laden with it as the air may bewith vapor, till their very nature is saturated with the genius oftheir art. Such, for example, is the artist's life in Italy. "

"I agree with you, " exclaimed Flemming; "and such should be thePoet's everywhere; forhe has his Rome, his Florence, his wholeglowing Italy within the four walls of his library. He has in hisbooks the ruins of an antique world, --and the glories of a modernone, --his Apollo and Transfiguration. He must neither forget norundervalue his vocation; but thank God that he is a poet; andeverywhere be true to himself, and to `the vision and the facultydivine' he feels within him. "

"But, at any rate, a city life is most eventful, " continued theBaron. "The men who make, or take, the lives of poets and scholars, always complain that these lives are barren of incidents. Hardly aliterary biography begins without some such apology, unwisely made. I confess, however, that it is not made without some show of truth;if, by incidents, we mean only those startling events, whichsuddenly turn aside the stream of Time, and change the world'shistory in an hour. There is certainly a uniformity, pleasing orunpleasing, in literary life, which for the most part makes to-dayseem twin-born with yesterday. But if, byincidents, you mean eventsin the history of the human mind, (and why not?) noiseless events, that do not scar the forehead of the world as battles do, yet changeit not the less, then surely the lives of literary men are mosteventful. The complaint and the apology are both foolish. I do notsee why a successful book is not as great an event as a successfulcampaign; only different in kind, and not easily compared. "

"Indeed, " interrupted Flemming, "in no sense is the complaintstrictly true, though at times apparently so. Events enough thereare, were they all set down. A life, that is worth writing at all, is worth writing minutely. Besides, all literary men have not livedin silence and solitude;--not all in stillness, not all in shadow. For many have lived in troubled times, in the rude and adversefortunes of the state and age, and could say with Wallenstein, `Our life was but a battle and a march;

And, like the wind's blast, never-resting, homeless, We stormed across the war convulsed earth. '

Of such examples history has recorded many; Dante, Cervantes, Byron, and others; men of iron; men who have dared to breast thestrong breath of public opinion, and, like spectre-ships, comesailing right against the wind. Others have been puffed out by thefirst adverse wind that blew; disgraced and sorrowful, because theycould not please others. Truly `the tears live in an onion, thatshould water such a sorrow. ' Had they been men, they would have madethese disappointments their best friends, and learned from them theneedful lesson of self-reliance. "

"To confess the truth, " added the Baron, "the lives of literarymen, with their hopes and disappointments, and quarrels andcalamities, present a melancholy picture of man's strength andweakness. On that very account the scholar can make them profitablefor encouragement, --consolation, --warning. "

"And after all, " continued Flemming, "perhaps the greatestlesson, which the lives of literary men teach us, is told in asingle word; Wait!--Every man must patiently bide his time. He mustwait. More particularly in lands, like my native land, where thepulse of life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs, is thelesson needful. Our national character wants the dignity of repose. We seem to live in the midst of a battle, --there is such adin, --such a hurrying to and fro. In the streets of a crowded cityit is difficult to walk slowly. You feel the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it onward. In the press of our life it is difficult tobe calm. In this stress of wind and tide, all professions seem todrag their anchors, and are swept out into the main. The voices ofthe Present say, Come! But the voices of the Past say, Wait! Withcalm and solemn footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushingtorrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying waters. With no lesscalm and solemn footsteps, nor less certainly, does a great mindbear up against public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream. Therefore should every man wait;--should bide his time. Not inlistless idleness, --not in uselesspastime, --not in querulousdejection; but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavours, alwayswilling and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, when theoccasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. And if it nevercomes, what matters it? What matters it to the world whether I, oryou, or another man did such a deed, or wrote such a book, sobeitthe deed and book were well done! It is the part of an indiscreetand troublesome ambition, to care too much about fame, --about whatthe world says of us. To be always looking into the faces of othersfor approval;--to be always anxious for the effect of what we do andsay; to be always shouting to hear the echo of our own voices! Ifyou look about you, you will see men, who are wearing life away infeverish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall ever hear of themwill be the funeral bell, that tolls them to their early graves!Unhappy men, and unsuccessful! because their purpose is, not toaccomplish well their task, but to clutch the `trick and fantasy offame'; and they go to their graveswith purposes unaccomplished andwishes unfulfilled. Better for them, and for the world in theirexample, had they known how to wait! Believe me, the talent ofsuccess is nothing more than doing what you can do well; and doingwell whatever you do, --without a thought of fame. If it come at all, it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after. And, moreover, there will be no misgivings, --no disappointment, --nohasty, feverish, exhausting excitement. "

Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion. I make no record of thewinter. Paul Flemming buried himself in books; in old, dusty books. He studied diligently the ancient poetic lore of Germany, fromFrankish Legends of Saint George, and Saxon Rhyme-Chronicles, downthrough Nibelungen Lieds, and Helden-Buchs, and Songs of theMinnesingers and Mastersingers, and Ships of Fools, and ReineckeFoxes, and Death-Dancesand Lamentations of Damned Souls, into thebright, sunny land of harvests, where, amid the golden grain and theblue corn-flowers, walk the modern bards, and sing. 

BOOK II. 

Epigraph

"Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love, and joy, and sorrow learn;

Something with passion clasp, or perish, And in itself to ashes burn. "

CHAPTER I. SPRING. 

It was a sweet carol, which the Rhodian children sang of old inSpring, bearing in their hands, from door to door, a swallow, asherald of the season;

"The Swallow is come!

The Swallow is come!

O fair are the seasons, and light

Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white. "

A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hungarian boys, on theislands of the Danube, sing to the returning stork in Spring;

"Stork! Stork! poor Stork!

Why is thy foot so bloody?

A Turkish boy hath torn it;

Hungarian boy will heal it, With fiddle, fife, and drum. "

But what child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime ofours, where Spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavycloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the East-wind nailed to themast! Yet even here, and in the stormy month of March even, thereare bright, warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale thebalmy air. The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirringsound of wings. Old flies crawl out of the cracks, to sunthemselves; and think it is summer. They die in their conceit; andso do our hearts within us, when the cold sea-breath comes from theeastern sea; and again, "The driving hail

Upon the window beats with icy flail. "

The red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its beautiful purpleflowers unfolding a fortnight before the leaves. The moose-woodfollows, with rose-colored buds and leaves; and the dog-wood, robedin the white of its own pure blossoms. Thencomes the suddenrain-storm; and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. Where do theyhide themselves in such storms? at what firesides dry their featherycloaks? At the fireside of the great, hospitable sun, to-morrow, notbefore;--they must sit in wet garments until then. 

In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the South it isintoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. The birds begin tosing;--they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answerin the silent woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, makeholiday in the neighbouring marshes. They, too, belong to theorchestra of Nature; whose vast theatre is again opened, though thedoors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hungwith snow and frost, like cobwebs. This is the prelude, whichannounces the rising of the broad green curtain. Already the grassshoots forth. The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the veinsof the earth; the sap through the veins of the plants and trees; andthe blood through the veins of man. What a thrill of delight inspring-time! What a joy in being and moving! Men are at work ingardens; and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth. Theleaf-buds begin to swell and blush. The white blossoms of the cherryhang upon the boughs like snow-flakes; and ere long our next-doorneighbours will be completely hidden from us by the dense greenfoliage. The May-flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are letloose in the fields and gardens. They hold butter-cups under eachothers' chins, to see if they love butter. And the little girlsadorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions; pull out theyellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the downfrom the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers want them athome. 

And at night so cloudless and so still! Not a voice of livingthing, --not a whisper of leaf or waving bough, --not a breath ofwind, --not a sound upon the earth nor in the air! And overhead bendsthe blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like the inverted bellof some blue flower, sprinkled with goldendust, and breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are overcast, it isno wild storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt and fall inshowers. One does not wish to sleep; but lies awake to hear thepleasant sound of the dropping rain. 

It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg. 

CHAPTER II. A COLLOQUY. 

"And what think you of Tiedge's Urania, " said the Baron smiling, as Paul Flemming closed the book, and laid it upon the table. 

"I think, " said Flemming, "that it is very much like Jean Paul'sgrandfather, --in the highest degree poor and pious. "

"Bravo!" exclaimed the Baron. "That is the best criticism I haveheard upon the book. For my part, I dislike the thing as much asGoethe did. It was once very popular, and lay about in every parlourand bed-room. This annoyed the old gentleman exceedingly; and I donot wonder at it. He complains, that at one time nothing was sung orsaid but this Urania. He believed in Immortality; but wished tocherish his belief inquietness. He once told a friend of his, thathe had, however, learned one thing from all this talk about Tiedgeand his Urania; which was, that the saints, as well as the nobility, constitute an aristocracy. He said he found stupid women, who wereproud because they believed in Immortality with Tiedge, and had tosubmit himself to not a few mysterious catechizings and tea-tablelectures on this point; and that he cut them short by saying, thathe had no objection whatever to enter into another state ofexistence hereafter, but prayed only that he might be spared thehonor of meeting any of those there, who had believed in it here;for, if he did, the saints would flock around him on all sides, exclaiming, Were we not in the right? Did we not tell you so? Has itnot all turned out just as we said? And, with such a conceitedclatter in his ears, he thought that, before the end of six months, he might die of ennui in Heaven itself. "

"How shocked the good old ladies must have been, " saidFlemming. 

"No doubt, their nerves suffered a little; but the young ladiesloved him all the better for being witty and wicked; and thought ifthey could only marry him, how they would reform him. "

"Bettina Brentano, for instance. "

"O no! That happened long afterwards. Goethe was then asilver-haired old man of sixty. She had never seen him, and knew himonly by his writings; a romantic girl of seventeen. "

"And yet much in love with the Sexagenarian. And surely a morewild, fantastic, and, excuse me, German passion never sprang up inwoman's breast. She was a flower, that worshipped the sun. "

"She afterwards married Achim von Arnim, and is now a widow. Andnot the least singular part of the affair, is, that, having grownolder, and I hope colder, she should herself publish the letterswhich passed between her and Goethe. "

"Particularly the letter in which she describes her first visitto Weimar, and her interview with the hitherto invisible divinity ofher dreams. The old gentleman took her upon his knees, and she fellasleep with her head upon his shoulder. It reminds me of Titania andNick Bottom, begging your pardon, always, for comparing yourAll-sided-One to Nick Bottom. Oberon must have touched her eyes withthe juice of Love-in-idleness. However, this book of Goethe'sCorrespondence with a Child is a very singular and valuablerevelation of the feelings, which he excited in female hearts. Yousay she afterwards married Achim von Arnim?"

"Yes; and he and her brother, Clemens Brentano, published thatwondrous book, the Boy's Wonder-Horn. "

"The Boy's Wonder-Horn!" said Flemming, after a short pause, forthe name seemed to have thrown him into a reverie;--"I know the bookalmost by heart. Of all your German books it is the one whichproduces upon my imagination the most wild and magic influence. Ihave a passion for ballads!"

"And who has not?" said the Baron with asmile. "They are thegypsy-children of song, born under green hedgerows, in the leafylanes and by-paths of literature, --in the genial summer-time. "

"Why do you say summer-time and not summer?" inquired Flemming. "The expression reminds me of your old Minnesingers;--of Heinrichvon Ofterdingen, and Walter von der Vogelweide, and Count Kraft vonToggenburg, and your own ancestor, I dare say, Burkhart vonHohenfels. They were always singing of the gentle summer-time. Theyseem to have lived poetry, as well as sung it; like the birds whomake their marriage beds in the voluptuous trees. "

"Is that from Shakspere?"

"No; from Lope de Vega. "

"You are deeply read in the lore of antiquity, and the Aubadesand Watch-Songs of the old Minnesingers. What do you think of theshoe-maker poets that came after them, --with their guilds andsinging-schools? It makes me laugh to think how the great GermanHelicon, shrunk toa rivulet, goes bubbling and gurgling over thepebbly names of Zwinger, Wurgendrussel, Buchenlin, Hellfire, OldStoll, Young Stoll, Strong Bopp, Dang Brotscheim, Batt Spiegel, Peter Pfort, and Martin Gumpel. And then the Corporation of theTwelve Wise Masters, with their stumpfereime and klingende-reime, and their Hans Tindeisen's rosemary-weise; and Joseph Schmierer'sflowery-paradise-weise, and Frauenlob's yellow-weise, andblue-weise, and frog-weise, and looking-glass-weise!"

"O, I entreat you, " exclaimed Flemming, laughing, "do not callthose men poets! You transport me to quaint old Nuremberg, and I seeHans Sachs making shoes, and Hans Folz shaving the burgomaster. "

"By the way, " interrupted the Baron, "did you ever readHoffmann's beautiful story of Master Martin, the Cooper ofNuremberg? I will read it to you this very night. It is the mostdelightful picture of that age, which you can conceive. But look!the sun has already set behindthe Alsatian hills. Let us go up tothe castle and look for the ghost in Prince Ruprecht's tower. O, what a glorious sunset!"

Flemming looked at the evening sky, and a shade of sadness stoleover his countenance. He told not to his friend the sorrow, withwhich his heart was heavy; but kept it for himself alone. He knewthat the time, which comes to all men, --the time to suffer and besilent, --had come to him likewise; and he spake no word. O well hasit been said, that there is no grief like the grief which does notspeak. 

CHAPTER III. OWL-TOWERS. 

"There sits the old Frau Himmelhahn, perched up in herowl-tower, " said the Baron to Flemming, as they passed along theHauptstrasse. "She looks down through her round-eyed spectacles fromher nest up there, and watches every one that goes by. I wonder whatmischief she is hatching now? Do you know she has nearly ruined yourcharacter in town? She says you have a rakish look, because youcarry a cane, and your hair curls. Your gloves, also, are a shadetoo light for a strictly virtuous man. "

"It is very kind in her to take such good care of my character, particularly as I am a stranger in town. She is doubtless learned inthe Clothes-Philosophy. "

"And ignorant of every thing else. She asked a friend of mine theother day, whether Christ was a Catholic or a Protestant. "

"That is really too absurd!"

"Not too absurd to be true. And, ignorant as she is, shecontrives to do a good deal of mischief in the course of the year. Why, the ladies already call you Wilhelm Meister. "

"They are at liberty to call me what they please. But you, whoknow me better, know that I am something more than they would implyby the name. "

"She says, moreover, that the American ladies sit with their feetout of the window, and have no pocket-handkerchiefs. "

"Excellent!"

They crossed the market-place and went up beneath the grandterrace into the court-yard of the castle. 

"Let us go up and sit under the great linden-trees, that grow onthe summit of the Rent Tower, " said Flemming. "From that point asfrom awatch-tower we can look down into the garden, and see thecrowd below us. "

"And amuse ourselves, as old Frau Himmelhahn does, at her windowin the Hauptstrasse, " added the Baron. 

The keeper's daughter unlocked for them the door of the tower, and, climbing the steep stair-case, they seated themselves on awooden bench under the linden-trees. 

"How beautifully these trees overgrow the old tower! And see whata solid mass of masonry lies in the great fosse down there, toppledfrom its base by the explosion of a mine! It is like a rusty helmetcleft in twain, but still crested with towering plumes!"

"And what a motley crowd in the garden! Philisters and Sons ofthe Muses! And there goes the venerable Thibaut, taking his eveningstroll. Do you see him there, with his silver hair flowing over hisshoulders, and that friendly face, which has for so many years poredover the Pandects. I assure you, he inspires me with awe. And yet heis a merry old man, and loves his joke, particularly at the expenseof Moses and other ancient lawgivers. "

Here their attention was diverted by a wild-looking person, whopassed with long strides under the archway in the fosse, rightbeneath them, and disappeared among the bushes. He wasill-dressed, --his hair flying in the wind, --his movements hurriedand nervous, and the expression of his broad countenance wild, strange, and earnest. 

"Who can that be!" asked Flemming. "He strides away indignantly, like one of Ossian's ghosts?"

"A great philosopher, whose name I have forgotten. Truly astrange owl!"

"He looks like a lion with a hat on. "

"He is a mystic, who reads Schubert's History of the Soul, andlives, for the most part, in the clouds of the Middle Ages. To himthe spirit-world is still open. He believes in the transmigration ofsouls; and I dare say is now followingthe spirit of some departedfriend, who has taken the form of yonder pigeon. "

"What a strange hallucination! He lives, I suppose, in the landof cloud-shadows. And, as St. Thomas Aquinas was said to be liftedup from the ground by the fervor of his prayers, so, no doubt, is heby the fervor of his visions. "

"He certainly appears to neglect all sublunary things; and, tojudge from certain appearances, since you seem fond of holysimilitudes, one would say, that, like St. Serapion the Sindonite, he had but one shirt. Yet what cares he? he lives in that poeticdream-land of his thoughts, and clothes his dream-children inpoetry. "

"He is a poet, then, as well as a philosopher?"

"Yes; but a poet who never writes a line. There is nothing innature to which his imagination does not give a poetic hue. But thepower to make others see these objects in the same poetic light, iswanting. Still he is a man of fine powers and feelings; for, next tobeing a greatpoet, is the power of understanding one, --of findingone's-self in him, as we Germans say. "

Three figures, dressed in black, now came from one of the greenalleys, and stopped on the brink of a little fountain, that wasplaying among the gay flowers in the garden. The eldest of the threewas a lady in that season of life, when the early autumn gives tothe summer leaves a warmer glow, yet fades them not. Though themother of many children, she was still beautiful;--resembling thosetrees, which blossom in October, when the leaves are changing, andwhose fruit and blossom are on the branch at once. At her side was agirl of some sixteen years, who seemed to lean upon her arm forsupport. Her figure was slight; her countenance beautiful, thoughdeadly white; and her meek eyes like the flower of the night-shade, pale and blue, but sending forth golden rays. They were attended bya tall youth of foreign aspect, who seemed a young Antinous, with amustache and a nose à la Kosciusko. In other respects a perfect heroof romance. 

"Unless mine eyes deceive me, " said the Baron, "there is the Frauvon Ilmenau, with her pale daughter Emma, and that eternal PolishCount. He is always hovering about them, playing the unhappy exile, merely to excite that poor girl's sympathies; and as wretched asgenius and wantonness can make him. "

"Why, he is already married, you know, " replied Flemming. "Andhis wife is young and beautiful. "

"That does not prevent him from being in love with some one else. That question was decided in the Courts of Love in the Middle Ages. Accordingly he has sent his fair wife to Warsaw. But how pale thepoor child looks. "

"She has just recovered from severe illness. In the winter, youknow, it was thought she would not live from hour to hour. "

"And she has hardly recovered from that disease, before she seemsthreatened with a worse one; namely, a hopeless passion. However, people do not die of love now-a-days. "

"Seldom, perhaps, " said Flemming. "And yet it is folly to pretendthat one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Suchwounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look uponwithout emotion. There are names I can never hear spoken withoutalmost starting!"

"But whom have we here?"

"That is the French poet Quinet, with his sweet German wife; oneof the most interesting women I ever knew. He is the author of avery wild Mystery, or dramatic prose-poem, in which the Ocean, Mont-Blanc, and the Cathedral of Strassburg have parts to play; andthe saints on the stained windows of the minster speak, and thestatues and dead kings enact the Dance of Death. It is entitledAhasuerus, or the Wandering Jew. "

"Or, as the Danes would translate it, the Shoemaker of Jerusalem. That would be a still more fantastic title for his fantastic book. You know I am no great admirer of the modern French school ofwriters. The tales of Paul de Kock, who is, I believe, the mostpopular of all, seem to me like obscene stories told atdinner-tables, after the ladies have retired. It has been well saidof him, that he is not only populaire but populacier; and equallywell said of George Sand and Victor Hugo, that their works standlike fortifications, well built and well supplied with warlikemunitions; but ineffectual against the Grand Army of God, whichmarches onward, as if nothing had happened. In surveying a nationalliterature, the point you must start from, is national character. That lets you into many a secret; as, for example, Paul de Kock'spopularity. The most prominent trait in the French character, islove of amusement, and excitement; and--"

"I should say, rather, the fear of ennui, " interrupted Flemming. "One of their own writers has said with a great deal of truth, thatthe gentry of France rush into Paris to escape from ennui, as, inthe noble days of chivalry, the defenceless inhabitants of thechampaign fled into the castles, at theapproach of some plunderingknight, or lawless Baron; forsaking the inspired twilight of theirnative groves, for the luxurious shades of the royal gardens. Whatdo you think of that?"

The Baron replied with a smile;

"There is only one Paris; and out of Paris there is no salvationfor decent people. "

Thus conversing of many things, sat the two friends under thelinden-trees on the Rent Tower, till gradually the crowd disappearedfrom the garden, and the objects around them grew indistinct, in thefading twilight. Between them and the amber-colored western sky, thedense foliage of the trees looked heavy and hard, as if cast inbronze; and already the evening stars hung like silver lamps in thetowering branches of that Tree of Life, brought more than twocenturies ago from its primeval Paradise in America, to beautify thegardens of the Palatinate. 

"I take a mournful pleasure in gazing at that tree, " saidFlemming, as they rose to depart. "It stands there so straight andtall, with iron bandsaround its noble trunk and limbs, in silentmajesty, or whispering only in its native tongue, and freighting thehomeward wind with sighs! It reminds me of some captive monarch of asavage tribe, brought over the vast ocean for a show, and chained inthe public market-place of the city, disdainfully silent, orbreathing only in melancholy accents a prayer for his native forest, a longing to be free. "

"Magnificent!" cried the Baron. "I always experience something ofthe same feeling when I walk through a conservatory. The luxuriantplants of the tropics, --those illustrious exotics, with theirgorgeous, flamingo-colored blossoms, and great, flapping leaves, like elephant's ears, --have a singular working upon my imagination;and remind me of a menagerie and wild-beasts kept in cages. But yourillustration is finer;--indeed, a grand figure. Put it down for anepic poem. "

CHAPTER IV. A BEER-SCANDAL. 

On their way homeward, Flemming and the Baron passed through anarrow lane, in which was a well-known Studenten-Kneipe. At the doorstood a young man, whom the Baron at once recognised as his friendVon Kleist. He was a student; and universally acknowledged, amonghis young acquaintance, as a "devilish handsome fellow";notwithstanding a tremendous scar on his cheek, and a cream-coloredmustache, as soft as the silk of Indian corn. In short he was arenowner, and a duellist. 

"What are you doing here, Von Kleist?"

"Ah, my dear Baron! Is it you? Come in; come in. You shall seesome sport. A Fox-Commerce is on foot, and a regularBeer-Scandal. "

"Shall we go in, Flemming?"

"Certainly. I should like to see how these things are managed inHeidelberg. You are a Baron, and I am a stranger. It is of noconsequence what you and I do, as the king's fool Angeli said to thepoet Bautru, urging him to put on his hat at the royaldinner-table. "

William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his Autobiography, that, when he was committed to the guard-room in White Hall, he thoughthimself in hell; for "some were sleeping, others swearing, otherssmoking tobacco; and in the chimney of the room there were twobushels of broken tobacco-pipes, and almost half a load of ashes. "What he would have thought if he had peeped into this HeidelbergStudenten-Kneipe, I know not. He certainly would not have thoughthimself in heaven; unless it were a Scandinavian heaven. The windowswere open; and yet so dense was the atmosphere with the smoke oftobacco, and the fumes of beer, that the tallow candles burnt butdimly. A crowd of students were sitting at three long tables, in thelarge hall; a medley of fellows, known at German Universities underthe cant names of Old-Ones, Mossy-Heads, Princes of Twilight, andPomatum-Stallions. They were smoking, drinking, singing, screaming, and discussing the great Laws of the Broad-Stone and the Gutter. They had a great deal to say, likewise, about Besens, and Zobels, and Poussades; and, if they had been charged for the noise theymade, as travellers used to be, in the old Dutch taverns, they wouldhave had a longer bill to pay for that, than for their beer. 

In a large arm-chair, upon the middle table, sat one of thosedistinguished individuals, known among German students as a Senior, or Leader of a Landsmannschaft. He was booted and spurred, and worea very small crimson cap, and a very tight blue jacket, and verylong hair, and a very dirty shirt. He was President of the night;and, as Flemming entered the hall with the Baron and his friend, striking upon the table with a mighty broadsword, he cried in a loudvoice;

"Silentium!"

At the same moment a door at the end of the hall was thrown open, and a procession of newcomers, or Nasty-Foxes, as they are called inthe college dialect, entered two by two, looking wild, and green, and foolish. As they came forward, they were obliged to pass under apair of naked swords, held cross-wise by two Old-Ones, who, withpieces of burnt cork, made an enormous pair of mustaches, on thesmooth, rosy cheeks of each, as he passed beneath this arch oftriumph. While the procession was entering the hall, the Presidentlifted up his voice again, and began to sing the well-knownFox-song, in the chorus of which all present joined lustily. 

What comes there from the hill?

What comes there from the hill?

What comes there from the leathery hill?

Ha! Ha!

Leathery hill!

What comes there from the hill?

It is a postilion!

It is a postilion!

It is a leathery postilion!

Ha! Ha!

Postilion!

It is a postilion!

What brings the postilion?

What brings the postilion?

What brings the leathery postilion?

Ha! Ha!

Postilion!

What brings the postilion?

He bringeth us a Fox!

He bringeth us a Fox!

He bringeth us a leathery Fox!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery Fox!

He bringeth us a Fox!

Your servant, Masters mine!

Your servant, Masters mine!

Your servant, much-honored Masters mine!

Ha! Ha!

Much-honored Masters mine!

Your servant, Masters mine!

How does the Herr Papa?

How does the Herr Papa?

How does the leathery Herr Papa?

Ha! Ha!

Herr Papa!

How does the Herr Papa?

He reads in Cicero!

He reads in Cicero!

He reads in leathery Cicero!

Ha! Ha!

Cicero!

He reads in Cicero!

How does the Frau Mama?

How does the Frau Mama?

How does the leathery Frau Mama?

Ha! Ha!

Frau Mama!

How does the Frau Mama?

She makes the Papa tea!

She makes the Papa tea!

She makes the Papa leathery tea!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery tea!

She makes the Papa tea!

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

How does the leathery Mamsell Sœur?

Ha! Ha!

Mamsell Sœur!

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

She knits the Papa stockings!

She knits the Papa stockings!

She knits the Papa leathery stockings!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery stockings!

She knits the Papa stockings!

How does the Herr Rector?

How does the Herr Rector?

How does the leathery Herr Rector?

Ha! Ha!

Herr Rector!

How does the Herr Rector?

He calls the scholar, Boy!

He calls the scholar, Boy!

He calls the scholar, leathery Boy!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery Boy!

He calls the scholar, Boy!

And smokes the Fox tobacco?

And smokes the Fox tobacco?

And smokes the leathery Fox tobacco?

Ha! Ha!

Fox tobacco!

And smokes the Fox tobacco?

A little, Masters mine!

A little, Masters mine!

A little, much-honored Masters mine!

Ha! Ha!

Much-honored Masters mine!

A little, Masters mine!

Then let him fill a pipe!

Then let him fill a pipe!

Then let him fill a leathery pipe!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery pipe!

Then let him fill a pipe!

O Lord! It makes me sick!

O Lord! It makes him sick!

O Lord! It makes me leathery sick!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery sick!

O Lord! It makes me sick!

Then let him throw it off!

Then let him throw it off!

Then let him throw it leathery off!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery off!

Then let him throw it off!

Now I again am well!

Now he again is well!

Now I again am leathery well!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery well!

Now I again am well!

So grows the Fox a Bursch!

So grows the Fox a Bursch!

So grows the leathery Fox a Bursch!

Ha! Ha!

Fox a Bursch!

So grows the Fox a Bursch!

At length the song was finished. Meanwhile large tufts and stripsof paper had been twisted into the hair of the Branders, as thoseare called who have been already one semestre at the University, andthen at a given signal were set on fire, and the Branders rode roundthe table on sticks, amid roars of laughter. When this ceremony wascompleted, the President rose from his chair, and in a solemn voicepronounced a long discourse, in which old college jokes were mingledwith much parental advice to young men on entering life, and thewhole was profusely garnished with select passages from the OldTestament. Then they all seated themselves at the table and theheavy beer-drinking set in, as among the Gods and Heroes of the oldNorthern mythology. 

"Brander! Brander!" screamed a youth, whose face was hot andflushed with supper and with beer; "Brander, I say? Thou art aDoctor! No, --a Pope;--thou art a Pope, by--"

These words were addressed to a pale, quiet-looking person, whosat opposite, and was busy in making a wretched, shaved poodle siton his hind legs in a chair, by his master's side, and hold a shortclay pipe in his mouth, --a performance to which the poodle seemed nowise inclined. 

"Thou art challenged!" replied the pale Student, turning from hisdog, who dropped the pipe from his mouth and leaped under thetable. 

Seconds were chosen on the spot; and the arms ordered; namely, six mighty goblets, or Bassgläser, filled to the brim with foamingbeer. Three were placed before each duellist. 

"Take your weapons!" cried one of the seconds, and each of thecombatants seized a goblet in his hand. 

"Strike!"

And the glasses rang, with a salutation like the crossing ofswords. 

"Set to!"

Each set the goblet to his lips. 

"Out!"

And each poured the contents down his throat, as if he werepouring them through a tunnel into a beer-barrel. The other twoglasses followed in quick succession, hardly a long breath drawnbetween. The pale Student was victorious. He was first to drain thethird goblet. He held it for a moment inverted, to let the lastdrops fall out, and then placing it quietly on the table, looked hisantagonist in the face, and said;

"Hit!"

Then, with the greatest coolness, he looked under the table andwhistled for his dog. His antagonist stopped midway in his thirdglass. Every vein in his forehead seemed bursting; his eyes werewild and bloodshot, his hand gradually loosened its hold upon thetable, and he sank and rolled together like a sheet of lead. He wasdrunk. 

At this moment a majestic figure came stalking down the table, ghost-like, through the dim, smoky atmosphere. His coat was off, hisneck bare, his hair wild, his eyes wide open, and looking rightbefore him, as if he saw some beckoning hand in the air, that otherscould not see. His left hand was upon his hip, and in his right heheld a drawn sword extended, and pointing downward. Regardless ofevery one, erect, and with a martial stride he marched directlyalong the centre of the table, crushing glasses and overthrowingbottles at everystep. The students shrunk back at his approach; tillat length one more drunk, or more courageous, than the rest, dasheda glass full of beer into his face. A general tumult ensued, and thestudent with the sword leaped to the floor. It was Von Kleist. Hewas renowning it. In the midst of the uproar could be distinguishedthe offensive words;

"Arrogant! Absurd! Impertinent! Dummer Junge!"

Von Kleist went home that night with no less than six duels onhis hands. He fought them all out in as many days; and came off withonly a gash through his upper lip and another through his righteyelid from a dexterous Suabian Schlaeger. 

CHAPTER V. THE WHITE LADY'S SLIPPER AND THE PASSION-FLOWER. 

That night Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber with a heavyheart, and her dusky eyes were troubled with tears. She was one ofthose gentle beings, who seem created only to love and to be loved. A shade of melancholy softened her character. She shunned the glareof daylight and of society, and wished to be alone. Like the eveningprimrose, her heart opened only after sunset; but bloomed throughthe dark night with sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the contrary, flaunted in the garish light of society. There was no sympathybetween them. Their souls never approached, never understood eachother, and words were often spoken which wounded deeply. Andtherefore Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber that night with tearsin her eyes. 

She was followed by her French chamber-maid, Madeleine, a nativeof Strassburg, who had grown old in the family. In her youth, shehad been poor, --and virtuous because she had never been tempted;and, now that she had grown old, and seen no immediate reward forher virtue, as is usual with weak minds, she despaired ofProvidence, and regretted she had never been tempted. Whilst thisunfortunate personage was lighting the wax tapers on the toilet, anddrawing the bed-curtains, and tattling about the room, Emma threwherself into an arm-chair, and, crossing her hands in her lap, andletting her head fall upon her bosom, seemed lost in a dream. 

"Why have these gentle feelings been given me!" said she in herheart. "Why have I been born with all these warm affections, --theseardent longings after what is good, if they lead only to sorrow anddisappointment? I would love some one;--love him once andforever;--devote myselfto him alone, --live for him, --die for him, --exist alone in him! But alas! in all this wide world there is noneto love me, as I would be loved, --none whom I may love, as I amcapable of loving. How empty, how desolate, seems the world aboutme! Why has Heaven given me these affections, only to fall andfade!"

Alas! poor child! thou too must learn like others, that thesublime mystery of Providence goes on in silence, and gives noexplanation of itself, --no answer to our impatient questionings!

"Bless me, child, what ails you?" exclaimed Madeleine, perceivingthat Emma paid no attention to her idle gossip. "When I was of yourage--"

"Do not talk to me now, good Madeleine. Leave me, I wish to bealone?"

"Well, here is something, " continued the maid, taking a billetfrom her bosom, "which I hope will enliven you. When I was of yourage--"

"Hush! hush!" said Emma, taking the billetfrom the hard hand ofMadeleine. "Once more I beg you, leave me! I wish to be alone!"

Madeleine took the lamp and retired slowly, wishing her youngmistress many good nights and rosy dreams. Emma broke the seal ofthe note. As she read, her face became deadly pale, and then, asquick as thought, a crimson blush gleamed on her cheek, and herhands trembled. Tenderness, pity, love, offended pride, the weaknessand dignity of woman, were all mingled in her look, changing andpassing over her fine countenance like cloud-shadows. She sunk backin her chair, covering her face with her hands, as if she would hideit from herself and Heaven. 

"He loves me!" said she to herself; "loves me; and is married toanother, whom he loves not! and dares to tell me this! O, never, --never, --never! And yet he is so friendless and alone in thisunsympathizing world, --and an exile, and homeless! I can but pityhim;--yet I hate him, and will see him no more!"

This short reverie of love and hate was brokenby the sound of aclear, mellow voice, which, in the universal stillness of the hour, seemed almost like the voice of a spirit. It was a voice, withoutthe accompaniment of any instrument, singing those sweet lines ofGoethe;

"Under the tree-tops is quiet now!

In all the woodlands hearest thou

Not a sound!

The little birds are asleep in the trees, Wait! wait! and soon like these, Sleepest thou!"

Emma knew the voice and started. She rushed to the window toclose it. It was a beautiful night, and the stars were shiningpeacefully over the mountain of All-Saints. The sound of the Neckarwas soft and low, and nightingales were singing among the brownshadows of the woods. The large red moon shone, like a ruby, in thehorizon's ample ring; and golden threads of light seemed braidedtogether with the rippling current of the river. Tall and spectralstood the white statues on the bridge. The outline of thehills, thecastle, the arches of the bridge, and the spires and roofs of thetown were as strongly marked as if cut out of pasteboard. Amid thisfairy scene, a little boat was floating silently down the stream. Emma closed the window hastily, and drew the curtains close. 

"I hate him; and yet I will pray for him, " said she, as she laidher weary head upon that pillow, from which, but a few monthsbefore, she thought she should never raise it again. "O, that I haddied then! I dare not love him, but I will pray for him!"

Sweet child! If the face of the deceiver comes so often betweenthee and Heaven, I tremble for thy fate! The plant that sprang fromHelen's tears destroyed serpents;--would that from thine mightspring up heart's-ease;--some plant, at least, to destroy theserpents in thy bosom. Believe me, upon the margin of celestialstreams alone, those simples grow, which cure the heartache!

And this the silent stars beheld, looking downfrom heaven, andtold it not again. This, likewise, the Frau Himmelhahn beheld, looking from her chamber-window, and was not so discreet as thesilent stars. 

CHAPTER VI. GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND. 

"There are many things, which, having no corporeal evidence, canbe perceived and comprehended only by the discursive energies ofreason. Hence the ambiguous nature of matter can be comprehendedonly by adulterated opinion. Matter is the principle of all bodies, and is stamped with the impression of forms. Fire, air, and waterderive their origin and principle from the scalene triangle. But theearth was created from right-angled triangles, of which two of thesides are equal. The sphere and the pyramid contain in themselvesthe figure of fire; but the octaedron was destined to be the figureof air, and the icosaedron of water. The right-angled isoscelestriangle produces from itself a square, andthe square generates fromitself the cube, which is the figure peculiar to earth. But thefigure of a beautiful and perfect sphere was imparted to the mostbeautiful and perfect world, that it might be indigent of nothing, but contain all things, embracing and comprehending them in itself, and thus might be excellent and admirable, similar to and in concordwith itself, ever moving musically and melodiously. If I use a novellanguage, excuse me. As Apuleius says, pardon must be granted tonovelty of words, when it serves to illustrate the obscurity ofthings. "

These words came from the lips of the lion-like philosopher, whohas been noticed before in these pages. He was sitting withFlemming, smoking a long pipe. As the Baron said, he was indeed astrange owl; for the owl is a grave bird; a monk, who chantsmidnight mass in the great temple of Nature;--an anchorite, --apillar saint, --the very Simeon Stylites of his neighbourhood. Such, likewise, was the philosophical Professor. Solitary, but with amighty current, flowed the river of his life, like the Nile, withouta tributary stream, and making fertile only a single strip in thevast desert. His temperament had been in youth a joyous one; andnow, amid all his sorrows and privations, for he had many, he lookedupon the world as a glad, bright, glorious world. On the many joysof life he gazed still with the eyes of childhood, from the far-gonePast upward, trusting, hoping;--and upon its sorrows with the eyesof age, from the distant Future, downward, triumphant, notdespairing. He loved solitude, and silence, and candle-light, andthe deep midnight. "For, " said he, "if the morning hours are thewings of the day, I only fold them about me to sleep more sweetly;knowing that, at its other extremity, the day, like the fowls of theair, has an epicurean morsel, --a parson's nose; and on this oilymidnight my spirit revels and is glad. "

Such was the Professor, who had been talking in ahalf-intelligible strain for two hours or more. The Baron had fallenfast asleep in his chair; but Flemming sat listening with excitedimagination, and the Professor continued in the following words, which, to the best of his listener's memory, seemed gleaned here andthere from Fichte's Destiny of Man, and Shubert's History of theSoul. 

"Life is one, and universal; its forms many and individual. Throughout this beautiful and wonderful creation there isnever-ceasing motion, without rest by night or day, ever weaving toand fro. Swifter than a weaver's shuttle it flies from Birth toDeath, from Death to Birth; from the beginning seeks the end, andfinds it not, for the seeming end is only a dim beginning of a newout-going and endeavour after the end. As the ice upon the mountain, when the warm breath of the summer sun breathes upon it, melts, anddivides into drops, each of which reflects an image of the sun; solife, in the smile of God's love, divides itself into separateforms, each bearing in it and reflecting an image of God's love. Ofall these forms the highest and most perfect inits god-likeness isthe human soul. The vast cathedral of Nature is full of holyscriptures, and shapes of deep, mysterious meaning; but all issolitary and silent there; no bending knee, no uplifted eye, no lipadoring, praying. Into this vast cathedral comes the human soul, seeking its Creator; and the universal silence is changed to sound, and the sound is harmonious, and has a meaning, and is comprehendedand felt. It was an ancient saying of the Persians, that the watersrush from the mountains and hurry forth into all the lands to findthe Lord of the Earth; and the flame of the Fire, when it awakes, gazes no more upon the ground, but mounts heavenward to seek theLord of Heaven; and here and there the Earth has built the greatwatch-towers of the mountains, and they lift their heads far up intothe sky, and gaze ever upward and around, to see if the Judge of theWorld comes not! Thus in Nature herself, without man, there lies awaiting, and hoping, a looking and yearning, after an unknownsomewhat. Yes; when, above there, where the mountain lifts its headover all others, that it may be alone with the clouds and storms ofheaven, the lonely eagle looks forth into the gray dawn, to see ifthe day comes not! when, by the mountain torrent, the brooding ravenlistens to hear if the chamois is returning from his nightly pasturein the valley; and when the soon uprising sun calls out the spicyodors of the thousand flowers, the Alpine flowers, with heaven'sdeep blue and the blush of sunset on their leaves;--then thereawakes in Nature, and the soul of man can see and comprehend it, anexpectation and a longing for a future revelation of God's majesty. It awakens, also, when in the fulness of life, field and forest restat noon, and through the stillness is heard only the song of thegrasshopper and the hum of the bee; and when at evening the singinglark, up from the sweet-smelling vineyards rises, or in the laterhours of night Orion puts on his shining armour, to walk forth inthe fields of heaven. But in the soul of man alone is this longingchanged to certainty and fulfilled. For lo! thelight of the sun andthe stars shines through the air, and is nowhere visible and seen;the planets hasten with more than the speed of the storm throughinfinite space, and their footsteps are not heard, but where thesunlight strikes the firm surface of the planets, where thestormwind smites the wall of the mountain cliff, there is the oneseen and the other heard. Thus is the glory of God made visible, andmay be seen, where in the soul of man it meets its likenesschangeless and firm-standing. Thus, then, stands Man;--a mountain onthe boundary between two worlds;--its foot in one, its summitfar-rising into the other. From this summit the manifold landscapeof life is visible, the way of the Past and Perishable, which wehave left behind us; and, as we evermore ascend, bright glimpses ofthe daybreak of Eternity beyond us!"

Flemming would fain have interrupted this discourse at times, toanswer and inquire, but the Professor went on, warming and glowingmore andmore. At length, there was a short pause, and Flemmingsaid;

"All these indefinite longings, --these yearnings after an unknownsomewhat, I have felt and still feel within me; but not yet theirfulfilment. "

"That is because you have not faith;" answered the Professor. "The Present is an age of doubt and disbelief, and darkness; out ofwhich shall arise a clear and bright Hereafter. In the second partof Goethe's Faust, there is a grand and striking scene, where in theclassical Walpurgis Night, on the Pharsalian Plains, the mockingMephistopheles sits down between the solemn antique Sphinxes, andboldly questions them, and reads their riddles. The red light ofinnumerable watch-fires glares all round about, and shines upon theterrible face of the arch-scoffer; while on either side, severe, majestic, solemnly serene, we behold the gigantic forms of thechildren of Chimæra, half buried in the earth, their mild eyesgazing fixedly, as if they heard through the midnight, theswift-rushing wings of the Stymphalides, striving to outstrip thespeed of Alcides' arrows! Angry griffins are near them; and not farare Sirens, singing their wondrous songs from the rocking branchesof the willow trees! Even thus does a scoffing and unbelievingPresent sit down, between an unknown Future and a too believingPast, and question and challenge the gigantic forms of faith, halfburied in the sands of Time, and gazing forward steadfastly into thenight, whilst sounds of anger and voices of delight alternate vexand soothe the ear of man!--But the time will come, when the soul ofman shall return again childlike and trustful to its faith in God;and look God in the face and die; for it is an old saying, full ofdeep, mysterious meaning, that he must die, who hath looked upon aGod. And this is the fate of the soul, that it should diecontinually. No sooner here on earth does it awake to its peculiarbeing, than it struggles to behold and comprehend the Spirit ofLife. In the first dim twilight of its existence, it beholds thisspirit, is pervaded by its energies, --is quick and creative likethespirit itself, and yet slumbers away into death after having seenit. But the image it has seen, remains, in the eternal procreation, as a homogeneal existence, is again renewed, and the seeming death, from moment to moment, becomes the source of kind after kind ofexistences in ever-ascending series. The soul aspires ever onward tolove and to behold. It sees the image more perfect in thebrightening twilight of the dawn, in the ever higher-rising sun. Itsleeps again, dying in the clearer vision; but the image seenremains as a permanent kind; and the slumberer awakes anew and everhigher after its own image, till at length, in the full blaze ofnoonday, a being comes forth, which, like the eagle, can behold thesun and die not. Then both live on, even when this bodily element, the mist and vapor through which the young eagle gazed, dissolvesand falls to earth. "

"I am not sure that I understand you, " said Flemming; "but if Ido, you mean to say, that, as the body continually changes and takesunto itselfnew properties, and is not the same to-day as yesterday, so likewise the soul lays aside its idiosyncrasies, and is changedby acquiring new powers, and thus may be said to die. And hence, properly speaking, the soul lives always in the Present, and has, and can have, no Future; for the Future becomes the Present, and thesoul that then lives in me is a higher and more perfect soul; and soonward forevermore. "

"I mean what I say, " continued the Professor; "and can find nomore appropriate language to express my meaning than that which Ihave used. But as I said before, pardon must be granted to thenovelty of words, when it serves to illustrate the obscurity ofthings. And I think you will see clearly from what I have said, thatthis earthly life, when seen hereafter from heaven, will seem likean hour passed long ago, and dimly remembered;--that long, laborious, full of joys and sorrows as it is, it will then havedwindled down to a mere point, hardly visible to the far-reachingken of the disembodied spirit. But the spirit itself soars onward. And thus death is neither an end nor a beginning. It is a transitionnot from one existence to another, but from one state of existenceto another. No link is broken in the chain of being; any more thanin passing from infancy to manhood, from manhood to old age. Thereare seasons of reverie and deep abstraction, which seem to meanalogous to death. The soul gradually loses its consciousness ofwhat is passing around it; and takes no longer cognizance of objectswhich are near. It seems for the moment to have dissolved itsconnexion with the body. It has passed as it were into another stateof being. It lives in another world. It has flown over lands andseas; and holds communion with those it loves, in distant regions ofthe earth, and the more distant heaven. It sees familiar faces, andhears beloved voices, which to the bodily senses are no longervisible and audible. And this likewise is death; save that when wedie, the soul returns no more to the dwelling it has left. "

"You seem to take it for granted, " interrupted Flemming, "that, inour reveries, the soul really goes out of the body into distantplaces, instead of summoning up their semblance within itself by thepower of memory and imagination!"

"Something I must take for granted, " replied the Professor. "Wewill not discuss that point now. I speak not without forethought. Just observe what a glorious thing human life is, when seen in thislight; and how glorious man's destiny. I am; thou art; he is! seemsbut a school-boy's conjugation. But therein lies a great mystery. These words are significant of much. We behold all round about usone vast union, in which no man can labor for himself withoutlaboring at the same time for all others; a glimpse of truth, whichby the universal harmony of things becomes an inward benediction, and lifts the soul mightily upward. Still more so, when a manregards himself as a necessary member of this union. The feeling ofour dignity and our power grows strong, when we say to ourselves; Mybeing is not objectless and in vain; I am a necessary link in thegreat chain, which, from the full development of consciousness inthe first man, reaches forward into eternity. All the great, andwise, and good among mankind, all the benefactors of the human race, whose names I read in the world's history, and the still greaternumber of those, whose good deeds have outlived their names, --allthose have labored for me. I have entered into their harvest. I walkthe green earth, which they inhabited. I tread in their footsteps, from which blessings grow. I can undertake the sublime task, whichthey once undertook, the task of making our common brotherhood wiserand happier. I can build forward, where they were forced to leaveoff; and bring nearer to perfection the great edifice which theyleft uncompleted. And at length I, too, must leave it, and go hence. O, this is the sublimest thought of all! I can never finish thenoble task; therefore, so sure as this task is my destiny, I cannever cease to work, and consequently never cease to be. What mencall death cannot break off this task, which is never-ending;consequently no periodis set to my being, and I am eternal. I liftmy head boldly to the threatening mountain peaks, and to the roaringcataract, and to the storm-clouds swimming in the fire-sea overheadand say; I am eternal, and defy your power! Break, break over me!and thou Earth, and thou Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult! and yeElements foam and rage, and destroy this atom of dust, --this body, which I call mine! My will alone, with its fixed purpose, shallhover brave and triumphant over the ruins of the universe; for Ihave comprehended my destiny; and it is more durable than ye! It iseternal; and I, who recognise it, I likewise am eternal! Tell me, myfriend, have you no faith in this?"

"I have;" answered Flemming, and there was another pause. He thensaid;

"I have listened to you patiently and without interruption. Nowlisten to me. You complain of the skepticism of the age. This is oneform in which the philosophic spirit of the age presents itself. Letme tell you, that another form, whichit assumes, is that of poeticreverie. Plato of old had dreams like these; and the Mystics of theMiddle Ages; and still their disciples walk in the cloud-land anddream-land of this poetic philosophy. Pleasant and cool upon theirsouls lie the shadows of the trees under which Plato taught. Fromtheir whispering leaves comes wafted across the noise of populouscenturies a solemn and mysterious sound, which to them is the voiceof the Soul of the World. All nature has become spiritualized andtransfigured; and, wrapt in beautiful, vague dreams of the real andthe ideal, they live in this green world, like the little child inthe German tale, who sits by the margin of a woodland lake, andhears the blue heaven and the branches overhead dispute with theirreflection in the water, which is the reality and which the image. Iwillingly confess, that such day-dreams as these appeal strongly tomy imagination. Visitants and attendants are they of those loftysouls, which, soaring ever higher and higher, build themselves nestsunder the very eaves of the stars, forgetful that theycannot live onair, but must descend to earth for food. Yet I recognise them asday-dreams only; as shadows, not substantial things. What I mainlydislike in the New Philosophy, is the cool impertinence with whichan old idea, folded in a new garment, looks you in the face andpretends not to know you, though you have been familiar friends fromchildhood. I remember an English author who, in speaking of yourGerman Philosophies, says very wisely; `Often a proposition ofinscrutable and dread aspect, when resolutely grappled with, andtorn from its shady den, and its bristling entrenchments of uncouthterminology, --and dragged forth into the open light of day, to beseen by the natural eye and tried by merely human understanding, proves to be a very harmless truth, familiar to us from old, sometimes so familiar as to be a truism. Too frequently the anxiousnovice is reminded of Dryden in the Battle of the Books; there is ahelmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic; and within it, at thefarthest corner, is a head no bigger than a walnut. '--Can youbelieve, thatthese words ever came from the lips of Carlyle! He hashimself taken up the uncouth terminology of late; and many pure, simple minds are much offended at it. They seem to take it as apersonal insult. They are angry; and deny the just meed of praise. It is, however, hardly worth while to lose our presence of mind. Letus rather profit as we may, even from this spectacle, and recognisethe monarch in his masquerade. For, hooded and wrapped about withthat strange and antique garb, there walks a kingly, a most royalsoul, even as the Emperor Charles walked amid solemn cloisters undera monk's cowl;--a monarch still in soul. Such things are not new inthe history of the world. Ever and anon they sweep over the earth, and blow themselves out soon, and then there is quiet for a season, and the atmosphere of Truth seems more serene. Why would you preachto the wind? Why reason with thunder-showers? Better sit quiet, andsee them pass over like a pageant, cloudy, superb, and vast. "

The Professor smiled self-complacently, but said not a word. Flemming continued;

"I will add no more than this;--there are many speculations inLiterature, Philosophy, and Religion, which, though pleasant to walkin, and lying under the shadow of great names, yet lead to noimportant result. They resemble rather those roads in the westernforests of my native land, which, though broad and pleasant atfirst, and lying beneath the shadow of great branches, finallydwindle to a squirrel track, and run up a tree!"

The Professor hardly knew whether he should laugh or be offendedat this sally; and, laying his hand upon Flemming's arm, he saidseriously;

"Believe me, my young friend, the time will come, when you willthink more wisely on these things. And with you, I trust, that timewill soon come; since it moves more speedily with some than withothers. For what is Time? The shadow on the dial, --the striking ofthe clock, --the running of the sand, --day and night, --summerandwinter, --months, years, centuries! These are but arbitrary andoutward signs, --the measure of Time, not Time itself! Time is theLife of the Soul. If not this, then tell me what it is?"

The high and animated tone of voice in which the Professoruttered these words aroused the Baron from his sleep; and, notdistinctly comprehending what was said, but thinking the Professorasked what time it was, he innocently exclaimed;

"I should think it must be near midnight!"

This somewhat disconcerted the Professor, who took his leave soonafterward. When he was gone the Baron said;

"Excuse me for treating your guest so cavalierly. Histranscendentalism annoyed me not a little; and I took refuge insleep. One would think, to judge by the language of this sect, thatthey alone saw any beauty in Nature; and, when I hear one of themdiscourse, I am instantly reminded of Goethe's Baccalaureus, when heexclaims; `The world was not before I created it; Ibrought the sunup out of the sea; with me began the changeful course of the moon;the day decked itself on my account; the earth grew green andblossomed to meet me; at my nod in that first night, the pomp of allthe stars developed itself; who but I set you free from all thebonds of Philisterlike, contracting thoughts? I, however, emancipated as my mind assures me I am, gladly pursue my inwardlight, advance boldly in a transport peculiarly my own, the brightbefore me, and the dark behind!'--Do you not see a resemblance? O, they might be modest enough to confess, that one straggling ray oflight may, by some accident, reach the blind eyes of even us poor, benighted heathens?"

"Alas! how little veneration we have!" said Flemming. "I couldnot help closing the discussion with a jest. An ill-timed levityoften takes me by surprise. On all such occasions I think of a sceneat the University, where, in the midst of a grave discussion on thepossibility of Absolute Motion, a scholar said he had seen a rocksplitopen, from which sprang a toad, who could not be supposed tohave any knowledge of the external world, and consequently hismotion must have been absolute. The learned Professor, who presidedon that occasion, was hardly more startled and astonished, than wasour learned Professor, five minutes ago. But come; wind up yourwatch, and let us go to bed. "

"By the way, " said the Baron, "did you mind what a curious headhe has. There are two crowns upon it. "

"That is a sign, " replied Flemming, "that he will eat his breadin two kingdoms. "

"I think the poor man would be very thankful, " said the Baronwith a smile, "if he were always sure of eating it in one. He iswhat the Transcendentalists call a god-intoxicated man; and I advisehim, as Sauteul advised Bossuet, to go to Patmos and write a newApocalypse. "

CHAPTER VII. MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS. 

A few days after this the Baron received letters from his sister, telling him, that her physicians had prescribed a few weeks at theBaths of Ems, and urging him to meet her there before thefashionable season. 

"Come, " said he to Flemming; "make this short journey with me. Wewill pass a few pleasant days at Ems, and visit the otherwatering-places of Nassau. It will drive away the melancholyday-dreams that haunt you. Perhaps some future bride is even nowwaiting for you, with dim presentiments and undefined longings, atthe Serpent's Bath. "

"Or some widow of Ems, with a cork-leg!" said Flemming, smiling;and then added, in a toneof voice half jest, half earnest, "Certainly; let us go in pursuit of her;--

`Whoe'er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me. 

Where'er she lie, Hidden from mortal eye, In shady leaves of destiny. '"

They started in the afternoon for Frankfort, pursuing their wayslowly along the lovely Bergstrasse, famed throughout Germany forits beauty. They passed the ruined house where Martin Luther layconcealed after the Diet of Worms, and through the village ofHandschuhsheimer, as old as the days of King Pepin the Short, --ahamlet, lying under the hills, half-buried in blossoms and greenleaves. Close on the right rose the mountains of the mysteriousOdenwald; and on the left lay the Neckar, like a steel bow in themeadow. Farther westward, a thin, smoky vapor betrayed the course ofthe Rhine; beyond which, like a troubled sea, ran the blue, billowy Alsatian hills. Song of birds, and sound of evening bells, and fragrance of sweet blossoms filled the air; and silent and slowsank the broad red sun, half-hidden amid folding clouds. 

"We shall not pass the night at Weinheim, " said the Baron to thepostilion, who had dismounted to walk up the hill, leading to thetown. "You may drive to the mill in the Valley of Birkenau. "

The postilion seized one of his fat horses by the tail, and swunghimself up to his seat again. They rattled through the paved streetsof Weinheim, and took no heed of the host of the Golden Eagle, whostood so invitingly at the door of his own inn; and the ruins ofBurg Windeck, above there, on its mountain throne, frowned at themfor hurrying by, without staying to do him homage. 

"The old ruin looks well from the valley, " said the Baron; "butlet us beware of climbing that steep hill. Most travellers are likechildren; they must needs touch whatever they behold. They climb upto every old broken tooth of acastle, which they find on theirway;--get a toilsome ascent and hot sunshine for their pains, andcome down wearied and disappointed. I trust we are wiser. "

They crossed the bridge, and turned up the stream, passing underan arch of stone, which serves as a gateway to this enchanted Valleyof Birkenau. A cool and lovely valley! shut in by highhills;--shaded by alder-trees and tall poplars, under which rushesthe Wechsnitz, a noisy mountain brook, that ever and anon puts itsbroad shoulder to the wheel of a mill, and shows that it can laboras well as laugh. At one of these mills they stopped for thenight. 

A mill forms as characteristic a feature in the romantic Germanlandscape, as in the romantic German tale. It is not only a mill, but likewise an ale-house and rural inn; so that the associations itsuggests are not of labor only, but also of pleasure. It stands inthe narrow defile, with its picturesque, thatched roof; thitherthrong thepeasants, of a holiday; and there are rustic dances underthe trees. 

In the twilight of the fast-approaching summer night, the Baronand Flemming walked forth along the borders of the stream. As theyheard it, rushing and gushing among the stones and tangled roots, and the great wheel turning in the current, with its never-ceasingplash! plash! it brought to their minds that exquisite, simple songof Goethe, the Youth and the Mill-brook. It was for the moment anymph, which sang to them in the voice of the waters. 

"I am persuaded, " said Flemming, "that, in order fully tounderstand and fell the popular poetry of Germany, one must befamiliar with the German landscape. Many sweet little poems are theoutbreaks of momentary feelings;--words, to which the song of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the gurgle of cool waters form theappropriate music. Or perhaps I should say they are words, which manhas composed to the music of nature. Can you not, even now, hearthis brooklet tellingyou how it is on its way to the mill, where atday-break the miller's daughter opens her window, and comes down tobathe her face in its stream, and her bosom is so full and white, that it kindles the glow of love in the cool waters!"

"A most delightful ballad, truly, " said the Baron. "But like manyothers of our little songs, it requires a poet to fell andunderstand it. Sing them in the valley and woodland shadows, andunder the leafy roofs of garden walks, and at night, and alone, asthey were written. Sing them not in the loud world, --for the loudworld laughs such things to scorn. It is Mueller who says, in thatlittle song, where the maiden bids the moon good evening;

`This song was made to be sung at night, And he who reads it in broad daylight, Will never read the mystery right;

And yet it is childlike easy!'

He has written a great many pretty songs, in which the momentary, indefinite longings and impulses of the soul of man find anexpression. Hecalls them the songs of a Wandering Horn-player. Thereis one among them much to our present purpose. He expresses in it, the feeling of unrest and desire of motion, which the sight andsound of running waters often produce in us. It is entitled, `Whither?' and is worth repeating to you. 

`I heard a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing, So fresh and wondrous clear. 

`I know not what came o'er me, Nor who the counsel gave;

But I must hasten downward, All with my pilgrim-stave. 

`Downward, and ever farther, And ever the brook beside;

And ever fresher murmured, And ever clearer the tide. 

`Is this the way I was going?

Whither, O brooklet, say!

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, Murmured my senses away. 

`What do I say of a murmur?

That can no murmur be;

'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing

Their roundelays under me. 

`Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, And wander merrily near;

The wheels of a mill are going

In every brooklet clear. '"

"There you have the poetic reverie, " said Flemming, "and the dullprose commentary and explanation in matter of fact. The song ispretty; and was probably suggested by some such scene as this, whichwe are now beholding. Doubtless all your old national traditionssprang up in the popular mind as this song in the poet's. "

"Your opinion is certainly correct, " answered the Baron; "and yetall this play of poetic fancy does not prevent me from feeling thechill night air, and the pangs of hunger. Let us go back to themill, and see what our landlady has for supper. Did you observe whata loud, sharp voice she has?"

"People always have, who live in mills, and nearwater-falls. "

On the following morning they emerged unwillingly from the green, dark valley, and journeyed along the level highway to Frankfort, where in the evening they heard the glorious Don Giovanni of Mozart. Of all operas this was Flemming's favorite. What rapturous flightsof sound! what thrilling, pathetic chimes! what wild, joyous revelryof passion! what a delirium of sense!--what an expression of agonyand woe! all the feelings of suffering and rejoicing humanitysympathized with and finding a voice in those tones. Flemming andthe Baron listened with ever-increasing delight. 

"How wonderful this is!" exclaimed Flemming, transported by hisfeelings. "How the chorus swells and dies, like the wind of summer!How those passages of mysterious import seem to wave to and fro, like the swaying branches of trees; from which anon some solitarysweetvoice darts off like a bird, and floats away and revels in thebright, warm sunshine! And then mark! how, amid the chorus of ahundred voices and a hundred instruments, --of flutes, and drums, andtrumpets, --this universal shout and whirl-wind of the vexed air, youcan so clearly distinguish the melancholy vibration of a singlestring, touched by the finger, --a mournful, sobbing sound! Ah, thisis indeed human life! where in the rushing, noisy crowd, and amidsounds of gladness, and a thousand mingling emotions, distinctlyaudible to the ear of thought, are the pulsations of some melancholystring of the heart, touched by an invisible hand. "

Then came, in the midst of these excited feelings, the ballet;drawing its magic net about the soul. And soon, from the tangled yetharmonious mazes of the dance, came forth a sylph-like form, herscarf floating behind her, as if she were fanning the air withgauze-like wings. Noiseless as a feather or a snow-flake falls, didher feet touch the earth. She seemed to floatin the air, and thefloor to bend and wave under her, as a branch, when a bird alightsupon it, and takes wing again. Loud and rapturous applause followedeach wonderful step, each voluptuous movement; and, with a flushedcheek and burning eye, and bosom panting to be free, stood thegracefully majestic figure for a moment still, and then the wingedfeet of the swift dancing-girls glanced round her, and she was lostagain in the throng. 

"How truly exquisite this is!" exclaimed the Baron, after joiningloudly in the applause. "What a noble figure! What grace! whatattitudes! How much soul in every motion! how much expression inevery gesture! I assure you, it produces upon me the same effect asa beautiful poem. It is a poem. Every step is a word; and the wholetogether a poem!"

The Baron and Flemming were delighted with the scene; and at thesame time exceedingly amused with the countenance of an old prude inthe next box, who seemed to look upon the wholemagic show, with suchfeelings as Michal, Saul's daughter, experienced, when she lookedfrom her window and saw King David dancing and leaping with hisscanty garments. 

"After all, " said Flemming, "the old French priest was not so farout of the way, when he said, in his coarse dialect, that the danceis the Devil's procession; and paint and ornaments, the whetting ofthe devil's sword; and the ring that is made in dancing, the devil'sgrindstone, whereon he sharpens his sword; and finally, that aballet is the pomp and mass of the Devil, and whosoever entereththerein, entereth into his pomp and mass; for the woman who singethis the prioress of the Devil, and they that answer are clerks, andthey that look on are parishioners, and the cymbals and flutes arethe bells, and the musicians that play are the ministers, of theDevil. "

"No doubt this good lady near us, thinks so likewise, " answeredthe Baron laughing; "but she likes it, for all that. "

When the play was over the Baron begged Flemming to sit still, till the crowd had gone. 

"I have a strange fancy, " said he, "whenever I come to thetheatre, to see the end of all things. When the crowd is gone, andthe curtain raised again to air the house, and the lamps are allout, save here and there one behind the scenes, the contrast withwhat has gone before is most impressive. Every thing wears adream-like aspect. The empty boxes and stalls, --the silence, --thesmoky twilight, and the magic scene dismantled, produce in me astrange, mysterious feeling. It is like a dim reflection of atheatre in water, or in a dusty mirror; and reminds me of some ofHoffmann's wild Tales. It is a practical moral lesson, --acommentary on the play, and makes the show complete. "

It was truly as he said; only tenfold more desolate, solemn, andimpressive; and produced upon the mind the effect we experience, when slumber is suddenly broken, and dreams and realities mingle, and we know not yet whether we sleep or wake. As they at lengthpassed out through the dimly-lighted passage, they heard avulgar-looking fellow, with a sensual face and shaggy whiskers, sayto some persons who were standing near him, and seemed to behangers-on of the play-house;

"I shall run her six nights at Munich, and then take her on toVienna. "

Flemming thought he was speaking of some favorite horse. He wasspeaking of his beautiful wife, the ballet-dancer. 

CHAPTER VIII. OLD HUMBUG. 

What most interested our travellers in the ancient city ofFrankfort, was neither the opera nor the Ariadne of Dannecker, butthe house in which Goethe was born, and the scenes he frequented inhis childhood, and remembered in his old age. Such for example arethe walks around the city, outside the moat; the bridge over theMaine, with the golden cock on the cross, which the poet beheld andmarvelled at when a boy; the cloister of the Barefooted Friars, through which he stole with mysterious awe to sit by theoilcloth-covered table of old Rector Albrecht; and the garden inwhich his grandfather walked up and down among fruit-trees androse-bushes, in long morning gown, black velvet cap, and the antiqueleather gloves, which he annually received as Mayor onPipers-Doomsday, representing a kind of middle personage betweenAlcinous and Laertes. Thus, O Genius! are thy foot-prints hallowed;and the star shines forever over the place of thy nativity. 

"Your English critics may rail as they list, " said the Baron, while he and Flemming were returning from a stroll in the leafygardens, outside the moat; "but, after all, Goethe was a magnificentold fellow. Only think of his life; his youth of passion, alternately aspiring and desponding, stormy, impetuous, headlong;--his romantic manhood, in which passion assumes the formof strength; assiduous, careful, toiling, without haste, withoutrest; and his sublime old age, --the age of serene and classicrepose, where he stands like Atlas, as Claudian has painted him inthe Battle of the Giants, holding the world aloft upon his head, theocean-streams hard frozen in his hoary locks. "

"A good illustration of what the world calls hisindifferentism. "

"And do you know I rather like this indifferentism? Did you neverhave the misfortune to live in a community, where a difficulty inthe parish seemed to announce the end of the world? or to know oneof the benefactors of the human race, in the very `storm andpressure period' of his indiscreet enthusiasm? If you have, I thinkyou will see something beautiful in the calm and dignified attitudewhich the old philosopher assumes. "

"It is a pity, that his admirers had not a little of thisphilosophic coolness. It amuses me to read the various epithets, which they apply to him; The Dear, dear Man! The Life-enjoying Man!The All-sided One! The Representative of Poetry upon earth! TheMany-sided Master-Mind of Germany! His enemies rush into the otherextreme, and hurl at him the fierce names of Old Humbug! and OldHeathen! which hit like pistol-bullets. "

"I confess, he was no saint. "

"No; his philosophy is the old ethnic philosophy. You will findit all in a convenient andconcentrated, portable form in Horace'sbeautiful Ode to Thaliarcus. What I most object to in the oldgentleman is his sensuality. "

"O nonsense. Nothing can be purer than the Iphigenia; it is ascold and passionless as a marble statue. "

"Very true; but you cannot say the same of some of the RomanElegies and of that monstrous book the Elective Affinities. "

"Ah, my friend, Goethe is an artist; and looks upon all things asobjects of art merely. Why should he not be allowed to copy in wordswhat painters and sculptors copy in colors and in marble?"

"The artist shows his character in the choice of his subject. Goethe never sculptured an Apollo, nor painted a Madonna. He givesus only sinful Magdalens and rampant Fauns. He does not so muchidealize as realize. "

"He only copies nature. "

"So did the artists, who made the bronzelamps of Pompeii. Wouldyou hang one of those in your hall? To say that a man is an artistand copies nature is not enough. There are two great schools of art;the imitative and the imaginative. The latter is the most noble, andmost enduring; and Goethe belonged rather to the former. Have youread Menzel's attack upon him?"

"It is truly ferocious. The Suabian hews into him lustily. I hopeyou do not side with him. "

"By no means. He goes too far. He blames the poet for not being apolitician. He might as well blame him for not being a missionary tothe Sandwich Islands. "

"And what do you think of Eckermann?"

"I think he is a toady; a kind of German Boswell. Goethe knew hewas drawing his portrait, and attitudinized accordingly. He worksvery hard to make a Saint Peter out of an old Jupiter, as theCatholics did at Rome. "

"Well; call him Old Humbug, or Old Heathen, or what you please; Imaintain, that, with all his errors and short-comings, he was aglorious specimen of a man. "

"He certainly was. Did it ever occur to you that he was in somepoints like Ben Franklin? a kind of rhymed Ben Franklin? Thepractical tendency of his mind was the same; his love of science wasthe same; his benignant, philosophic spirit was the same; and a vastnumber of his little poetic maxims and sooth-sayings seem nothingmore than the worldly wisdom of Poor Richard, versified. "

"What most offends me is, that now every German jackass must havea kick at the dead lion. "

"And every one who passes through Weimar must throw a book uponhis grave, as travellers did of old a stone upon the grave ofManfredi, at Benevento. But, of all that has been said or sung, whatmost pleases me is Heine's Apologetic, if I may so call it; in whichhe says, that the minor poets, who flourished under theimperialreign of Goethe `resemble a young forest, where the treesfirst show their own magnitude after the oak of a hundred years, whose branches had towered above and overshadowed them, has fallen. There was not wanting an opposition, that strove against Goethe, this majestic tree. Men of the most warring opinions unitedthemselves for the contest. The adherents of the old faith, theorthodox, were vexed, that, in the trunk of the vast tree, no nichewith its holy image was to be found; nay, that even the naked Dryadsof paganism were permitted to play their witchery there; and gladly, with consecrated axe, would they have imitated the holy Boniface, and levelled the enchanted oak to the ground. The followers of thenew faith, the apostles of liberalism, were vexed on the other hand, that the tree could not serve as the Tree of Liberty, or, at anyrate, as a barricade. In fact the tree was too high; no one couldplant the red cap upon its summit, or dance the Carmagnole beneathits branches. The multitude, however, venerated this tree for theveryreason, that it reared itself with such independent grandeur, and so graciously filled the world with its odor, while itsbranches, streaming magnificently toward heaven, made it appear, asif the stars were only the golden fruit of its wondrous limbs. 'Don't you think that beautiful?"

"Yes, very beautiful. And I am glad to see, that you can findsomething to admire in my favorite author, notwithstanding hisfrailties; or, to use an old German saying, that you can drive thehens out of the garden without trampling down the beds. "

"Here is the old gentleman himself!" exclaimed Flemming. 

"Where!" cried the Baron, as if for the moment he expected to seethe living figure of the poet walking before them. 

"Here at the window, --that full-length cast. Excellent, is itnot! He is dressed, as usual, in his long yellow nankeen surtout, with a white cravat crossed in front. What a magnificent head! andwhat a posture! He stands like a tower ofstrength. And, by Heavens!he was nearly eighty years old, when that was made. "

"How do you know?"

"You can see by the date on the pedestal. "

"You are right. And yet how erect he stands, with his squareshoulders braced back, and his hands behind him. He looks as if hewere standing before the fire. I feel tempted to put a live coalinto his hand, it lies so invitingly half-open. Gleim's descriptionof him, soon after he went to Weimar, is very different from this. Do you recollect it?"

"No, I do not. "

"It is a story, which good old father Gleim used to tell withgreat delight. He was one evening reading the GöttingenMusen-Almanach in a select society at Weimar, when a young man camein, dressed in a short, green shooting-jacket, booted and spurred, and having a pair of brilliant, black, Italian eyes. He in turnoffered to read; but finding probably the poetry of theMusen-Almanach of that year rather too insipid for him, he soon beganto improvise the wildest and most fantastic poems imaginable, and inall possible forms and measures, all the while pretending to readfrom the book. `That is either Goethe or the Devil, ' said good oldfather Gleim to Wieland, who sat near him. To which the `Great I ofOsmannstadt' replied; `It is both, for he has the Devil in himto-night; and at such times he is like a wanton colt, that flingsout before and behind, and you will do well not to go too near him!'"

"Very good!"

"And now that noble figure is but mould. Only a few months ago, those majestic eyes looked for the last time on the light of apleasant spring morning. Calm, like a god, the old man sat; and witha smile seemed to bid farewell to the light of day, on which he hadgazed for more than eighty years. Books were near him, and the penwhich had just dropped, as it were from his dying fingers. `Open theshutters, and let in more light!' were the last words that came fromthose lips. Slowly stretching forth his hand, he seemed to writeinthe air; and, as it sank down again and was motionless, the spiritof the old man departed. "

"And yet the world goes on. It is strange how soon, when a greatman dies, his place is filled; and so completely, that he seems nolonger wanted. But let us step in here. I wish to buy that cast; andsend it home to a friend. "

CHAPTER IX. THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS, AND THE FALLING STAR. 

After lingering a day or two in Frankfort, the two friends struckacross through Hochheim to the Rhine, and then up among the hills ofthe Rheingau to Schlangenbad, where they tarried only to bathe, andto dine; and then pursued their way to Langenschwalbach. The townlies in a valley, with gently-sloping hills around it, and longavenues of poplars leading forth into the fields. One interminablestreet cuts the town in twain, and there are old houses with curiousfaces carved upon their fronts, and dates of the olden time. 

Our travellers soon sallied forth from their hotel, impatient todrink the strength-giving watersof the fountains. They continuedtheir walk far up the valley under the poplars. The new grain waswaving in the fields; the birds singing in the trees and in the air;and every thing seemed glad, save a poor old man, who came totteringout of the woods, with a heavy bundle of sticks on hisshoulders. 

Returning upon their steps, they passed down the valley andthrough the long street to the tumble-down old Lutheran church. Aflight of stone steps leads from the street to the green terrace orplatform on which the church stands, and which, in ancient times, was the churchyard, or as the Germans more devoutly say, God's-acre;where generations are scattered like seeds, and that which is sownin corruption shall be raised hereafter in incorruption. On thesteps stood an old man, --a very old man, --holding a little girl bythe hand. He took off his greasy cap as they passed, and wished themgood day. His teeth were gone; he could hardly articulate asyllable. The Baron asked him how old the church was. Hegave noanswer; but when the question was repeated, came close up to them, and taking off his cap again, turned his ear attentively, andsaid;

"I am hard of hearing. "

"Poor old man, " said Flemming; "He is as much a ruin as thechurch we are entering. It will not be long before he, too, shall besown as seed in this God's-acre!"

The little girl ran into a house close at hand, and brought outthe great key. The church door swung open, and, descending a fewsteps, they passed through a low-roofed passage into the church. Allwas in ruin. The gravestones in the pavement were started from theirplaces; the vaults beneath yawned; the roof above was fallingpiecemeal; there were rents in the old tower; and mysteriouspassages, and side doors with crazy flights of wooden steps, leadingdown into the churchyard. Amid all this ruin, one thing only stooderect; it was a statue of a knight in armour, standing in a nicheunder the pulpit. 

"Who is this?" said Flemming to the old sexton; "who is this, that stands here so solemnly in marble, and seems to be keepingguard over the dead men below?"

"I do not know, " replied the old man; "but I have heard mygrandfather say it was the statue of a great warrior!"

"There is history for you!" exclaimed the Baron. "There is fame!To have a statue of marble, and yet have your name forgotten by thesexton of your parish, who can remember only, that he once heard hisgrandfather say, that you were a great warrior!"

Flemming made no reply, for he was thinking of the days, whenfrom that old pulpit, some bold reformer thundered down the firsttidings of a new doctrine, and the roof echoed with the grand oldhymns of Martin Luther. 

When he communicated his thoughts to the Baron, the only answerhe received was;

"After all, what is the use of so much preaching? Do you thinkthe fishes, that heard the sermon of St. Anthony, were any betterthan thosewho did not? I commend to your favorable notice thefish-sermon of this saint, as recorded by Abraham à Santa Clara. Youwill find it in your favorite Wonder-Horn. "

Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach; and the evening at theAllée-Saal was quite solitary; for as yet no company had arrived tofill its chambers, or sit under the trees before the door. The nextmorning even Flemming and the Baron were gone; for the German'sheart was beating with strong desire to embrace his sister; and theheart of his friend cared little whither he went, sobeit he were nottoo much alone. 

After a few hours' drive, they were looking down from the summitof a hill right upon the house-tops of Ems. There it lay, deep sunkin the hollow beneath them, as if some inhabitant of Sirius, likehim spoken of in Voltaire's tale of Micromegas, held it in thehollow of his hand. High and peaked rise the hills, that throw theirshadows into this romantic valley, and at their base winds the riverLahn. Our travellersdrove through the one long street, composedentirely of hotels and lodging-houses. Sick people looked out of thewindows, as they passed. Others were walking leisurely up and down, beneath the few decapitated trees, which represent a publicpromenade; and a boy, with a blue frock and crimson cap, was drivingthree donkeys down the street. In short, they were in a fashionablewatering-place; as yet sprinkled only by a few pattering drops ofthe summer rain of strangers, which generally follows the first hotdays. 

On alighting at the London Hotel, the Baron found--not hissister, but only a letter from her, saying she had changed her mindand gone to the Baths of Franconia. This was a disappointment, whichthe Baron pocketed with the letter, and said not a word more abouteither. It was his way; his life-philosophy in small things andgreat. In the evening, they went to an æsthetic tea, at the house ofthe Frau Kranich, the wife of a rich banker of Frankfort. 

"I must tell you about this Frau Kranich, " said the Baron toFlemming, on the way. "She is a woman of talent and beauty, and justin the prime of life. But, unfortunately, very ambitious. Her maniais, to make a figure in the fashionable world; and to this end shemarried a rich banker of Frankfort, old enough to be her father, notto say her grandfather, hoping, doubtless, that he would soon die;for, if ever a woman wished to be a widow, she is that woman. Butthe old fellow is tough and won't die. Moreover, he is deaf, andcrabbed, and penurious, and half the time bed-ridden. The wife is amodel of virtue, notwithstanding her weakness. She nurses the oldgentleman as if he were a child. And, to crown all, he hatessociety, and will not hear of his wife's receiving or going intocompany. "

"How, then, can she give soirées?" asked Flemming. 

"I was just going to tell you, " continued the Baron. "The gaylady has no taste for long evenings with the old gentleman in theback chamber;--for being thus chained like a criminalunder Mezentius, face to face with a dead body. So she puts him tobed first, and--"

"Gives him opium. "

"Yes, I dare say; and then gives herself a soirée, without hisknowing any thing about it. This course of deception is trulyhateful in itself, and must be particularly so to her, for she isnot a low, or an immoral woman; but one of those who, not havingstrength enough to complete the sacrifice they have had strengthenough to commence, are betrayed into a life of duplicity andfalsehood. "

They had now reached the house, and were ushered into a roomgaily lighted and filled with guests. The hostess came forward toreceive them, dressed in white, and sailing down the room like aswan. When the customary salutations had passed and Flemming hadbeen duly presented, the Baron said, not without a certain degree ofmalice;

"And, my dear Frau Kranich, how is your good husband tonight?"

This question was about as discreet as a cannon-ball. But thelady replied in the simplicity of her heart, and not in the leastdisconcerted;

"The same as ever, my dear Baron. It is astonishing how he holdsout. But let us not talk of these things now. I must introduce yourfriend to his countryman, the Grand Duke of Mississippi; alikeremarkable for his wealth, his modesty, and the extreme simplicityof his manners. He drives only six horses. Besides, he is known as aman of learning and piety;--has his private chapel, and privateclergyman, who always preaches against the vanity of worldly riches. He has also a private secretary, whose sole duty is to smoke to him, that he may enjoy the aroma of Spanish cigars, without the troubleof smoking. "

"Decidedly a man of genius!"

Here Flemming was introduced to his illustrious countryman; aperson who seemed to consist chiefly of linen, such a display did hemake of collar, bosom, and wristbands. 

"Pray, Mr. Flemming, what do you think of that Rembrandt?" saidhe, pointing to a picture onthe wall. "Exquisite picture! Thegrandeur of sentiment and splendor of chiaroscuro are of the firstorder. Just observe the liquidity of the water, and the silverynessof the clouds! Great power! There is a bravura of handling in thatpicture, Sir, which requires the eye of the connoisseur toappreciate. "

"Yes, a most undoubted--copy!"

And here their conversation ended; for at that moment the littleMoldavian Prince Jerkin made his way through the crowd, with hissnuff-box as usual in his hand, and hurried up to Flemming whom hehad known in Heidelberg. He was eager to let every one know that hespoke English, and in his haste began by making a mistake. 

"Good bye! Good bye! Mr. Flemming!" said he, instead of goodevening. "I am ravished to see you in Ems. Nice place;--all thatthere is of most nice. I drink my water and am good! Do you notthink the Frau Kranich has a very beautiful leather?"

He meant skin. Flemming laughed outright; but it was not perceivedby the Prince, because at that moment he was pushed aside, in therush of a gallopade, and Flemming beheld his face no more. At thesame moment the Baron introduced a friend of his, who also spokeEnglish and said;

"You will sup with me to-night. I have some Rhine-wine, whichwill be a seduction to you. "

Soon after, the Baron stood with an impassioned, romantic ladyleaning on his arm, examining a copy of Raphael's Fornarina. 

"Ach! I wish I had been the Fornarina, " sighed the impassioned, romantic lady. 

"Then, my dear Madam, " replied the Baron, "I wish I had beenRaphael. "

And so likewise said to himself a very tall man with fiery redhair, and fancy whiskers, who was waltzing round and round in onespot, and in a most extraordinary waistcoat; thus representing afiery, floating-light, to warn men of the hidden rocks, on which thebreath of vanity drives them shipwreck. At length, his partner, tired of spinning, sank upon a sofa, like a child's top, when itreels and falls. 

"You do not like the waltz?" said an elderly French gentleman, remarking the expression of Flemming's countenance. 

"O yes; among the figurantes of the Opera. But I confess, itsometimes makes me shudder to see a young rake clasp his arms roundthe waist of a pure and innocent girl. What would you say, were youto see him sitting on a sofa with his arms round your wife?"

"Mere prejudice of education, " replied the French gentleman. "Iknow that situation. I have read all about it in the Bibliothèque deRomans Choisis!"

And merrily went the dance; and bright eyes and flushed cheekswere not wanting among the dancers;

"And they waxed red, and waxed warm, And rested, panting, arm in arm, "

and the Strauss-walzes sounded pleasantly in the ears ofFlemming, who, though he never danced, yet, like Henry ofOfterdingen, in the Romance of Novalis, thought to music. Thewheeling waltz set the wheels of his fancy going. And thus themoments glided on, and the footsteps of Time were not heard amid thesound of music and voices. 

But suddenly this scene of gayety was interrupted. The dooropened wide; and the short figure of a gray-haired old man presenteditself, with a flushed countenance and wild eyes. He was buthalf-dressed, and in his hand held a silver candlestick without alight. A sheet was wound round his head, like a turban; and hetottered forward with a vacant, bewildered look, exclaiming;

"I am Mahomet, the king of the Jews!"

At the same moment he fell in a swoon; and was borne out of theroom by the servants. Flemming looked at the lady of the festival, and she was deadly pale. For a moment all was confusion; and thedance and the music stopped. Theimpression produced on the companywas at once ludicrous and awful. They tried in vain to rally. Thewhole society was like a dead body, from which the spirit hasdeparted. Ere long the guests had all dispersed, and left the ladyof the mansion to her mournful, expiring lamps, and still moremournful reflections. 

"Truly, " said Flemming, to the Baron, as they wended their wayhomeward, "this seems not like reality; but like one of the sharpcontrasts we find in novels. Who shall say, after this, that thereis not more romance in real life, than we find written inbooks!"

"Not more romance, " said the Baron, "but a differentromance. "

A still more tragic scene had been that evening enacted inHeidelberg. Just as the sun set, two female figures walked along theromantic woodland path-way, leading to the Angel's Meadow, a littlegreen opening on the brow of one of the high hills, which seethemselves in the Neckar and hear the solemn bells ofKloster-Neuburg. The evening shadows were falling broad and long;and the cuckoo began to sing. 

"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" said the eldest of the two figures, repeatingan old German popular rhyme, `Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Tell me true, Tell me fair and fine, How long must I unmarried pine!'"

It was the voice of an evil spirit, that spoke in the person ofMadeleine; and the pale and shrinking figure, that walked by herside, and listened to those words, was Emma of Ilmenau. A young manjoined them, where the path turns into the thick woodlands; and theydisappeared among the shadowy branches. It was the Polish Count. 

The forget-me-nots looked up to heaven with their meek blue eyes, from their home in the Angel's Meadow. Calmly stood the mountain ofAll-Saints, in its majestic, holy stillness;--the river flowed sofar below, that the murmur of itswaters was not heard;--there wasnot a sigh of the evening wind among the leaves, --not a sound uponthe earth nor in the air;--and yet that night there fell a star fromheaven!

CHAPTER X. THE PARTING. 

It was now that season of the year, which an old English writercalls the amiable month of June, and at that hour of the day, when, face to face, the rising moon beholds the setting sun. As yet thestars were few in heaven. But, after the heat of the day, thecoolness and the twilight descended like a benediction upon theearth, by all those gentle sounds attended, which are the meekcompanions of the night. 

Flemming and the Baron had passed the afternoon at the Castle. They had rambled once more together, and for the last time, over themagnificent ruin. On the morrow they were to part, perhaps forever. The Baron was going to Berlin, to join his sister; and Flemming, drivenforward by the restless spirit within him, longed once morefor a change of scene, and was going to the Tyrol and Switzerland. Alas! he never said to the passing hour; "Stay, for thou art fair!"but reached forward into the dark future, with unsatisfied longingsand aimless desires, that were never still. 

As the day was closing, they sat down on the terrace ofElisabeth's Garden. The sun had set beyond the blue Alsatian hills;and on the valley of the Rhine fell the purple mist, like the mantleof the departing prophet from his fiery chariot. Over the castlewalls, and the trees of the garden, rose the large moon; and betweenthe contending daylight and moonlight there were as yet no shadows. But at length the shadows came; transparent and faint outlines, thatdeepened into form. In the valley below only the river gleamed, likesteel; and here and there the lamps were lighted in the town. Solemnly stood the leafy lindentrees in the garden near them, theirtrunks in darkness and their summits bronzed with moonlight; and inhis niche in the great round tower, overhung with ivy, like amajestic phantom, stood the gray statue of Louis, with his venerablebeard, and shirt of mail, and flowing mantle; and the mild, majesticcountenance looked forth into the silent night, as the countenanceof a seer, who reads the stars. At intervals the wind of the summernight passed through the ruined castle and the trees, and they sentforth a sound as if nature were sighing in her dreams; and for amoment overhead the broad leaves gently clashed together, likebrazen cymbals, with a tinkling sound; and then all was still, savethe sweet, passionate song of nightingales, that nowhere upon earthsing more sweetly than in the gardens of Heidelberg Castle. 

The hour, the scene, and the near-approaching separation of thetwo young friends, had filled their hearts with a pleasant, thoughat the same time not painless excitement. They had been conversingabout the magnificent old ruin, and the ages in which it had beenbuilt, and the vicissitudesof time and war, that had battered downits walls, and left it "tenantless, save to the crannying wind. "

"How sorrowful and sublime is the face of that statue yonder, "said Flemming. "It reminds me of the old Danish hero Beowulf; forcareful, sorrowing, he seeth in his son's bower the wine-halldeserted, the resort of the wind, noiseless; the knight sleepeth;the warrior lieth in darkness; there is no noise of the harp, no joyin the dwellings, as there was before. "

"Even as you say, " replied the Baron; "but it often astonishesme, that, coming from that fresh green world of yours beyond thesea, you should feel so much interest in these old things; nay, attimes, seem so to have drunk in their spirit, as really to live inthe times of old. For my part, I do not see what charm there is inthe pale and wrinkled countenance of the Past, so to entice the soulof a young man. It seems to me like falling in love with one'sgrandmother. Give me the Present;--warm, glowing, palpitating withlife. She is my mistress; and the Future stands waiting like my wifethat is to be, for whom, to tell the truth, I care very little justnow. Indeed, my friend, I wish you would take more heed of thisphilosophy of mine; and not waste the golden hours of youth in vainregrets for the past, and indefinite, dim longings for the future. Youth comes but once in a lifetime. "

"Therefore, " said Flemming; "let us so enjoy it as to be stillyoung when we are old. For my part, I grow happier as I grow older. When I compare my sensations and enjoyments now, with what they wereten years ago, the comparison is vastly in favor of the present. Much of the fever and fretfulness of life is over. The world and Ilook each other more calmly in the face. My mind is moreself-possessed. It has done me good to be somewhat parched by theheat and drenched by the rain of life. "

"Now you speak like an old philosopher, " answered the Baron, laughing. "But you deceive yourself. I never knew a more restless, feverishspirit than yours. Do not think you have gained the masteryyet. You are only riding at anchor here in an eddy of the stream;you will soon be swept away again in the mighty current and whirl ofaccident. Do not trust this momentary calm. I know you better thanyou know yourself. There is something Faust-like in you; you wouldfain grasp the highest and the deepest; and `reel from desire toenjoyment, and in enjoyment languish for desire. ' When a momentarychange of feeling comes over you, you think the change permanent, and thus live in constant self-deception. "

"I confess, " said Flemming, "there may be some truth in what yousay. There are times when my soul is restless; and a voice soundswithin me, like the trump of the archangel, and thoughts that wereburied, long ago, come out of their graves. At such times myfavorite occupations and pursuits no longer charm me. The quiet faceof Nature seems to mock me. "

"There certainly are seasons, " replied the Baron, "when Natureseems not to sympathizewith her beloved children. She sits there soeternally calm and self-possessed, so very motherly and serene, andcares so little whether the heart of her child breaks or not, thatat times I almost lose my patience. About that, too, she cares solittle, that, out of sheer obstinacy, I become good-humored again, and then she smiles. "

"I think we must confess, however, " continued Flemming, "that allthis springs from our own imperfection, not from hers. How beautifulis this green world, which we inhabit! See yonder, how the moonlightmingles with the mist! What a glorious night is this! Truly everyman has a Paradise around him until he sins, and the angel of anaccusing conscience drives him from his Eden. And even then thereare holy hours, when this angel sleeps, and man comes back, and, with the innocent eyes of a child, looks into his lost Paradiseagain, --into the broad gates and rural solitudes of Nature. I feelthis often. We have much to enjoy in the quiet and retirement ofourown thoughts. Boisterous mirth and loud laughter are not my mood. I love that tranquillity of soul, in which we feel the blessing ofexistence, and which in itself is a prayer and a thanksgiving. Ifind, however, that, as I grow older, I love the country less, andthe city more. "

"Yes, " interrupted the Baron; "and presently you will love thecity less and the country more. Say at once, that you have anundefined longing for both; and prefer town or country, according tothe mood you are in. I think a man must be of a very quiet and happynature, who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very wellcontented with his own insignificant person, very self-complacent, to be continually occupied with himself and his own thoughts. To saythe least, a city life makes one more tolerant and liberal in hisjudgment of others. One is not eternally wrapped up inself-contemplation; which, after all, is only a more holy kind ofvanity. "

In conversation like this, the hours glided away; till at length, from the Giant's Tower, the Castleclock struck twelve, with a soundthat seemed to come from the Middle Ages. Like watchmen from theirbelfries the city clocks answered it, one by one. Then distant andmuffled sounds were heard. Inarticulate words seemed to blot thefoggy air, as if written on wet paper. These were the bells ofHandschuhsheimer, and of other villages on the broad plain of theRhine, and among the hills of the Odenwald; mysterious sounds, thatseemed not of this world. 

Beneath them, in the shadow of the hills, lay the valley, like afathomless, black gulf; and above were the cloistered stars, that, nun-like, walk the holy aisles of heaven. The city was asleep in thevalley below; all asleep and silent, save the clocks, that had juststruck twelve, and the veering, golden weathercocks, that wereswimming in the moonshine, like golden fishes, in a glass vase. Andagain the wind of the summer night passed through the old Castle, and the trees, and the nightingales recorded under the dark, shadowyleaves, and the heart of Flemming was full. 

When he had retired to his chamber, a feeling of utter lonelinesscame over him. The night before one begins a journey is always adismal night; for, as Byron says, "In leaving even the most unpleasant people

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple!"

And how much more so when the place and people are pleasant; aswas the case with those, that Flemming was now leaving. No wonder hewas sad and sleepless. Thoughts came and went, and bright and gloomyfancies, and dreams and visions, and sweet faces looked under hisclosed eyelids, and vanished away, and came again, and againdeparted. He heard the clock strike from hour to hour, and said, "Another hour is gone. " At length the birds began to sing; and everand anon the cock crew. He arose, and looked forth into the graydawn; and before him lay the city he was so soon to leave, all whiteand ghastly, like a city that had arisen from its grave. 

"All things must change, " said he to the Baron, as he embracedhim, and held him by the hand. "Friends must be torn asunder, andswept along in the current of events, to see each other seldom, andperchance no more. For ever and ever in the eddies of time andaccident we whirl away. Besides which, some of us have a perpetualmotion in our wooden heads, as Wodenblock had in his wooden leg; andlike him we travel on, without rest or sleep, and have hardly timeto take a friend by the hand in passing; and at length are seenhurrying through some distant land, worn to a skeleton, and allunknown. "

BOOK III. 

Epigraph

"Take away the lights, too;

The moon lends me too much to find my fears;

And those devotions I am now to pay, Are written in my heart, not in thy book;

And I shall read them there without a taper. "

CHAPTER I. SUMMER-TIME. 

They were right, --those old German Minnesingers, --to sing thepleasant summer-time! What a time it is! How June stands illuminatedin the Calendar! The windows are all wide open; only the Venetianblinds closed. Here and there a long streak of sunshine streams inthrough a crevice. We hear the low sound of the wind among thetrees; and, as it swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. The trees are heavy with leaves; and thegardens full of blossoms, red and white. The whole atmosphere isladen with perfume and sunshine. The birds sing. The cock strutsabout, and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. Yellowbutter-cups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the redblossoms of the clover like rubies. The elm-trees reach their long, pendulous branches almost to the ground. White clouds sail aloft;and vapors fret the blue sky with silver threads. The white villagegleams afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow winds theriver, --careless, indolent. It seems to love the country, and is inno haste to reach the sea. The bee only is at work, --the hot andangry bee. All things else are at play; he never plays, and is vexedthat any one should. 

People drive out from town to breathe, and to be happy. Most ofthem have flowers in their hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, andstill oftener lilacs. Ye denizens of the crowded city, how pleasantto you is the change from the sultry streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover-blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezycountry air, dashed with brine from the meadows! howpleasant, aboveall, the flowers, the manifold, beautiful flowers!

It is no longer day. Through the trees rises the red moon, andthe stars are scarcely seen. In the vast shadow of night, thecoolness and the dews descend. I sit at the open window to enjoythem; and hear only the voice of the summer wind. Like black hulks, the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea ofgrass. I cannot see the red and blue flowers, but I know that theyare there. Far away in the meadow gleams the silver Charles. Thetramp of horses' hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge. Then all isstill, save the continuous wind of the summer night. Sometimes Iknow not if it be the wind or the sound of the neighbouring sea. Thevillage clock strikes; and I feel that I am not alone. 

How different is it in the city! It is late, and the crowd isgone. You step out upon the balcony, and lie in the very bosom ofthe cool, dewy night, as if you folded her garments about you. Thewhole starry heaven is spread out overhead. Beneath lies the publicwalk with trees, like a fathomless, black gulf, into whose silentdarkness the spirit plunges and floats away, with some belovedspirit clasped in its embrace. The lamps are still burning up anddown the long street. People go by, with grotesque shadows, nowforeshortened and now lengthening away into the darkness andvanishing, while a new one springs up behind the walker, and seemsto pass him on the sidewalk. The iron gates of the park shut with ajangling clang. There are footsteps, and loud voices;--a tumult, --adrunken brawl, --an alarm of fire;--then silence again. And now atlength the city is asleep, and we can see the night. The belatedmoon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to welcome her. Themoonlight is broken. It lies here and there in the squares, and theopening of streets, --angular, like blocks of white marble. 

Under such a green, triumphal arch, O Reader! with the odor offlowers about thee, and the song of birds, shalt thou pass onwardinto the enchanted land, as through the Ivory Gate of dreams! And asa prelude and majestic march, one sweet human voice, I know notwhose, but coming from the bosom of the Alps, sings this sublimeode, which the Alpine echoes repeat afar. 

"Come, golden Evening! In the west

Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, And let the triple rainbow rest

O'er all the mountain tops;--'t is done;

The tempest ceases; bold and bright, The rainbow shoots from hill to hill;

Down sinks the sun; on presses night;

Mont Blanc is lovely still!

"There take thy stand, my spirit;--spread

The world of shadows at thy feet;

And mark how calmly overhead, The stars, like saints in glory, meet. 

While, hid in solitude sublime, Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb, And hear the passing foot of Time

Step through the silent gloom. 

"All in a moment, crash on crash, From precipice to precipice, An avalanche's ruins dash

Down to the nethermost abyss, Invisible; the ear alone

Pursues the uproar till it dies;

Echo to Echo, groan for groan, From deep to deep, replies. 

"Silence again the darkness seals, Darkness that may be felt;--but soon

The silver-clouded east reveals

The midnight spectre of the moon;

In half-eclipse she lifts her horn, Yet, o'er the host of heaven supreme, Brings the faint semblance of a morn, With her awakening beam. 

"Ah! at her touch, these Alpine heights

Unreal mockeries appear;

With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights, Emerging as she climbs the sphere;

A crowd of apparitions pale!

I hold my breath in chill suspense, They seem so exquisitely frail, Lest they should vanish hence. 

"I breathe again, I freely breathe;

Thee, Leman's Lake, once more I trace, Like Dian's crescent far beneath, As beautiful as Dian's face:

Pride of the land that gave me birth!

All that thy waves reflect I love, Where heaven itself, brought down to earth, Looks fairer than above. 

"Safe on thy banks again I stray;

The trance of poesy is o'er, And I am here at dawn of day, Gazing on mountains as before, Where all the strange mutations wrought, Were magic feats of my own mind;

For, in that fairy land of thought, Whate'er I seek, I find. "

CHAPTER II. FOOT-TRAVELLING. 

Tell me, my soul, why art thou restless? Why dost thou lookforward to the future with such strong desire? The present isthine, --and the past;--and the future shall be! O that thou didstlook forward to the great hereafter with half the longing wherewiththou longest for an earthly future, --which a few days at most willbring thee! to the meeting of the dead, as to the meeting of theabsent! Thou glorious spirit-land! O, that I could behold thee asthou art, --the region of life, and light, and love, and thedwelling-place of those beloved ones, whose being has flowed onwardlike a silver-clear stream into the solemn-sounding main, into theocean of Eternity. 

Such were the thoughts that passed through thesoul of Flemming, as he lay in utter solitude and silence on the rounded summit of oneof the mountains of the Furca Pass, and gazed, with tears in hiseyes, and ardent longing in his heart, up into the blue-swimmingheaven overhead, and at the glaciers and snowy mountain-peaks aroundhim. Highest and whitest of all, stood the peak of the Jungfrau, which seemed near him, though it rose afar off from the bosom of theLauterbrunner Thal. There it stood, holy and high and pure, thebride of heaven, all veiled and clothed in white, and lifted thethoughts of the beholder heavenward. O, he little thought then, ashe gazed at it with longing and delight, how soon a form was toarise in his own soul, as holy, and high, and pure as this, and likethis point heavenward. 

Thus lay the traveller on the mountain summit, reposing his wearylimbs on the short, brown grass, which more resembled moss thangrass. He had sent his guide forward, that he might be alone. Hissoul within him was wild with a fierce and painful delight. Themountain air excited him; the mountain solitudes enticed, yetmaddened him. Every peak, every sharp, jagged iceberg, seemed topierce him. The silence was awful and sublime. It was like that inthe soul of a dying man, when he hears no more the sounds of earth. He seemed to be laying aside his earthly garments. The heavens werenear unto him; but between him and heaven every evil deed he haddone arose gigantic, like those mountain-peaks, and breathed an icybreath upon him. O, let not the soul that suffers, dare to lookNature in the face, where she sits majestically aloft in thesolitude of the mountains; for her face is hard and stern, and looksnot in compassion upon her weak and erring child. It is thecountenance of an accusing archangel, who summons us to judgment. Inthe valley she wears the countenance of a Virgin Mother, looking atus with tearful eyes, and a face of pity and love!

But yesterday Flemming had come up the valley of the SaintGothard Pass, through Amsteg, where the Kerstelenbach comes dashingdown the Maderaner Thal, from its snowy cradle overhead. The road issteep, and runs on zigzag terraces. The sides of the mountains arebarren cliffs; and from their cloud-capped summits, unheard amid theroar of the great torrent below, come streams of snowwhite foam, leaping from rock to rock, like the mountain chamois. As youadvance, the scene grows wilder and more desolate. There is not atree in sight, --not a human habitation. Clouds, black as midnight, lower upon you from the ravines overhead; and the mountain torrentbeneath is but a sheet of foam, and sends up an incessant roar. Asudden turn in the road brings you in sight of a lofty bridge, stepping from cliff to cliff with a single stride. A fearfulcataract howls beneath it, like an evil spirit, and fills the airwith mist; and the mountain wind claps its hands and shrieks throughthe narrow pass, Ha! ha!--This is the Devil's Bridge. It leads thetraveller across the fearful chasm, and through a mountain galleryinto the broad, green, silent meadow of Andermath. 

Even the sunny morning, which followed thisgloomy day, had notchased the desolate impression from the soul of Flemming. Hisexcitement increased as he lost himself more and more among themountains; and now, as he lay all alone on the summit of the sunnyhill, with only glaciers and snowy peaks about him, his soul, as Ihave said, was wild with a fierce and painful delight. 

A human voice broke his reverie. He looked, and beheld at a shortdistance from him, the athletic form of a mountain herdsman, who wasapproaching the spot where he lay. He was a young man, clothed in arustic garb, and holding a long staff in his hand. When Flemmingrose, he stood still, and gazed at him, as if he loved the face ofman, even in a stranger, and longed to hear a human voice, though itmight speak in an unknown tongue. He answered Flemming's salutationin a rude mountain dialect, and in reply to his questions said;

"I, with two others, have charge of two hundred head of cattle onthese mountains. Throughthe two summer months we remain here nightand day; for which we receive each a Napoleon. "

Flemming gave him half his summer wages. He was glad to do a gooddeed in secret, and yet so near heaven. The man received it as hisdue, like a toll-keeper; and soon after departed, leaving thetraveller alone. And the traveller went his way down the mountain, as one distraught. He stopped only to pluck one bright blue flower, which bloomed all alone in the vast desert, and looked up at him, asif to say; "O take me with you! leave me not herecompanionless!"

Ere long he reached the magnificent glacier of the Rhone; afrozen cataract, more than two thousand feet in height, and manymiles broad at its base. It fills the whole valley between twomountains, running back to their summits. At the base it is arched, like a dome; and above, jagged and rough, and resembles a mass ofgigantic crystals, of a pale emerald tint, mingled with white. Asnowy crust covers its surface; but at every rent and crevice thepale green ice shines clear in thesun. Its shape is that of a glove, lying with the palm downwards, and the fingers crooked and closetogether. It is a gauntlet of ice, which, centuries ago, Winter, theKing of these mountains, threw down in defiance to the Sun; and yearby year the Sun strives in vain to lift it from the ground on thepoint of his glittering spear. A feeling of wonder and delight cameover the soul of Flemming when he beheld it, and he shouted andcried aloud;

"How wonderful! how glorious!"

After lingering a few hours in the cold, desolate valley, heclimbed in the afternoon the steep Mayen-Wand, on the Grimsel, passed the Lake of the Dead, with its ink-black waters; and throughthe melting snow, and over slippery stepping-stones in the beds ofnumberless shallow brooks, descended to the Grimsel Hospital, wherehe passed the night, and thought it the most lone and desolate spot, that man ever slept in. 

On the morrow, he rose with the day; and the rising sun found himalready standing on the rusticbridge, which hangs over the verge ofthe Falls of the Aar at Handeck, where the river pitches down aprecipice into a narrow and fearful abyss, shut in by perpendicularcliffs. At right angles with it comes the beautiful Aerlenbach; andhalfway down the double cascade mingles into one. Thus he pursuedhis way down the Hasli Thal into the Bernese Oberland, restless, impatient, he knew not why, stopping seldom, and never long, andthen rushing forward again, like the rushing river whose steps hefollowed, and in whose ice-cold waters ever and anon he bathed hiswrists, to cool the fever in his blood; for the noonday sun washot. 

His heart dilated in the dilating valley, that grew broader andgreener at every step. The sight of human faces and human dwellingssoothed him; and through the fields of summer grain, in the broadmeadows of Imgrund, he walked with a heart that ached no more, buttrembled only, as our eyelids when we have done weeping. As heclimbed the opposite hill, which hems in this romanticvalley, and, like a heavy yoke, chafes the neck of the Aar, he believed theancient tradition, which says, that once the valley was a lake. Fromthe summit of the hill he looked southward upon a beautifullandscape of gardens, and fields of grain, and woodlands, andmeadows, and the ancient castle of Resti, looking down uponMeyringen. And now all around him were the singing of birds, andgrateful shadows of the leafy trees; and sheeted waterfalls droppingfrom the woodland cliffs, seen only, but unheard, the fluted columnsbreaking into mist, and fretted with frequent spires and ornamentsof foam, and not unlike the towers of a Gothic church inverted. There, in one white sheet of foam, the Riechenbach pours down intoits deep beaker, into which the sun never shines. Face to face itbeholds the Alpbach falling from the opposite hill, "like a downwardsmoke. " When Flemming saw the innumerable runnels, sliding down themountain-side, and leaping, all life and gladness, he would fainhave clasped them in his arms and been their playmate, and revelledwiththem in their freedom and delight. Yet he was weary with theday's journey, and entered the village of Meyringen, embowered incherry-trees, which were then laden with fruit, more like a way-worntraveller than an enthusiastic poet. As he went up the tavern stepshe said in his heart, with the Italian Aretino; "He who has not beenat a tavern, knows not what a paradise it is. O holy tavern! Omiraculous tavern! holy, because no carking cares are there, norweariness, nor pain; and miraculous, because of the spits, which ofthemselves turn round and round! Of a truth all courtesy and goodmanners come from taverns, so full of bows, and Signor, sì! andSignor, nò!"

But even in the tavern he could not rest long. The same eveningat sunset he was floating on the lake of Brienz, in an open boat, close under the cascade of the Giessbach, hearing the peasants singthe Ranz des Vaches. He slept that night at the other extremity ofthe lake, in a large house, which, like Saint Peter's at Joppa, stood by the water's side. The next day he wasted inwriting letters, musing in this green nest, and paddling about the lake again; and inthe evening went across the beautiful meadows to Interlachen, wheremany things happened to him, and detained him long. 

CHAPTER III. INTERLACHEN. 

Interlachen! How peacefully, by the margin of the swift-rushingAar, thou liest, on the broad lap of those romantic meadows, allovershadowed by the wide arms of giant trees! Only the round towersof thine ancient cloister rise above their summits; the round towersthemselves, but a child's playthings under the great church-towersof the mountains. Close beside thee are lakes, which the flowingband of the river ties together. Before thee opens the magnificentvalley of Lauterbrunn, where the cloud-hooded Monk and pale Virginstand like Saint Francis and his Bride of Snow; and all around theeare fields, and orchards, and hamlets green, from which thechurch-bells answer each other at evening! The eveningsun wassetting when I first beheld thee! The sun of life will set ere Iforget thee! Surely it was a scene like this, that inspired the soulof the Swiss poet, in his Song of the Bell!

"Bell! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party

To the church doth hie!

Bell! thou soundest solemnly, When, on Sabbath morning, Fields deserted lie!

"Bell! thou soundest merrily;

Tellest thou at evening, Bed-time draweth nigh!

Bell! thou soundest mournfully;

Tellest thou the bitter

Parting hath gone by!

"Say! how canst thou mourn?

How canst thou rejoice?

Art but metal dull!

And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings, Thou dost feel them all!

"God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom, Placed within thy form!

When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it, Trembling in the storm!"

Paul Flemming alighted at one of the principal hotels. Thelandlord came out to meet him. He had great eyes and a green coat;and reminded Flemming of the innkeeper mentioned in the Golden Ass, who had been changed by magic into a frog, and croaked to hiscustomers from the lees of a wine-cask. His house, he said, wasfull; and so was every house in Interlachen; but, if the gentlemanwould walk into the parlour, he would procure a chamber for him, inthe neighbourhood. 

On the sofa sat a gentleman, reading; a stout gentleman ofperhaps forty-five, round, ruddy, and with a head, which, being alittle bald on the top, looked not unlike a crow's nest, with oneegg in it. A good-humored face turned from the book as Flemmingentered; and a good-humored voice exclaimed;

"Ha! ha! Mr. Flemming! Is it you, or your apparition! I told youwe should meet again! though you were for taking an eternal farewellof your fellow-traveller. "

Saying these words, the stout gentleman rose and shook Flemmingheartily by the hand. And Flemming returned the shake as heartily, recognising in this ruddy personage, a former travelling companion, Mr. Berkley, whom he had left, a week or two previous, toiling upthe Righi. Mr. Berkley was an Englishman of fortune; a good-humored, humane old bachelor; remarkable alike for his common sense and hiseccentricity. That is to say, the basis of his character was good, sound common sense, trodden down and smoothed by education; but thislevel groundwork his strange and whimsical fancy used as adancing-floor, whereon to exhibit her eccentric tricks. His rulingpassion was cold-bathing; and he usually ate his breakfast sittingin a tub of cold water, and reading a newspaper. He kissed everychild he met; and to every old man, said in passing, "God blessyou!" with such an expression of voice and countenance, that no onecould doubt his sincerity. He reminded one of Roger Bontemps, or theLittle Man in Gray; though with a difference. 

"The last time I had the pleasure of seeing you, Mr. Berkley, "said Flemming, "was at Goldau, just as you were going up the Righi. I hope you were gratified with a fine sunrise on the mountaintop. "

"No, Sir, I was not!" replied Mr. Berkley. "It is all a humbug! aconfounded humbug! They made such a noise about their sunrise, thatI determined I would not see it. So I lay snug in bed; and onlypeeped through the window curtain. That was enough. Just above thehouse, on the top of the hill, stood some fifty half-dressed, romantic individuals, shivering in the wet grass; and, a shortdistance from them, a miserable wretch, blowing a long, wooden horn. That's your sunrise on the Righi, is it? said I; and went to sleepagain. The best thing I saw at the Culm, was the advertisement onthe bed-room doors, saying, that, if the ladies would wear the quiltsand blankets for shawls, when they went out to see the sunrise, theymust pay for the washing. Take my word for it, the Righi is a greathumbug!"

"Where have you been since?"

"At Zurich and Schaffhausen. If you go to Zurich, beware how youstop at the Raven. They will cheat you. They cheated me; but I hadmy revenge, for, when we reached Schaffhausen, I wrote in theTraveller's Book;

Beware of the Raven of Zurich!

'T is a bird of omen ill;

With a noisy and an unclean nest, And a very, very long bill. 

If you go to the Golden Falken you will find it there. I am theauthor of those lines!"

"Bitter as Juvenal!" exclaimed Flemming. 

"Not in the least bitter, " said Mr. Berkley. "It is all true. Goto the Raven and see. But this Interlachen! this Interlachen! It isthe loveliest spot on the face of the earth, " he continued, stretching out both arms, as if to embrace the objectof hisaffection. "There, --only look out there!"

Here he pointed to the window. Flemming looked, and beheld ascene of transcendent beauty. The plain was covered already by thebrown shade of the summer twilight. From the cottage roofs inUnterseen rose here and there a thin column of smoke over the topsof the trees and mingled with the evening shadows. The Valley ofLauterbrunnen was filled with a blue haze. Far above, in the clear, cloudless heaven, the white forehead of the Jungfrau blushed at thelast kiss of the departing sun. It was a glorious Transfiguration ofNature! And when the village bells began to ring, and a single voiceat a great distance was heard yodling forth a ballad, it ratherbroke than increased the enchantment of a scene, where silence wasmore musical than sound. 

For a long time they gazed at the gloaming landscape, and spakenot. At length people came into the parlour, and laid aside theirshawls and hats, and exchanged a word or two with Berkley to Flemmingthey were all unknown. To him it was all Mr. Brown and Mrs. Johnson, and nothing more. The conversation turned upon the variousexcursions of the day. Some had been at the Staubbach, others at theGrindelwald; others at the Lake of Thun; and nobody before had everexperienced half the rapture, which they had experienced that day. And thus they sat in the twilight, as people love to do, at theclose of a summer day. As yet the lamps had not been lighted; andone could not distinguish faces; but voices only, and forms, likeshadows. 

Presently a female figure, clothed in black, entered the room andsat down by the window. She rather listened to the conversation, than joined in it; but the few words she said were spoken in a voiceso musical and full of soul, that it moved the soul of Flemming, like a whisper from heaven. 

O, how wonderful is the human voice! It is indeed the organ ofthe soul! The intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon hisforehead and in his eye; and the heart of man is written uponhiscountenance. But the soul reveals itself in the voice only; as Godrevealed himself to the prophet of old in the still, small voice;and in a voice from the burning bush. The soul of man is audible, not visible. A sound alone betrays the flowing of the eternalfountain, invisible to man!

Flemming would fain have sat and listened for hours to the soundof that unknown voice. He felt sure, in his secret heart, that thebeing from whom it came was beautiful. His imagination filled up thefaint outline, which the eye beheld in the fading twilight, and thefigure stood already in his mind, like Raphael's beautiful Madonnain the Dresden gallery. He was never more mistaken in his life. Thevoice belonged to a beautiful being, it is true; but her beauty wasdifferent from that of any Madonna which Raphael ever painted; as hewould have seen, had he waited till the lamps were lighted. But inthe midst of his reverie and saint-painting, the landlord came in, andtold him he had found a chamber, which he begged him to go andlook at. 

Flemming took his leave and departed. Berkley went with him, tosee, he said, what kind of a nest his young friend was to sleepin. 

"The chamber is not what I could wish, " said the landlord, as heled them across the street. "It is in the old cloister. Butto-morrow or next day, you can no doubt have a room at thehouse. "

The name of the cloister struck Flemming's imaginationpleasantly. He was owl enough to like ruins and old chambers, wherenuns or friars had slept. And he said to Berkley;

"So, you perceive, my nest is to be in a cloister. It alreadymakes me think of a bird's-nest I once saw on an old tower ofHeidelberg castle, built in the jaws of a lion, which formerlyserved as a spout. But pray tell me, who was that young lady, withthe soft voice?"

"What young lady with the soft voice?"

"The young lady in black, who sat by the window. "

"O, she is the daughter of an English officer, who died not longago at Naples. She is passing the summer here with her mother, forher health. "

"What is her name?"

"Ashburton. "

"Is she beautiful?"

"Not in the least; but very intellectual. A woman of genius, Ishould say. "

And now they had reached the walls of the cloister, and passedunder an arched gateway, and close beneath the round towers, whichFlemming had already seen, rising with their cone-shaped roofs abovethe trees, like tall tapers, with extinguishers upon them. 

"It is not so bad, as it looks, " said the landlord, knocking at asmall door, in the main building. "The Bailiff lives in one part ofit. "

A servant girl, with a candle in her hand, opened the door, andconducted Flemming and Berkley to the chamber which had beenengaged. It was a large room on the lower floor, wainscoted withpine, and unpainted. Three lofty and narrowwindows, with leadenlattices and small panes, looked southward towards the valley ofLauterbrunnen and the mountains. In one corner was a large squarebed, with a tester and checked curtains. In another, a huge stove ofpainted tiles, reaching almost to the ceiling. An old sofa, a fewhigh-backed antique chairs, and a table, completed the furniture ofthe room. 

Thus Flemming took possession of his monkish cell and dormitory. He ordered tea, and began to feel at home. Berkley passed theevening with him. On going away he said;

"Good night! I leave you to the care of the Virgin and all theSaints. If the ghost of any old monk comes back after hisprayer-book, my compliments to him. If I were a younger man, youcertainly should see a ghost. Good night!"

When he had departed, Flemming opened the lattice of one of thewindows. The moon had risen, and silvered the dark outline of thenearest hills; while, afar off, the snowy summits of the Jungfrauand the Silver-Horn shone like a white cloud in the sky. Closebeneath the windows was a flower-garden; and the breath of thesummer night came to him with dewy fragrance. There was a gratefulseclusion about the place. He blessed the happy accident, which gavehim such a lodging, and fell asleep that night thinking of the nuns, who once had slept in the same quiet cells; but neither wimpled nunnor cowled monk appeared to him in his dreams; not even the face ofMary Ashburton; nor did he hear her voice. 

CHAPTER IV. THE EVENING AND THE MORNING STAR. 

Old Froissart tells us, in his Chronicles, that when King Edwardbeheld the Countess of Salisbury at her castle gate, he thought hehad never seen before so noble nor so fair a lady; he was strickentherewith to the heart with a sparkle of fine love, that enduredlong after; he thought no lady in the world so worthy to be beloved, as she. And so likewise thought Paul Flemming, when he beheld theEnglish lady in the fair light of a summer morning. I will notdisguise the truth. She is my heroine; and I mean to describe herwith great truth and beauty, so that all shall be in love with her, and I most of all. 

Mary Ashburton was in her twentieth summer. Like the fair maidenAmoret, she was sitting inthe lap of womanhood. They did her wrong, who said she was not beautiful; and yet

"she was not fair, Nor beautiful;--those words express her not. 

But O, her looks had something excellent, That wants a name!"

Her face had a wonderful fascination in it. It was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the rising soul shining so peacefullythrough it. At times it wore an expression of seriousness, --ofsorrow even; and then seemed to make the very air bright with whatthe Italian poets so beautifully call the lampeggiar dell' angelicoriso, --the lightning of the angelic smile. 

And O, those eyes, --those deep, unutterable eyes, with"down-falling eyelids, full of dreams and slumber, " and within thema cold, living light, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in theriver of Paradise, forever gliding, "with a brown, brown current

Under the shade perpetual, that never

Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. "

I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. Those only arebeautiful which, like the planets, have a steady, lambentlight;--are luminous, but not sparkling. Such eyes the Greek poetsgive to the Immortals. But I forget myself. 

The lady's figure was striking. Every step, every attitude wasgraceful, and yet lofty, as if inspired by the soul within. Angelsin the old poetic philosophy have such forms; it was the soul itselfimprinted on the air. And what a soul was hers! A temple dedicatedto Heaven, and, like the Pantheon at Rome, lighted only from above. And earthly passions in the form of gods were no longer there, butthe sweet and thoughtful faces of Christ, and the Virgin Mary, andthe Saints. Thus there was not one discordant thing in her; but aperfect harmony of figure, and face, and soul, in a word of thewhole being. And he who had a soul to comprehend hers, must ofnecessity love her, and, having once loved her, could love no otherwoman forevermore. 

No wonder, then, that Flemming felt his heartdrawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she passed him, sitting alone under thegreat walnut trees near the cloister, and thinking of Heaven, butnot of her. She, too, was alone. Her cheek was no longer pale; butglowing and bright, with the inspiration of the summer air. Flemminggazed after her till she disappeared, even as a vision of hisdreams, he knew not whither. He was not yet in love, but very nearit; for he thanked God, that he had made such beautiful beings towalk the earth. 

Last night he had heard a voice to which his soul responded; andhe might have gone on his way, and taken no farther heed. But hewould have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at evening hethought of this evening at Interlachen. To-day he had seen moreclearly the vision, and his restless soul calm. The place seemedpleasant to him; and he could not go. He did not ask himself whencecame this calm. He felt it; and was happy in the feeling; andblessed thelandscape and the summer morning, as if they possessedthe wonder-working power. 

"A pleasant morning dream to you;" said a friendly voice; and atthe same moment some one laid his hand upon Flemming's shoulder. Itwas Berkley. He had approached unseen and unheard. 

"I see by the smile on your countenance, " he continued, "that itis no day-incubus. "

"You are right, " replied Flemming. "It was a pleasant dream, which you have put to flight. "

"And I am glad to see, that you have also put to flight thegloomy thoughts which used to haunt you. I like to see peoplecheerful and happy. What is the use of giving way to sadness in thisbeautiful world?"

"Ah! this beautiful world!" said Flemming, with a smile. "Indeed, I know not what to think of it. Sometimes it is all gladness andsunshine, and Heaven itself lies not far off. And then it changessuddenly; and is dark and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky. Inthe lives of the saddestof us, there are bright days like this, whenwe feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. Then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on ourhearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, whenhe is only sad. "

"And who says we don't?" interrupted Berkley. "Come, come! Let usgo to breakfast. The morning air has given me a rude appetite. Ilong to say grace over a fresh egg; and eat salt with my worstenemies; namely, the Cockneys at the hotel. After breakfast you mustgive yourself up wholly to me. I shall take you to theGrindelwald!"

"To-day, then, you do not breakfast like Diogenes, but consent toleave your tub. "

"Yes, for the pleasure of your company. I shall also blow out thelight in my lantern, having found you. "

"Thank you. "

The breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence. Flemmingwatched the entrance of every guest; but she came not, --the guest hemost desired to see. 

"And now for the Grindelwald!" said Berkley. 

"Why such haste? We have the whole day before us. There is timeenough. "

"Not a moment to loso, I assure you. The carriage is at thedoor. "

They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen, and turned eastwardamong the mountains of the Grindelwald. There they passed the day;half-frozen by the icy breath of the Great Glacier, upon whosesurface stand pyramids and blocks of ice, like the tombstones of acemetery. It was a weary day to Flemming. He wished himself atInterlachen; and was glad when, towards evening, he saw once morethe cone-roofed towers of the cloister rising above the walnuttrees. 

That evening is written in red letters in his history. It gavehim another revelation of thebeauty and excellence of the femalecharacter and intellect; not wholly new to him, yet now renewed andfortified. It was from the lips of Mary Ashburton, that therevelation came. Her form arose, like a tremulous evening star, inthe firmament of his soul. He conversed with her; and with heralone; and knew not when to go. All others were to him as if theywere not there. He saw their forms, but saw them as the forms ofinanimate things. At length her mother came; and Flemming beheld inher but another Mary Ashburton, with beauty more mature;--the sameforehead and eyes, the same majestic figure; and, as yet, no traceof age. He gazed upon her with a feeling of delight, not unmingledwith holy awe. She was to him the rich and glowing Evening, fromwhose bosom the tremulous star was born. 

Berkley took no active part in the conversation, but did what wasmuch more to the purpose, that it is to say, arranged a drive forthe next day with the Ashburtons, and of course invited Flemming, who went home that night with a halo round hishead; and wonderingmuch at a dandy, who stood at the door of the hotel, and said to hiscompanion, as Flemming passed;

"What do you call this place? I have been here two hours already, and find it devilish dull!"

CHAPTER V. A RAINY DAY. 

When Flemming awoke the next morning he saw the sky dark andlowering. From the mountain tops hung a curtain of mist, whose heavyfolds waved to and fro in the valley below. Over all the landscape, the soft, summer rain was falling. No admiring eyes would look upthat day at the Staubbach. 

A rainy day in Switzerland puts a sudden stop to many diversions. The coachman may drive to the tavern and then back to the stable;but no farther. The sunburnt guide may sit at the ale-house door, and welcome; and the boatman whistle and curse the clouds, at hisown sweet will; but no foot stirs abroad for all that; no travellermoves, if he has time to stay. The rainy daygives him time forreflection. He has leisure now to take cognizance of hisimpressions, and make up his account with the mountains. Heremembers, too, that he has friends at home; and writes up theJournal, neglected for a week or more; and letters neglected longer;or finishes the rough pencil-sketch, begun yesterday in the openair. On the whole he is not sorry it rains; though disappointed. 

Flemming was both sorry and disappointed; but he did not on thataccount fail to go over to the Ashburtons at the appointed hour. Hefound them sitting in the parlour. The mother was reading, and thedaughter retouching a sketch of the Lake of Thun. After the usualsalutations, Flemming seated himself near the daughter, andsaid;

"We shall have no Staubbach to-day, I presume; only thisGiessbach from the clouds. "

"Nothing more, I suppose. So we must be content to stay in-doors;and listen to the soundof the eves-dropping rain. It gives me timeto finish some of these rough sketches. "

"It is a pleasant pastime, " said Flemming; "and I perceive youare very skilful. I am delighted to see, that you can draw astraight line. I never before saw a lady's sketch-book, in which allthe towers did not resemble the leaning Tower of Pisa. I alwaystremble for the little men under them. "

"How absurd!" exclaimed Mary Ashburton, with a smile that passedthrough the misty air of Flemming's thoughts, like a sunbeam; "Forone, I succeed much better in straight lines than in any others. Here I have been trying a half-hour to make this water-wheel round;and round it never will be. "

"Then let it remain as it is. It looks uncommonly picturesque, and may pass for a new invention. "

The lady continued to sketch, and Flemming to gaze at herbeautiful face; often repeating to himself those lines in Marlow'sFaust;

"O thou art fairer than the evening air, Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!"

He certainly would have betrayed himself to the maternal eye ofMrs. Ashburton, had she not been wholly absorbed in the follies of afashionable novel. Ere long the fair sketcher had paused for amoment; and Flemming had taken her sketch-book in his hands and waslooking it through from the beginning with ever-increasing delight, half of which he dared not express, though he favored her with somecomments and bursts of admiration. 

"This is truly a very beautiful sketch of Murten and thebattle-field! How quietly the land-scape sleeps there by the lake, after the battle! Did you ever read the ballad of Veit Weber, theshoe-maker, on this subject? He says, the routed Burgundians jumpedinto the lake, and the Swiss Leaguers shot them down like wild ducksamong the reeds. He fought in the battle and wrote the balladafterwards;--

'He had himself laid hand on sword, He who this rhyme did write;

Till evening mowed he with the sword, And sang the song at night. '"

"You must give me the whole ballad, " said Miss Ashburton; "itwill serve to illustrate the sketch. "

"And the sketch to illustrate the ballad. And now we suddenlyslide down the Alps into Italy, and are even in Rome, if I mistakenot. This is surely a head of Homer?"

"Yes, " replied the lady, with a little enthusiasm. "Do you notremember the marble bust at Rome? When I first beheld that bust, itabsolutely inspired me with awe. It is not the face of a man, but ofa god!"

"And you have done it no injustice in your copy, " said Flemming, catching a new enthusiasm from hers. "With what a classic grace thefillet, passing round the majestic forehead, confines his flowinglocks, which mingle with his beard! The countenance, too, is calm, majestic, godlike! Even the fixed and sightless eyeballs do not marthe imageof the seer! Such were the sightless eyes of the blind oldman of Chios. They seem to look with mournful solemnity into themysterious future; and the marble lips to repeat that propheticpassage in the Hymn to Apollo; 'Let me also hope to be remembered inages to come. And when any one, born of the tribes of men, comeshither, a weary traveller, and inquires, who is the sweetest of theSinging Men, that resort to your feasts, and whom you most delightto hear, do you make answer for me. It is the Blind Man, who dwellsin Chios; his songs excel all that can ever be sung!' But do youreally believe, that this is a portrait of Homer?"

"Certainly not! It is only an artist's dream. It was thus, thatHomer appeared to him in his visions of the antique world. Everyone, you know, forms an image in his fancy of persons and things hehas never seen; and the artist reproduces them in marble or oncanvass. "

"And what is the image in your fancy? Is it like this?"

"No; not entirely. I have drawn my impressions from anothersource. Whenever I think of Homer, which is not often, he walksbefore me, solemn and serene, as in the vision of the great Italian;in countenance neither sorrowful nor glad, followed by other bards, and holding in his right hand a sword!"

"That is a finer conception, than even this, " said Flemming. "AndI perceive from your words, as well as from this book, that you havea true feeling for art, and understand what it is. You have hadbright glimpses into the enchanted land. "

"I trust, " replied the lady modestly, "that I am not whollywithout this feeling. Certainly I have as strong and passionate alove of Art as of Nature. "

"But does it not often offend you to hear people speaking of Artand Nature as opposite and discordant things? Surely nothing can bemore false. Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man. Indeed, Art signifies no more than this. Art is Power. That is theoriginal meaning of the word. It is the creative power by which thesoul of man makes itself known, through some external manifestationor outward sign. As we can always hear the voice of God, walking inthe garden, in the cool of the day, or under the star-light, where, to quote one of this poet's verses, 'high prospects and the brows ofall steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows';--so, under the twilight and the starlight of past ages, do we hear thevoice of man, walking amid the works of his hands, and city wallsand towers and the spires of churches, thrust up themselves forshows. "

The lady smiled at his warmth; and he continued;

"This, however, is but a similitude; and Art and Nature are morenearly allied than by similitudes only. Art is the revelation ofman; and not merely that, but likewise the revelation of Nature, speaking through man. Art preëxists in Nature, and Nature isreproduced in Art. As vaporsfrom the ocean, floating landward anddissolved in rain, are carried back in rivers to the ocean, sothoughts and the semblances of things that fall upon the soul of manin showers, flow out again in living streams of Art, and losethemselves in the great ocean, which is Nature. Art and Nature arenot, then, discordant, but ever harmoniously working in eachother. "

Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm. Flemming spake with such evidentinterest in the subject, that Miss Ashburton did not fail tomanifest some interest in what he said; and, encouraged by this, heproceeded;

"Thus in this wondrous world wherein we live, which is the Worldof Nature, man has made unto himself another world hardly lesswondrous, which is the World of Art. And it lies infolded andcompassed about by the other, 'And the clear region where 't was born, Round in itself incloses. '

Taking this view of art, I think we understand more easily theskill of the artist, and the differencebetween him and the mereamateur. What we call miracles and wonders of art are not so to himwho created them. For they were created by the natural movements ofhis own great soul. Statues, paintings, churches, poems, are butshadows of himself;--shadows in marble, colors, stone, words. Hefeels and recognises their beauty; but he thought these thoughts andproduced these things as easily as inferior minds do thoughts andthings inferior. Perhaps more easily. Vague images and shapes ofbeauty floating through the soul, the semblances of things as yetindefinite or ill-defined, and perfect only when put in art, --thisPossible Intellect, as the Scholastic Philosophers have termedit, --the artist shares in common with us all. The lovers of art aremany. But the Active Intellect, the creative power, --the power toput these shapes and images in art, to imbody the indefinite, andrender perfect, is his alone. He shares the gift with few. He knowsnot even whence nor how this is. He knows only that it is; that Godhas given him the power, which has been denied to others. "

"I should have known you were just from Germany, " said the lady, with a smile, "even if you had not told me so. You are an enthusiastfor the Germans. For my part I cannot endure their harshlanguage. "

"You would like it better, if you knew it better, " answeredFlemming. "It is not harsh to me; but homelike, hearty, and full offeeling, like the sound of happy voices at a fireside, of a winter'snight, when the wind blows, and the fire crackles, and hisses, andsnaps. I do indeed love the Germans; the men are so hale and hearty, and the Fräuleins so tender and true!"

"I always think of men with pipes and beer, and women withknittingwork. "

"O, those are English prejudices, " exclaimed Flemming. "Nothingcan be more--"

"And their very literature presents itself to my imaginationunder the same forms. "

"I see you have read only English criticisms; and have an idea, that all German books smell, as it were, 'of groceries, of brownpapers, filled withgreasy cakes and slices of bacon; and of fryingsin frowzy back-parlours; and this shuts you out from a gloriousworld of poetry, romance, and dreams!"

Mary Ashburton smiled, and Flemming continued to turn over theleaves of the sketch-book, with an occasional criticism andwitticism. At length he came to a leaf which was written in pencil. People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always sowhen a little in love. 

"Here is a pencil-sketch, " said he, with an entreating look, "which I would fain examine with the rest. "

"You may do so, if you wish; but you will find it the poorestsketch in the book. I was trying one day to draw the picture of anartist's life in Rome, as it presented itself to my imagination; andthis is the result. Perhaps it may awaken some pleasant recollectionin your mind. "

Flemming waited no longer; but read with the eyes of a lover, notof a critic, the following description, which inspired him with anew enthusiasm for Art, and for Mary Ashburton. 

"I often reflect with delight upon the young artist's life inRome. A stranger from the cold and gloomy North, he has crossed theAlps, and with the devotion of a pilgrim journeyed to the EternalCity. He dwells perhaps upon the Pincian Hill; and hardly a housethere, which is not inhabited by artists from foreign lands. Thevery room he lives in has been their abode from time out of mind. Their names are written all over the walls; perhaps some furtherrecord of them left in a rough sketch upon the window-shutter, withan inscription and a date. These things consecrate the place, in hisimagination. Even these names, though unknown to him, are notwithout associations in his mind. 

"In that warm latitude he rises with the day. The night-vaporsare already rolling away over the Campagna sea-ward. As he looksfrom his window, above and beyond their white folds he recognisesthe tremulous blue sea at Ostia. Over Soracte rises the sun, --overhis own beloved mountain; though no longer worshipped there, asofold. Before him, the antique house, where Raphael lived, casts itslong, brown shadow down into the heart of modern Rome. The city liesstill asleep and silent. But above its dark roofs, more than twohundred steeples catch the sunshine on their gilded weather-cocks. Presently the bells begin to ring, and, as the artist listens totheir pleasant chimes, he knows that in each of those churches overthe high altar, hangs a painting by some great master's hand, whosebeauty comes between him and heaven, so that he cannot pray, butwonder only. 

"Among these works of art he passes the day; but oftenest in St. Peter's and the Vatican. Up the vast marble stair-case, --through theCorridor Chiaramonti, --through vestibules, galleries, chambers, --hepasses, as in a dream. All are filled with busts and statues; orpainted in daring frescoes. What forms of strength and beauty! whatglorious creations of the human mind! and in that last chamber ofall, standing alone upon his pedestal, the Apollo found atActium, --in such a majestic attitude, --with such a noblecountenance, life-like, god-like!

"Or perhaps he passes into the chambers of the painters; but goesno further than the second. For in the middle of that chamber alarge painting stands upon the heavy easel, as if unfinished, thoughmore than three hundred years ago the great artist completed it, andthen laid his pencil away forever, leaving this last benediction tothe world. It is the Transfiguration of Christ by Raphael. A childlooks not at the stars with greater wonder, than the artist at thispainting. He knows how many studious years are in that picture. Heknows the difficult path that leads to perfection, having himselftaken some of the first steps. --Thus he recalls the hour, when thatbroad canvass was first stretched upon its frame, and Raphael stoodbefore it, and laid the first colors upon it, and beheld the figuresone by one born into life, and 'looked upon the work of his ownhands with a smile, that it should have succeeded so well. ' Herecalls too, the hour, when, the task accomplished, the pencildropped from the master's dying hand, and his eyes closed to open ona more glorious transfiguration, and at length the dead Raphael layin his own studio, before this wonderful painting, more gloriousthan any conqueror under the banners and armorial hatchments of hisfuneral!

"Think you, that such sights and thoughts as these do not movethe heart of a young man and an artist! And when he goes forth intothe open air, the sun is going down, and the gray ruins of anantique world receive him. From the Palace of the Cæsars he looksdown into the Forum, or towards the Coliseum; or westward sees thelast sunshine strike the bronze Archangel, which stands upon theTomb of Adrian. He walks amid a world of Art in ruins. The verystreet-lamps, that light him homeward, burn before some painted orsculptured image of the Madonna! What wonder is it, if dreams visithim in his sleep, --nay, if his whole life seem to him a dream! Whatwonder, if, with a feverish heart and quick hand, he strive toreproduce those dreams in marble or on canvass. "

Foolish Paul Flemming! who both admired and praised this littlesketch, and yet was too blind to see, that it was written from theheart, and not from the imagination! Foolish Paul Flemming! whothought, that a girl of twenty could write thus, without a reason!Close upon this followed another pencil sketch, which he likewiseread, with the lady's permission. It was this. 

"The whole period of the Middle Ages seems very strange to me. Attimes I cannot persuade myself that such things could have been, ashistory tells us; that such a strange world was a part of ourworld, --that such a strange life was a part of the life, which seemsto us who are living it now, so passionless and commonplace. It isonly when I stand amid ruined castles, that look at me somournfully, and behold the heavy armour of old knights, hanging uponthe wainscot of Gothic chambers; or when I walk amid the aisles ofsome dusky minster, whose walls are narrative ofhoar antiquity, andwhose very bells have been baptized, and see the carved oaken stallsin the choir, where so many generations of monks have sat and sung, and the tombs, where now they sleep in silence, to awake no more totheir midnight psalms;--it is only at such times, that the historyof the Middle Ages is a reality to me, and not a passage inromance. 

"Likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those ages havesomething of this power of making the dead Past a living Present inmy mind. What curious figures are emblazoned on the creakingparchment, making its yellow leaves laugh with gay colors! You seemto come upon them unawares. Their faces have an expression ofwonder. They seem all to be just startled from their sleep by thesound you made when you unloosed the brazen clasps, and opened thecuriously-carved oaken covers, that turn on hinges, like the greatgates of a city. To the building of that city some diligent monkgave the whole of a long life. With what strange denizens he peopledit! Adam and Eve standing under a tree, she, with the apple in herhand;--the patriarch Abraham, with a tree growing out of his body, and his descendants sitting owl-like upon its branches;--ladies withflowing locks of gold; knights in armour, with most fantastic, long-toed shoes; jousts and tournaments; and Minnesingers, andlovers, whose heads reach to the towers, where their ladiessit;--and all so angular, so simple, so childlike, --all in suchsimple attitudes, with such great eyes, and holding up such long, lank fingers!--These things are characteristic of the Middle Ages, and persuade me of the truth of history. "

At this moment Berkley entered, with a Swiss cottage, which hehad just bought as a present for somebody's child in England; and acane with a chamois-horn on the end of it, which he had just boughtfor himself. This was the first time, that Flemming had been sorryto see the good-natured man. His presence interrupted the delightfulconversation he was carrying on "under four eyes, " with MaryAshburton. He reallythought Berkley a bore, and wondered it hadnever occurred to him before. Mrs. Ashburton, too, must needs laydown her book; and the conversation became general. Strange to say, the Swiss dinner-hour of one o'clock, did not come a moment too soonfor Flemming. It did not even occur to him that it was early; for hewas seated beside Mary Ashburton, and at dinner one can say so much, without being overheard. 

CHAPTER VI. AFTER DINNER, AND AFTER THE MANNER OF THE BEST CRITICS. 

When the learned Thomas Diafoirus wooed the fair Angélique, hedrew from his pocket a medical thesis, and presented it to her, asthe first-fruits of his genius; and at the same time, invited her, with her father's permission, to attend the dissection of a woman, upon whom he was to lecture. Paul Flemming did nearly the samething; and so often, that it had become a habit. He was continuallydrawing, from his pocket or his memory, some scrap of song or story;and inviting some fair Angélique, either with her father'spermission or without, to attend the dissection of anauthor, uponwhom he was to discourse. He soon gave proofs of this to MaryAshburton. 

"What books have we here for afternoon reading?" said Flemming, taking a volume from the parlour table, when they had returned fromthe dining-room. "O, it is Uhland's Poems. Have you read any thingof his? He and Tieck are the best living poets of Germany. Theydispute the palm of superiority. Let me give you a lesson in German, this afternoon, Miss Ashburton; so that no one may accuse you of'omitting the sweet benefit of time, to clothe your age withangel-like perfection. ' I have opened at random upon the ballad ofthe Black Knight. You repeat the German after me, and I willtranslate to you. Pfingsten war, das Fest der Freude!"

"I should never persuade my unwilling lips to pronounce suchsounds. So I beg you not to perplex me with your German, but read methe ballad in English. "

"Well, then, listen. I will improvise a translation for your ownparticular benefit. 

"'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, When woods and fields put off all sadness. 

Thus began the King and spake;

'So from the halls

Of ancient Hofburg's walls, A luxuriant Spring shall break. '

"Drums and trumpets echo loudly, Wave the crimson banners proudly. 

From balcony the King looked on;

In the play of spears, Fell all the cavaliers, Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

"To the barrier of the fight, Rode at last a sable Knight. 

'Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say!'

'Should I speak it here, Ye would stand aghast with fear;

Am a Prince of mighty sway!'

"When he rode into the lists, The arch of heaven grew black with mists, And the castle 'gan to rock. 

At the first blow, Fell the youth from saddle-bow, Hardly rises from the shock. 

"Pipe and viol call the dances, Torch-light through the high halls glances;

Waves a mighty shadow in. 

With manner bland

Doth ask the maiden's hand, Doth with her the dance begin. 

"Danced in sable iron sark, Danced a measure weird and dark, Coldly clasped her limbs around. 

From breast and hair

Down fall from her the fair

Flowerets wilted to the ground. 

"To the sumptuous banquet came

Every Knight and every Dame. 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, With mournful mind

The ancient King reclined, Gazed at them in silent thought. 

"Pale the children both did look, But the guest a beaker took;

'Golden wine will make you whole!"

The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank;

'O that draught was very cool!'

"Each the father's breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces

Colorless grow utterly. 

Whichever way

Looks the fear-struck father gray, He beholds his children die. 

" 'Woe! the blessed children both, Takest thou in the joy of youth;

Take me, too, the joyless father!'

Spake the Grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast;

'Roses in the spring I gather!'"

"That is indeed a striking ballad!" said Miss Ashburton, "butrather too grim and ghostly for this dull afternoon. "

"It begins joyously enough with the feast of Pentecost, and thecrimson banners at the old castle. Then the contrast is wellmanaged. The Knight in black mail, and the waving in of the mightyshadow in the dance, and the dropping of the faded flowers, are allstrikingly presented to the imagination. However, it tellsits ownstory, and needs no explanation. Here is something in a differentvein, though still melancholy. The Castle by the Sea. Shall I readit?"

"Yes, if you like. "

Flemming read;

"Hast thou seen that lordly castle, That Castle by the Sea?

Golden and red above it

The clouds float gorgeously. 

"And fain it would stoop downward

To the mirrored wave below;

And fain it would soar upward

In the evening's crimson glow. 

" 'Well have I seen that castle, That Castle by the Sea, And the moon above it standing, And the mist rise solemnly. '

"The winds and the waves of ocean, Had they a merry chime?

Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?

" 'The winds and the waves of ocean, They rested quietly, But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, And tears came to my eye. '

"And sawest thou on the turrets

The King and his royal bride?

And the wave of their crimson mantles?

And the golden crown of pride?

"Led they not forth in rapture

A beauteous maiden there?

Resplendent as the morning sun, Beaming with golden hair?

" 'Well saw I the ancient parents, Without the crown of pride;

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, No maiden was by their side!'

How do you like that?"

"It is very graceful, and pretty. But Uhland seems to leave agreat deal to his reader's imagination. All his readers should bepoets themselves, or they will hardly comprehend him. I confess, Ihardly understand the passage where he speaks of the castle'sstooping downward to the mirrored wave below, and then soaringupward into the gleaming sky. I suppose, however, he wishes toexpress the momentary illusion we experience at beholding a perfectreflection of an old tower in the sea, and look at it as if it werenot a mere shadow in the water; and yet the real tower rises farabove, and seems to float in the crimson evening clouds. Is that themeaning?"

"I should think it was. To me it is all a beautiful cloudlandscape, which I comprehend and feel, and yet should find somedifficulty perhaps in explaining. "

"And why need one always explain? Some feelings are quiteuntranslatable. No language has yet been found for them. They gleamupon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet, whenwe bring them close to us, and hold them up to the light of reason, lose their beauty, all at once; just as glow-worms, which gleam withsuch a spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought inwhere the candlesare lighted, are found to be only worms, like somany others. "

"Very true. We ought sometimes to be content with feeling. Here, now, is an exquisite piece, which soothes one like the fall ofevening shadows, --like the dewy coolness of twilight after a sultryday. I shall not give you a bald translation of my own, because Ihave laid up in my memory another, which, though not very literal, equals the original in beauty. Observe how finely it commences. 

"Many a year is in its grave, Since I crossed this restless wave;

And the evening, fair as ever, Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

"Then, in this same boat, beside, Sat two comrades old and tried;

One with all a father's truth, One with all the fire of youth. 

"One on earth in silence wrought, And his grave in silence sought;

But the younger, brighter form

Passed in battle and in storm!

"So, whene'er I turn my eye

Back upon the days gone by, Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, --

Friends, who closed their course before me. 

"Yet what binds us, friend to friend, But that soul with soul can blend?

Soul-like were those hours of yore;

Let us walk in soul once more!

"Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;

Take, --I give it willingly;

For, invisibly to thee, Spirits twain have crossed with me!"

"O, that is beautiful, --'beautiful exceedingly!' Who translatedit?"

"I do not know. I wish I could find him out. It is certainlyadmirably done; though in the measure of the original there issomething like the rocking motion of a boat, which is not preservedin the translation. "

"And is Uhland always so soothing and spiritual?"

"Yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world. I am now tryingto find here a little poem on the Death of a Country Clergyman; inwhich he introduces a beautiful picture. But I cannot turn to it. Nomatter. He describes the spirit of the good old man, returning toearth on a bright summer morning, and standing amid the golden cornand the red and blue flowers, and mildly greeting the reapers as ofold. The idea is beautiful, is it not?"

"Yes, very beautiful!"

"But there is nothing morbid in Uhland's mind. He is always freshand invigorating, like a breezy morning. In this he differs entirelyfrom such writers as Salis and Matthisson. "

"And who are they?"

"Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was only a Dismal Swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in theirhands, sobbing and sighing, and making signals to Death, to come andferry them over the lake. And now their spirits stand in the greenfields of German song, like two weeping-willows, bending overagrave. To read their poems, is like wandering through a villagechurchyard on a summer evening, reading the inscription upon thegrave-stones, and recalling sweet images of the departed; whileabove you, 'Hark! in the holy grove of palms, Where the stream of life runs free, Echoes, in the angels' psalms, 'Sister spirit! hail to thee!'"

"How musically those lines flow! Are they Matthisson's!"

"Yes; and they do indeed flow musically. I wish I had his poemshere. I should like to read to you his Elegy on the Ruins of anAncient Castle. It is an imitation of Gray's Elegy. You have been atBaden-Baden?

"Yes; last summer. "

"And have not forgotten--"

"The old castle? Of course not. What a magnificent ruin itis!"

"That is the scene of Matthisson's Poem, andseems to have filledthe melancholy bard with more than wonted inspiration. "

"I should like very much to see the poem, I remember that oldruin with so much delight. "

"I am sorry I have not a translation of it for you. Instead of itI will give you a sweet and mournful poem from Salis. It is calledthe Song of the Silent Land. 

"Into the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither!

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand, Thither, oh, thither. 

Into the Silent Land?

"Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions

Of beauteous souls! Eternity's own band!

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

"O Land! O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great departed, Into the Silent Land!

Is not that a beautiful poem?"

Mary Ashburton made no answer. She had turned away to hide hertears. Flemming wondered, that Berkley could say she was notbeautiful. Still he was rather pleased than offended at it. He feltat that moment how sweet a thing it would be to possess one, whoshould seem beautiful to him alone, and yet to him be more beautifulthan all the world beside! How bright the world became to him atthat thought! It was like one of those paintings in which all thelight streams from the face of the Virgin. O, there is nothingholier in this life of ours, than the first consciousness oflove, --the first fluttering of its silken wings; the first risingsound and breath of thatwind, which is so soon to sweep through thesoul, to purify or to destroy!

Old histories tell us, that the great Emperor Charlemagne stampedhis edicts with the hilt of his sword. The greater Emperor, Death, stamps his with the blade; and they are signed and executed with thesame stroke. Flemming received that night a letter from Heidelberg, which told him, that Emma of Ilmenau was dead. The fate of this poorgirl affected him deeply; and he said in his heart;

"Father in Heaven! Why was the lot of this weak and erring childso hard! What had she done, to be so tempted in her weakness, andperish? Why didst thou suffer her gentle affections to lead her thusastray?"

And, through the silence of the awful midnight, the voice of anavalanche answered from the distant mountains, and seemed tosay;

"Peace! peace! Why dost thou question God's providence!"

CHAPTER VII. TAKE CARE!

Fair is the valley of Lauterbrunnen with its green meadows andoverhanging cliffs. The ruined castle of Unspunnen stands like anarmed warder at the gate of the enchanted land. In calm serenity thesnowy mountains rise beyond. Fairer than the Rock of Balmarusa, youfrowning precipice looks down upon us; and, from the topmost cliff, the white pennon of the Brook of Dust shimmers and waves in thesunny air!

It was a bright, beautiful morning after nightrain. Every dewdropand raindrop had a whole heaven within it; and so had the heart ofPaul Flemming, as, with Mrs. Ashburton and her dark-eyed daughter, he drove up the Valley of Lauter-brunnen, --the Valley ofFountains-Only. 

"How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this morning!" exclaimed he, looking at Mary Ashburton. 

She thought he meant the mountain, and assented. But he meant herlikewise. 

"And the mountains, beyond, " he continued; "the Monk and theSilver-horn, the Wetter-horn the Schreck-horn, and the Schwarz-horn, all those sublime apostles of Nature, whose sermons are avalanches!Did you ever behold anything more grand!"

"O yes. Mont Blanc is more grand, when you behold it from thehills opposite. It was there that I was most moved by themagnificence of Swiss scenery. It was a morning like this; and theclouds, that were hovering about on their huge, shadowy wings, madethe scene only the more magnificent. Before me lay the wholepanorama of the Alps; pine forests standing dark and solemn at thebase of the mountains; and half-way up a veil of mist; above whichrose the snowy summits, and sharp needles of rock, which seemed tofloat in the air, like a fairy world. Then the glaciersstood oneither side, winding down through the mountain ravines; and, highabove all, rose the white, dome-like summit of Mont Blanc. And everand anon from the shroud of mist came the awful sound of anavalanche, and a continual roar, as of the wind through a forest ofpines, filled the air. It was the roar of the Arve and Aveiron, breaking from their icy fountains. Then the mists began to passaway; and it seemed as if the whole firmament were rolling together. It recalled to my mind that sublime passage in the Apocalypse; 'Isaw a great white throne; and him that sat thereon; before whoseface the heavens and the earth fled away, and found no place!' O, Icannot believe that upon this earth there is a more magnificentscene. "

"It must be grand, indeed, " replied Flemming. "And those mightyglaciers, --huge monsters with bristling crests, creeping down intothe valley! for it is said they really move. "

"Yes; it filled me with a strange sensation of awe to think ofthis. They seemed to me like the dragons of Northern Romance, whichcome down from the mountains and devour whole villages. A littlehamlet in Chamouni was once abandoned by its inhabitants, terrifiedat the approach of the icy dragon. But is it possible you have neverbeen at Chamouni?

"Never. The great marvel still remains unseen by me. "

"Then how can you linger here so long? Were I in your place Iwould not lose an hour. "

These words passed over the opening blossoms of hope in the soulof Flemming, like a cold wind over the flowers in spring-time. Hebore it as best he could, and changed the subject. 

I do not mean to describe the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, nor thebright day passed there. I know that my gentle reader is blessedwith the divine gift of a poetic fancy; and can see already how themountains rise, and the torrents fall, and the sweet valley liesbetween; and how, along the dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and travellers come and go in charabans, like Punch and Judy in ashow-box. He knows already how romantic ladies sketch romanticscenes; while sweet gentlemen gather sweet flowers; and how coldmeat tastes under the shadow of trees, and how time flies when weare in love, and the beloved one near. One little incident I must, however, mention, lest his fancy should not suggest it. 

Flemming was still sitting with the ladies, on the green slopenear the Staubbach, or Brook of Dust, when a young man clad ingreen, came down the valley. It was a German student, with flaxenringlets hanging over his shoulders, and a guitar in his hand. Hisstep was free and elastic, and his countenance wore the joyousexpression of youth and health. He approached the company with acourteous salutation; and, after the manner of travelling students, asked charity with the confident air of one unaccustomed to refusal. Nor was he refused in this instance. The presence of those we lovemakes us compassionate and generous. Flemming gave him a piece ofgold; and after a short conversation he seated himself, at alittledistance on the grass, and began to play and sing. Wonderful andmany were the sweet accords and plaintive sounds that came from thatlittle instrument, touched by the student's hand. Every feeling ofthe human heart seemed to find an expression there, and awaken akindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard him. He sang sweetGerman songs, so full of longing, and of pleasing sadness, and hopeand fear, and passionate desire, and soul-subduing sorrow, that thetears came into Mary Ashburton's eyes, though she understood not thewords he sang. Then his countenance glowed with triumph, and he beatthe strings like a drum, and sang;

"O, how the drum beats so loud!

Close beside me in the fight, My dying brother says, Good Night!

And the cannon's awful breath

Screams the loud halloo of Death!

And the drum, And the drum, Beats so loud!"

Many were the words of praise, when the young musician ended;and, as he rose to depart, they still entreated for one song more. Whereupon he played a lively prelude; and, looking full intoFlemming's face, sang with a pleasant smile, and still in German, this little song. 

"I KNOW a maiden fair to see, Take care!

She can both false and friendly be, Beware! Beware!

Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

"She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care!

She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware!

Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

"And she has hair of a golden hue, Take care!

And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware!

Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

"She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care!

She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware!

Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

"She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care!

It is a fool's cap for thee to wear, Beware! Beware!

Trust her not, She is fooling thee!"

The last stanza he sung in a laughing, triumphant tone, whichresounded above the loud clang of his guitar, like the jeering laughof Till Eulenspiegel. Then slinging his guitar over his shoulder, hetook off his green cap, and made a leg to the ladies, in the styleof Gil Blas; waved his hand in the air, and walked quickly down thevalley, singing "Adé! Adé! Adé!"

CHAPTER VIII. THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

The power of magic in the Middle Ages created monsters, whofollowed the unhappy magician everywhere. The power of Love in allages creates angels, who likewise follow the happy or unhappy lovereverywhere, even in his dreams. By such an angel was Paul Flemmingnow haunted, both when he waked and when he slept. He walked as in adream; and was hardly conscious of the presence of those around him. A sweet face looked at him from every page of every book he read;and it was the face of Mary Ashburton! a sweet voice spake to him inevery sound he heard; and it was the voice of Mary Ashburton! Dayand night succeeded each other, with pleasant interchange of lightand darkness; but to him thepassing of time was only as a dream. When he arose in the morning, he thought only of her, and wonderedif she were yet awake; and when he lay down at night he thought onlyof her, and how, like the Lady Christabel, "Her gentle limbs she did undress, And lay down in her loveliness. "

And the livelong day he was with her, either in reality or inday-dreams, hardly less real; for, in each delirious vision of hiswaking hours, her beauteous form passed like the form of Beatricethrough Dante's heaven; and, as he lay in the summer afternoon, andheard at times the sound of the wind in the trees, and the sound ofSabbath bells ascending up to heaven, holy wishes and prayersascended with them from his inmost soul, beseeching that he mightnot love in vain! And whenever, in silence and alone, he looked intothe silent, lonely countenance of Night, he recalled the impassionedlines of Plato;--

"Lookest thou at the stars? If I were heaven, With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee!"

O how beautiful it is to love! Even thou, that sneerest at thispage, and laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are nearthee, thou, too, must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone; andconfess, that a foolish world is prone to laugh in public, at whatin private it reverences, as one of the highest impulses of ournature, --namely, Love!

One by one the objects of our affection depart from us. But ouraffections remain, and like vines stretch forth their broken, wounded tendrils for support. The bleeding heart needs a balm toheal it; and there is none but the love of its kind, --none but theaffection of a human heart! Thus the wounded, broken affections ofFlemming began to lift themselves from the dust and cling aroundthis new object. Days and weeks passed; and, like the StudentCrisostomo, he ceased to love because he began to adore. And withthis adoration mingled the prayer, that, in that hour when the worldis still, and the voices that praise are mute, and reflection comethlike twilight, and themaiden, in her day-dreams, counted the numberof her friends, some voice in the sacred silence of her thoughtsmight whisper his name! And was it indeed so? Did any voice in thesacred silence of her thoughts whisper his name?--We shall soonlearn. 

They were sitting together one morning, on the green, flowerymeadow, under the ruins of Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching theruins. The birds were singing one and all, as if there were noaching hearts, no sin nor sorrow, in the world. So motionless wasthe bright air, that the shadow of the trees lay engraven on thegrass. The distant snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and nothingfrowned, save the square tower of the old ruin above them. 

"What a pity it is, " said the lady, as she stopped to rest herweary fingers; "what a pity it is, that there is no old traditionconnected with this ruin. "

"I will make you one, if you wish, " said Flemming. 

"Can you make old traditions?"

"O yes; I made three the other day for the Rhine, and one veryold one for the Black Forest. A lady with dishevelled hair; a robberwith a horrible slouched hat; and a night-storm among the roaringpines. "

"Delightful! Do make one for me. "

"With the greatest pleasure. Where will you have the scene? Here, or in the Black Forest?"

"In the Black Forest, by all means? Begin. "

"First promise not to interrupt me. If you snap the goldenthreads of thought, they will float away on the air like gossamerthreads, and I shall never be able to recover them. "

"I promise. "

"Listen, then, to the Tradition of 'The Fountain of Oblivion. '"

"Begin. "

Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, at the lady's feet, looking up with dreamy eyes into her sweet face, and then into theleaves of the linden-trees overhead. 

"Gentle Lady! Dost thou remember the linden-trees of Bülach, those tall and stately trees, with velvet down upon their shiningleaves and rustic benches underneath their overhanging eaves! Aleafy dwelling, fit to be the home of elf or fairy, where first Itold my love to thee, thou cold and stately Hermione! A littlepeasant girl stood near, and listened all the while, with eyes ofwonder and delight, and an unconscious smile, to hear the strangerstill speak on in accents deep yet mild, --none else was with us inthat hour, save God and that peasant child!"

"Why, it is in rhyme!"

"No, no! the rhyme is only in your imagination. You promised notto interrupt me, and you have already snapped asunder the gossamerthreads of as sweet a dream as was ever spun from a poet'sbrain. "

"It certainly did rhyme!"

"This was the reverie of the Student Hieronymus, as he sat atmidnight in his chamber, with his hands clasped together, andresting upon anopen volume, which he should have been reading. Hispale face was raised, and the pupils of his eyes dilated as if thespirit-world were open before him, and some beauteous vision werestanding there, and drawing the student's soul through his eyes upinto Heaven, as the evening sun through parting summer-clouds, seemsto draw into its bosom the vapors of the earth. O, it was a sweetvision! I can see it before me now!

"Near the student stood an antique bronze lamp, with strangefigures carved upon it. It was a magic lamp, which once belonged tothe Arabian astrologer El Geber, in Spain. Its light was beautifulas the light of stars; and, night after night, as the lonely wightsat alone and read in his lofty tower, through the mist, and mirk, and dropping rain, it streamed out into the darkness, and was seenby many wakeful eyes. To the poor Student Hieronymus it was awonderful Aladdin's Lamp; for in its flame a Divinity revealedherself unto him, and showed him treasures. Whenever he opened aponderous, antiquatedtome, it seemed as if some angel opened for himthe gates of Paradise; and already he was known in the city asHieronymus the Learned. 

"But, alas! he could read no more. The charm was broken. Hourafter hour he passed with his hands clasped before him, and his faireyes gazing at vacancy. What could so disturb the studies of thismelancholy wight? Lady, he was in love! Have you ever been in love?He had seen the face of the beautiful Hermione; and as, when we havethoughtlessly looked at the sun, our dazzled eyes, though closed, behold it still; so he beheld by day and by night the radiant imageof her upon whom he had too rashly gazed. Alas! he was unhappy; forthe proud Hermione disdained the love of a poor student, whose onlywealth was a magic lamp. In marble halls, and amid the gay crowdthat worshipped her, she had almost forgotten that such a beinglived as the Student Hieronymus. The adoration of his heart had beento her only as the perfume of a wild flower, which she hadcarelessly crushedwith her foot in passing. But he had lost all; forhe had lost the quiet of his thoughts; and his agitated soulreflected only broken and distorted images of things. The worldlaughed at the poor student, who, in his torn and threadbarecassock, dared to lift his eyes to the Lady Hermione; while he satalone, in his desolate chamber, and suffered in silence. Heremembered many things, which he would fain forget; but which, if hehad forgotten them, he would wish again to remember. Such were thelinden-trees of Bülach, under whose pleasant shade he had told hislove to Hermione. This was the scene which he wished most to forget, yet loved most to remember; and of this he was now dreaming, withhis hands clasped upon his book, and that kind of music in histhoughts, which you, Lady, mistook for rhyme. 

"Suddenly the cathedral clock struck twelve with a melancholyclang. It roused the Student Hieronymus from his dream; and rang inhis ears, like the iron hoofs of the steeds of Time. Themagic hourhad come, when the Divinity of the lamp most willingly revealedherself to her votary. The bronze figures seemed alive; a whitecloud rose from the flame and spread itself through the chamber, whose four walls dilated into magnificent cloud vistas; a fragrance, as of wild-flowers, filled the air; and a dreamy music, likedistant, sweetchiming bells, announced the approach of the midnightDivinity. Through his streaming tears the heart-broken Studentbeheld her once more descending a pass in the snowy cloud-mountains, as, at evening, the dewy Hesperus comes from the bosom of the mist, and assumes his station in the sky. At her approach, his spirit grewmore calm; for her presence was, to his feverish heart, like atropical night, --beautiful and soothing and invigorating. At lengthshe stood before him revealed in all her beauty; and he comprehendedthe visible language of her sweet but silent lips; which seemed tosay;--'What would the Student Hieronymus to-night?'--'Peace!' heanswered, raising his clasped hands, and smiling through histears. 'The Student Hieronymus imploreth peace!' 'Then go, ' said thespirit, 'go to the Fountain of Oblivion in the deepest solitude ofthe Black Forest, and cast this scroll into its waters; and thoushalt be at peace once more. Hieronymus opened his arms to embracethe Divinity, for her countenance assumed the features of Hermione;but she vanished away; the music ceased; the gorgeous cloud-landsank and fell asunder; and the student was alone within the fourbare walls of his chamber. As he bowed his head downward, his eyefell upon a parchment scroll, which was lying beside the lamp. Uponit was written only the name of Hermione!

"The next morning Hieronymus put the scroll into his bosom, andwent his way in search of the Fountain of Oblivion. A few daysbrought him to the skirts of the Black Forest. He entered, notwithout a feeling of dread, that land of shadows; and passed onwardunder melancholy pines and cedars, whose branches grew abroad andmingled together, and, as they swayed up and down, filled the airwith solemn twilight and a sound of sorrow. As he advanced into theforest, the waving moss hung, like curtains, from the branchesoverhead, and more and more shut out the light of heaven; and heknew that the Fountain of Oblivion was not far off. Even then thesound of falling waters was mingling with the roar of the pinesoverhead; and ere long he came to a river, moving in solemn majestythrough the forest, and falling with a dull, leaden sound into amotionless and stagnant lake, above which the branches of the forestmet and mingled, forming perpetual night. This was the Fountain ofOblivion. 

"Upon its brink the student paused, and gazed into the darkwaters with a steadfast look. They were limpid waters, dark withshadows only. And as he gazed, he beheld, far down in their silentdepths, dim and ill-defined outlines, wavering to and fro, like thefolds of a white garment in the twilight. Then more distinct andpermanent shapes arose;--shapes familiar to his mind, yet forgottenand remembered again, as the fragmentsof a dream; till at length, far, far below him he beheld the great city of the Past, with silentmarble streets, and moss-grown walls, and spires uprising with awave-like, flickering motion. And amid the crowd that thronged thosestreets, he beheld faces once familiar and dear to him; and heardsorrowful, sweet voices, singing; 'O forget us not! forget us not!'and then the distant, mournful sound of funeral bells, that weretolling below, in the city of the Past. But in the gardens of thatcity, there were children playing, and among them, one who wore hisfeatures, as they had been in childhood. He was leading a littlegirl by the hand, and caressed her often, and adorned her withflowers. Then, like a dream, the scene changed, and the boy hadgrown older, and stood alone, gazing into the sky; and, as he gazed, his countenance changed again, and Hieronymus beheld him, as if ithad been his own image in the clear water; and before him stood abeauteous maiden, whose face was like the face of Hermione, and hefeared lest the scroll had fallen into the water, as he bent overit. Starting as from a dream he put his hand into his bosom and breathedfreely again, when he found the scroll still there. He drew itforth, and read the blessed name of Hermione, and the city beneathhim vanished away, and the air grew fragrant as with the breath ofMay-flowers, and a light streamed through the shadowy forest andgleamed upon the lake; and the Student Hieronymus pressed the dearname to his lips and exclaimed with streaming eyes; 'O, scorn me asthou wilt, still, still will I love thee; and thy name shallirradiate the gloom of my life, and make the waters of Oblivionsmile!' And the name was no longer Hermione, but was changed toMary; and the Student Hieronymus--is lying at your feet! O, gentleLady!

'I did hear you talk

Far above singing; after you were gone

I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched

What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love. "

CHAPTER IX. A TALK ON THE STAIRS. 

No! I will not describe that scene; nor how pale the stately ladysat on the border of the green, sunny meadow! The hearts of somewomen tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reachesthem, and then are still again. Others, like the ocean, are movedonly by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest. Andsuch was the proud heart of Mary Ashburton. It had remained unmovedby the presence of this stranger; and the sound of his footsteps andhis voice excited in it no emotion. He had deceived himself!Silently they walked homeward through the green meadow. The verysunshine was sad; and the rising wind, through the old ruin abovethem, sounded in his ears like a hollow laugh!

Flemming went straight to his chamber. On the way, he passed thewalnut trees under which he had first seen the face of MaryAshburton. Involuntarily he closed his eyes. They were full oftears. O, there are places in this fair world, which we never wishto see again, however dear they may be to us! The towers of the oldFranciscan convent never looked so gloomily as then, though thebright summer sun was shining full upon them. 

In his chamber he found Berkley. He was looking out of thewindow, whistling. 

"This evening I leave Interlachen forever, " said Flemming, ratherabruptly. Berkley stared. 

"Indeed! Pray what is the matter? You look as pale as aghost!"

"And have good reason to look pale, " replied Flemming bitterly. "Hoffmann says, in one of his note-books, that, on the eleventh ofMarch, at half past eight o'clock, precisely, he was an ass. That iswhat I was this morning at half past ten o'clock, precisely, and amnow, and I suppose always shall be. "

He tried to laugh, but could not. He then related to Berkley thewhole story, from beginning to end. 

"This is a miserable piece of business!" exclaimed Berkley, whenhe had finished. "Strange enough! And yet I have long ceased tomarvel at the caprices of women. Did not Pan captivate the chasteDiana? Did not Titania love Nick Bottom, with his ass's head? Do youthink that maidens' eyes are no longer touched with the juice oflove-in-idleness! Take my word for it, she is in love with somebodyelse. There must be some reason for this. No; women never have anyreasons, except their will. But never mind. Keep a stout heart. Carekilled a cat. After all, --what is she? Who is she? Only a--"

"Hush! hush, " exclaimed Flemming, in great excitement. "Not oneword more, I beseech you. Do not think to console me, bydepreciating her. She is very dear to me still; a beautiful, high-minded, noble woman. "

"Yes, " answered Berkley; "that is the waywith you all, you youngmen. You see a sweet face, or a something, you know not what, andflickering reason says, Good night; amen to common sense. Theimagination invests the beloved object with a thousand superlativecharms; furnishes her with all the purple and fine linen, all therich apparel and furniture, of human nature. I did the same when Iwas young. I was once as desperately in love as you are now; andwent through all the

'Delicious deaths, soft exhalations

Of soul; dear and divine annihilations, A thousand unknown rites

Of joys, and rarified delights. '

I adored and was rejected. 'You are in love with certainattributes, ' said the lady. 'Damn your attributes, Madam, ' said I;'I know nothing of attributes. ' 'Sir, ' said she, with dignity, 'youhave been drinking. ' So we parted. She was married afterwards toanother, who knew something about attributes, I suppose. I have seenher once since, and only once. She had a baby in a yellow gown. Ihate a baby in a yellow gown. How glad I am she did not marry me. One of these days, you will be glad you have been rejected. Take myword for it. "

"All that does not prevent my lot from being a very melancholyone!" said Flemming sadly. 

"O, never mind the lot, " cried Berkley laughing, "so long as youdon't get Lot's wife. If the cucumber is bitter, throw it away, asthe philosopher Marcus Antoninus says, in his Meditations. Forgether, and all will be as if you had not known her. "

"I shall never forget her, " replied Flemming, rather solemnly. "Not my pride, but my affections, are wounded; and the wound is toodeep ever to heal. I shall carry it with me always. I enter no moreinto the world, but will dwell only in the world of my own thoughts. All great and unusual occurrences, whether of joy or sorrow, lift usabove this earth; and we should do well always to preserve thiselevation. Hitherto I have not done so. But now I will no moredescend; I will sit apart and above the world, with my mournful, yetholy thoughts. "

"Whew! You had better go into society; the whirl and deliriumwill cure you in a week. If you find a lady, who pleases you verymuch, and you wish to marry her, and she will not listen to such ahorrid thing, I see but one remedy, which is to find another, whopleases you more, and who will listen to it. "

"No, my friend; you do not understand my character, " saidFlemming, shaking his head. "I love this woman with a deep, andlasting affection. I shall never cease to love her. This may bemadness in me; but so it is. Alas and alas! Paracelsus of old wastedlife in trying to discover its elixir, which after all turned out tobe alcohol; and instead of being made immortal upon earth, he dieddrunk on the floor of a tavern. The like happens to many of us. Wewaste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life intolove-potions, which after all do not immortalize, butonly intoxicateus. By Heaven! we are all of us mad. "

"But are you sure the case is utterly hopeless?"

"Utterly! utterly!"

"And yet I perceive you have not laid aside all hope. You stillflatter yourself, that the lady's heart may change. The great secretof happiness consists not in enjoying, but in renouncing. But it ishard, very hard. Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king. I daresay you have heard the old Italian proverb, 'The King never dies. 'But perhaps you have never heard, that, at the court of Naples, where the dead body of a monarch lies in state, his dinner iscarried up to him as usual, and the court physician tastes it, tosee that it be not poisoned, and then the servants bear it outagain, saying 'The King does not dine to-day. ' Hope in our souls isKing; and we also say, 'The King never dies. ' Even when in realityhe lies dead within us, in a kind of solemn mockery we offer him hisaccustomed food, but are constrainedto say, 'The King does not dineto-day. ' It must be an evil day, indeed, when a king of Naples hasno heart for his dinner! but you yourself are a proof, that the Kingnever dies. You are feeding your King, although you say he isdead. "

"To show you, that I do not wish to cherish hope, " repliedFlemming, I shall leave Interlachen to-morrow morning. I am going tothe Tyrol. "

"You are right, " said Berkley; "there is nothing so good forsorrow as rapid motion in the open air. I shall go with you; thoughprobably your conversation will not be very various; nothing butEdward and Kunigunde. "

"What do you mean by that?"

"Go to Berlin, and you will find out. However, jesting apart, Iwill do all I can to cheer you, and make you forget the Dark Ladie, and this untoward accident. "

"Accident!" said Flemming. "This is no accident, but God'sProvidence, which brought us together, to punish me for mysins. "

"O, my friend, " interrupted Berkley, "if you see the finger ofProvidence so distinctly in every act of your life, you will end bythinking yourself an Apostle and Envoy Extraordinary. I see nothingso very uncommon in what has happened to you. "

"What! not when our souls are so akin to each other! When weseemed so formed to be together, --to be one!"

"I have often observed, " replied Berkley coldly, "that those whoare of kindred souls, rarely wed together; almost as rarely as thosewho are akin by blood. There seems, indeed, to be such a thing asspiritual incest. Therefore, mad lover, do not think to persuadethyself and thy scornful lady, that you have kindred souls; butrather the contrary; that you are much unlike; and each wanting inthose qualities which most mark and distinguish the other. Trust me, thy courtship will then be more prosperous. But good morning. I mustprepare for this sudden journey. "

On the following morning, Flemming and Berkleystarted on theirway to Innsbruck, like Huon of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their wayto Babylon. Berkley's self-assumed duty was to console hiscompanion; a duty which he performed like an old Spanish Matadora, awoman whose business was to attend the sick, and put her elbow intothe stomach of the dying to shorten their agony. 

BOOK IV. 

Epigraph

"Mortal, they softly say, Peace to thy heart!

We too, yes, mortal, Have been as thou art;

Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, Seeing in part, Tried, troubled, tempted, --

Sustained, --as thou art. "

CHAPTER I. A MISERERE. 

In the Orlando Innamorato, Malagigi, the necromancer, puts allthe company to sleep by reading to them from a book. Some books havethis power of themselves and need no necromancer. Fearing, gentlereader, that mine may be of this kind, I have provided theseintroductory chapters, from time to time, like stalls or Misereresin a church, with flowery canopies and poppy-heads over them, wherethou mayest sit down and sleep. 

No, --the figure is not a bad one. This book does somewhatresemble a minster, in the Romanesque style, with pinnacles, andflying buttresses, and roofs, "Gargoyled with greyhounds, and with many lions

Made of fine gold, with divers sundry dragons. "

You step into its shade and coolness out of the hot streets oflife; a mysterious light streams through the painted glass of themarigold windows, staining the cusps and crumpled leaves of thewindow-shafts, and the cherubs and holy-water-stoups below. Here andthere is an image of the Virgin Mary; and other images, "in diversvestures, called weepers, stand in housings made about the tomb";and, above all, swells the vast dome of heaven, with itsstar-mouldings, and the flaming constellations, like the mosaics inthe dome of St. Peter's. Have you not heard funeral psalms from thechauntry? Have you not heard the sound of church-bells, as Ipromised; mysterious sounds from the Past and Future, as from thebelfries outside the cathedral; even such a mournful, mellow, waterypeal of bells, as is heard sometimes at sea, from cities afar offbelow the horizon?

I know not how this Romanesque, and at times flamboyant, style ofarchitecture may please thecritics. They may wish, perhaps, that Ihad omitted some of my many ornaments, my arabesques, and roses, andfantastic spouts, and Holy-Roods and Gallilee-steeples. But would itthen have been Romanesque?

But perhaps, gentle reader, thou art one of those, who think thedays of Romance gone forever. Believe it not! O, believe it not!Thou hast at this moment in thy heart as sweet a romance as was everwritten. Thou art not less a woman, because thou dost not sit aloftin a tower, with a tassel-gentle on thy wrist! Thou art not less aman, because thou wearest no hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest noton horseback after foolish adventures! Nay, nay! Every one has aRomance in his own heart. All that has blessed or awed the worldlies there; and

"The oracle within him, that which lives, He must invoke and question, --not dead books, Not ordinances, not mould-rotten papers. "

Sooner or later some passages of every one's romance must bewritten, either in words or actions. They will proclaim the truth;for Truth is thought, which has assumed its appropriate garments, either of words or actions; while Falsehood is thought, which, disguised in words or actions not its own, comes before the blindold world, as Jacob came before the patriarch Isaac, clothed in thegoodly raiment of his brother Esau. And the world, like thepatriarch, is often deceived; for, though the voice is Jacob'svoice, yet the hands are the hands of Esau, and the False takes awaythe birth-right and the blessing from the True. Hence it is, thatthe world so often lifts up its voice and weeps. 

That very pleasing and fanciful Chinese Romance, the Shadow inthe Water, ends with the hero's marrying both the heroines. I hopemy gentle reader feels curious to know the end of this Romance, which is a shadow upon the earth; and see whether there be anymarriage at all in it. 

That is the very point I am now thinking of, as I sit here at mypleasant chamber window, and enjoy the balmy air of a bright summermorning, and watch the motions of the golden robin, that sits on itsswinging nest on the outermost, pendulous branch of yonder elm. Thebroad meadows and the steel-blue river remind me of the meadows ofUnterseen, and the river Aar; and beyond them rise magnificentsnow-white clouds, piled up like Alps. Thus the shades of Washingtonand William Tell seem to walk together on these Elysian Fields; forit was here, that in days long gone, our great Patriot dwelt; andyonder clouds so much resemble the snowy Alps, that they remind meirresistibly of the Swiss. Noble examples of a high purpose and afixed will! Do they not move, Hyperion-like on high? Were they not, likewise, sons of Heaven and Earth?

Nothing can be more lovely than these summer mornings; nor thanthe southern window at which I sit and write, in this old mansion, which is like an Italian Villa. But O, thislassitude, --thisweariness, --when all around me is so bright! I havethis morning a singular longing for flowers; a wish to stroll amongthe roses and carnations, and inhale their breath, as if it wouldrevive me. I wish I knew the man, who called flowers "the fugitivepoetry of Nature. " From this distance, from these scholasticshades, --from this leafy, blossoming, and beautiful Cambridge, Istretch forth my hand to grasp his, as the hand of a poet!--Yes;this morning I would rather stroll with him among the gay flowers, than sit here and write. I feel so weary!

Old men with their staves, says the Spanish poet, are everknocking at the door of the grave. But I am not old. The Spanishpoet might have included the young also. --No matter! Courage, andforward! The Romance must be finished; and finished soon. 

O thou poor authorling! Reach a little deeper into the humanheart! Touch those strings, --touch those deeper strings, and moreboldly, or the notes will die away like whispers, and no earshallhear them, save thine own! And, to cheer thy solitary labor, remember, that the secret studies of an author are the sunken piersupon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the darkwaters of Oblivion. They are out of sight; but without them nosuperstructure can stand secure!

And now, Reader, since the sermon is over, and we are stillsitting here in this Miserere, let us read aloud a page from the oldparchment manuscript on the lettern before us; let us sing itthrough these dusky aisles, like a Gregorian Chant, and startle thesleeping congregation!

"I have read of the great river Euripus, which ebbeth and flowethseven times a day, and with such violence, that it carrieth shipsupon it with full sail, directly against the wind. Seven times in anhour ebbeth and floweth rash opinion, in the torrent of indiscreetand troublesome apprehensions; carrying critic calumny andsquint-eyed detraction mainly against the wind of wisdom andjudgment. "

In secula seculorum! Amen!

CHAPTER II. CURFEW BELLS. 

Welcome Disappointment! Thy hand is cold and hard, but it is thehand of a friend! Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voiceof a friend! O, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of sufferingwithout complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes betterthan success!

The emperor Isaac Angelus made a treaty with Saladin, and triedto purchase the Holy Sepulchre with gold. Richard Lion-heart scornedsuch alliance, and sought to recover it by battle. Thus do weakminds make treaties with the passions they cannot overcome, and tryto purchase happiness at the expense of principle. But the resolutewill of a strong man scorns such means; and struggles nobly with hisfoe, to achieve great deeds. Therefore, whosoever thou art thatsufferest, try not to dissipate thy sorrow by the breath of theworld, nor drown its voice in thoughtless merriment. It is atreacherous peace that is purchased by indulgence. Rather take thissorrow to thy heart, and make it a part of thee, and it shallnourish thee till thou art strong again. 

The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In themorning of life they all lie behind us; at noon, we trample themunder foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad, anddeepening before us. Are not, then, the sorrows of childhood as darkas those of age? Are not the morning shadows of life as deep andbroad as those of its evening? Yes; but morning shadows soon fadeaway, while those of evening reach forward into the night and minglewith the coming darkness. Man is begotten in delight and born inpain; and in these are the rapture and labor of his lifefore-shadowed from the beginning. But thelife of man upon this fairearth is made up for the most part of little pains and littlepleasures. The great wonder-flowers bloom but once in alifetime. 

A week had already elapsed since the events recorded in the lastchapter. Paul Flemming went his way, a melancholy man, "drinking thesweet wormwood of his sorrow. " He did not rail at Providence andcall it fate, but suffered and was silent. It is a beautiful traitin the lover's character, that he thinks no evil of the objectloved. What he suffered was no swift storm of feeling, that passesaway with a noise, and leaves the heart clearer; but a dark phantomhad risen up in the clear night, and, like that of Adamastor, hidthe stars; and if it ever vanished away for a season, still the deepsound of the moaning main would be heard afar, through many a darkand lonely hour. And thus he journeyed on, wrapped in despondinggloom, and mainly heedless of all things around him. His mind wasdistempered. That one face was always before him; that one voiceforever saying;

"You are not the Magician. "

Painful, indeed, it is to be misunderstood and undervalued bythose we love. But this, too, in our life, must we learn to bearwithout a murmur; for it is a tale often repeated. 

There are persons in this world to whom all local associationsare naught. The genius of the place speaks not to them. Even onbattle-fields, where the voice of this genius is wont to be loudest, they hear only the sound of their own voices; they meet there onlytheir own dull and pedantic thoughts, as the old grammarian BrunettoLatini met on the plain of Roncesvalles a poor student riding on abay mule. This was not always the case with Paul Flemming, but ithad become so now. He felt no interest in the scenery around him. Hehardly looked at it. Even the difficult mountain-passes, where, fromhis rocky eyrie the eagle-eyed Tyrolese peasant had watched his foe, and the roaring, turbid torrent underneath, which had swallowed upthe bloody corse, that fell from the rocks like a crushedworm, awakened no lively emotion in his breast. All around him seemeddreamy and vague; all within dim, as in a sun's eclipse. As themoon, whether visible or invisible, has power over the tides of theocean, so the face of that lady, whether present or absent, hadpower over the tides of his soul; both by day and night, both wakingand sleeping. In every pale face and dark eye he saw a resemblanceto her; and what the day denied him in reality, the night gave himin dreams. 

"This is a strange, fantastic world, " said Berkley, after a verylong silence, during which the two travellers had been sitting eachin his corner of the travelling carriage, wrapped in his ownreflections. "A very strange, fantastic world; where each onepursues his own golden bubble, and laughs at his neighbour for doingthe same. I have been thinking how a moral Linnæus would classifyour race. I think he would divide it, not as Lord Byron did, intotwo great classes, the bores and those who are bored, but intothree, namely; Happy Men, Lucky Dogs, and Miserable Wretches. This ismore true and philosophical, though perhaps not quite socomprehensive. He is the Happy Man, who, blessed with modest ease, awife and children, --sits enthroned in the hearts of his family, andknows no other ambition, than that of making those around him happy. But the Lucky Dog is he, who, free from all domestic cares, sauntersup and down his room, in morning gown and slippers; drums on thewindow of a rainy day; and, as he stirs his evening fire, snaps hisfingers at the world, and says, 'I have no wife nor children, goodor bad, to provide for. ' I had a friend, who is now no more. He wastaken away in the bloom of life, by a very rapid--widow. He was bybirth and by profession a beau, --born with a quizzing-glass and acane. Cock of the walk, he flapped his wings, and crowed among thefeathered tribe. But alas! a fair, white partlet has torn his crestout, and he shall crow no more. You will generally find him of amorning, smelling round a beef-cart, with domestic felicity writtenin every line of his countenance; and sometimes meet him in across-street at noon, hurrying homeward, with a beef-steak on awooden skewer, or a fresh fish, with a piece of tarred twine runthrough its gills. In the evening he rocks the cradle, and gets upin the night when the child cries. Like a Goth, of the Dark Ages, heconsults his wife on all mighty matters, and looks upon her as abeing of more than human goodness and wisdom. In short, the ladiesall say he is a very domestic man, and makes a good husband; which, under the rose, is only a more polite way of saying he ishen-pecked. He is a Happy Man. I have another dear friend, who is asexagenary bachelor. He has one of those well-oiled dispositions, which turn upon the hinges of the world without creaking. Thehey-day of life is over with him; but his old age is sunny andchirping; and a merry heart still nestles in his tottering frame, like a swallow that builds in a tumble-down chimney. He is aprofessed Squire of Dames. The rustle of a silk gown is music to hisears, and his imagination is continuallylantern-led by somewill-with-a-wisp in the shape of a lady's stomacher. In his devotionto the fair sex, --the muslin, as he calls it, --he is the gentleflower of chivalry. It is amusing to see how quick he strikes intothe scent of a lady's handkerchief. When once fairly in pursuit, there is no such thing as throwing him out. His heart looks out athis eye; and his inward delight tingles down to the tail of hiscoat. He loves to bask in the sunshine of a smile; when he canbreathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves and cambrichandkerchiefs, his soul is in its element; and his supreme delightis to pass the morning, to use his own quaint language, 'in makingdodging calls, and wiggling round among the ladies!' He is a luckydog!"

"And as a specimen of the class of Miserable Wretches, I supposeyou will take me, " said Flemming, making an effort to enter into hisfriend's humor. "Certainly I am wretched enough. You may make me thestuffed bear, --the specimen of this class. "

"By no means, " replied Berkley; "you are not reduced so low. Heonly is utterly wretched, who is the slave of his own passions, orthose of others. This, I trust, will never be your condition. Why sowan and pale, fond lover? Do you remember Sir John Suckling'sSong?

'Why so wan and pale, fond lover;

Pr'ythee why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?

Pr'ythee why so pale?

'Why so dull and mute, young sinner;

Pr'ythee why so mute?

Will, if speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't?

Pr'ythee why so mute?

'Quit, quit, for shame! this cannot move, This cannot take her!

If of herself she do not love, Nothing will make her!

The devil take her!'

How do you like that?"

"To you I say quit, quit for shame;" replied Flemming. "Why quotethe songs of that witty and licentious age? Have you no betterconsolation to offer me? How many, many times must I tell you, thatI bear the lady no ill-will. I do not blame her for not loving me. Idesire her happiness, even at the sacrifice of my own. "

"That is generous in you, and deserves a better fate. But you areso figurative in all you say, that a stranger would think you had noreal feeling, --and only fancied yourself in love. "

"Expression of feeling is different with different minds. It isnot always simple. Some minds, when excited, naturally speak infigures and similitudes. They do not on that account feel lessdeeply. This is obvious in our commonest modes of speech. It dependsupon the individual. "

"Kyrie Eleëson!"

"Well, abuse my figures of speech as much as you please. What Iinsist upon is, that you shall not abuse the lady. When did you everhear me breathe a whisper against her?"

"Oho! Now you speak like Launce to his dog!"

Their conversation, which had begun so merrily, was here suddenlyinterrupted by a rattling peal of thunder, that announced anear-approaching storm. It was late in the afternoon, and the wholeheaven black with low, trailing clouds. Still blacker the storm camesailing up majestically from the southwest, with almost unbrokenvolleys of distant thunder. The wind seemed to be storming a cloudredoubt; and marched onward with dust, and the green banners of thetrees flapping in the air, and heavy cannonading, and occasionallyan explosion, like the blowing up of a powder-wagon. Mingled withthis was the sound of thunder-bells from a village not far off. Theywere all ringing dolefully to ward off the thunderbolt. At theentrance of the village stood a large wooden crucifix; around whichwas a crowd of priests and peasants, kneeling in the wet grass, bythe roadside, with their hands and eyes lifted toheaven, and prayingfor rain. Their prayer was soon answered. 

The travellers drove on with the driving wind and rain. They hadcome from Landeck, and hoped to reach Innsbruck before midnight. Night closed in, and Flemming fell asleep with the loud stormoverhead, and at his feet the roaring Inn, a mountain torrentleaping onward as wild and restless, as when it first sprang fromits cradle in the solitudes of Engaddin; meet emblem of himself, thus rushing through the night. His slumber was long, but broken;and at length he awoke in terror; for he heard a voice pronounce inhis ear distinctly these words;

"They have brought the dead body. "

They were driving by a churchyard at the entrance of a town; andamong the tombs a dim lamp was burning before an image of theVirgin. It had a most unearthly appearance. Flemming almost fearedto see the congregation of the dead go into the church and singtheir midnight mass. He spoke to Berkley; but received no answer; hewas in a deep sleep. 

"Then it was only a dream, " said he to himself; "yet how distinctthe voice was! O, if we had spiritual organs, to see and hear thingsnow invisible and inaudible to us, we should behold the whole airfilled with the departing souls of that vast multitude which everymoment dies, --should behold them streaming up like thin vaporsheaven-ward, and hear the startling blast of the archangel's trumpsounding incessant through the universe and proclaiming the awfuljudgment day. Truly the soul departs not alone on its last journey, but spirits of its kind attend it, when not ministering angels; andthey go in families to the unknown land! Neither in life nor indeath are we alone. "

He slept again at intervals; and at length, though long aftermidnight, reached Innsbruck between sleeping and waking; his mindfilled with dim recollections of the unspeakably dismalnight-journey;--the climbing of hills, and plunging into darkravines;--the momentary rattling of the wheels over paved streets oftowns, and the succeeding hollow rolling and tramping on thewetearth;--the blackness of the night;--the thunder and lightningand rain; the roar of waters, leaping through deep chasms by theroad-side, and the wind through the mountain-passes, sounding loudand long, like the irrepressible laughter of the gods. 

The travellers on the morrow lingered not long in Innsbruck. Theydid not fail, however, to visit the tomb of Maximilian in theFranciscan Church of the Holy Cross, and gaze with some admirationupon the twenty-eight gigantic bronze statues of Godfrey ofBouillon, and King Arthur and Ernest the Iron-man, and Frederick ofthe Empty Pockets, kings and heroes, and others, which stand leaningon their swords between the columns of the church, as if guardingthe tomb of the dead. These statues reminded Flemming of the bronzegiants, which strike the hours on the belfry of San Basso, inVenice, and of the flail-armed monsters, that guarded the gateway ofAngulaffer's castle in Oberon. After gazing awhile at thesemotionless sentinels, they went forth, and strolled throughthepublic gardens, with the jagged mountains right over their heads, and all around them tall, melancholy pines, like Tyrolese peasants, with shaggy hair; and at their feet the mad torrent of the Inn, sweeping with turbid waves through the midst of the town. In theafternoon they drove on towards Salzburg through the magnificentmountain-passes of Waidering and Unken. 

CHAPTER III. SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 

On the following morning Flemming awoke in a chamber of theGolden Ship at Salzburg, just as the clock in the Dome-churchopposite was striking ten. The window-shutters were closed, and theroom nearly dark. He was lying on his back, with his hands crossedupon his breast, and his eyes looking up at the white curtainsoverhead. He thought them the white marble canopy of a tomb, andhimself the marble statue, lying beneath. When the clock ceasedstriking, the eight and twenty gigantic bronze statues from theChurch of Holy Rood in Innsbruck stalked into the chamber, andarranged themselves along the walls, which spread into dimly-lightedaisles and arches. On the painted windows he saw Interlachen, withits Franciscan cloister, and the Square Tower of the ruins. In apendent, overhead, stood the German student, as Saint Vitus; and ona lavatory, or basin of holy-water, below, sat a cherub, with theform and features of Berkley. Then the organ-pipes began to blow, and he heard the voices of an invisible choir chanting. And anon thegilded gates in the bronze screen before the chancel opened, and abridal procession passed through. The bride was clothed in the garbof the Middle Ages; and held a book in her hand, with velvet covers, and golden clasps. It was Mary Ashburton. She looked at him as shepassed. Her face was pale; and there were tears in her sweet eyes. Then the gates closed again; and one of the oaken poppy-heads over acarved stall, in the shape of an owl, flapped its broad wings, andhooted, "Towhit! to-whoo!" Then the whole scene changed; and hethought himself a monk's-head on a gutterspout; and it raineddismally; and Berkley was standing under with an umbrella, laughing!

In other words, Flemming was in a ragingfever, and delirious. Heremained in this state for a week. The first thing he was consciousof was hearing the doctor say to Berkley;

"The crisis is passed. I now consider him out of danger. "

He then fell into a sweet sleep; the wild fever had swept awaylike an angry, red cloud, and the refreshing summer rain began tofall like dew upon the parched earth. Still another week; andFlemming was, "sitting clothed, and in his right mind. " Berkley hadbeen reading to him; and still held the book in his hand, with hisfore-finger between the leaves. It was a volume of Hoffmann'swritings. 

"How very strange it is, " said he, "that you can hardly open thebiography of any German author, but you will find it begin with anaccount of his grandfather. It will tell you how the venerable oldman walked up and down the garden among the gay flowers, wrapped inhis morning gown, which is likewise covered with flowers, andperhaps wearing on his head a little velvet cap. Oryou will find himsitting by the chimney-corner in the great chair, smoking hisancestral pipe, with shaggy eyebrows and eyes like birdsnests underthe eaves of a house, and a mouth like a Nuremberg nutcracker's. Thefuture poet climbs upon the old man's knees. His genius is notrecognised yet. He is thought for the most part a dull boy. Hisfather is an austere man, or perhaps dead. But the mother is stillthere, a sickly, saint-like woman, with knitting-work, and an eldersister, who has already been in love, and wears rings on herfingers;--

'Death's heads, and such mementos, Her grandmother and worm-eaten aunts left to her, To tell her what her beauty must arrive at. '"

"But this is not the case with the life of Hoffmann, if Irecollect right. "

"No, not precisely. Instead of the grandfather we have thegrandmother, a stately dame, who has long since shaken hands withthe vanities of life. The mother, separated from her husband, issick in mind and body, and flits to and fro, like a shadow. Thenthere is an affectionate maiden aunt; and an uncle, a retired judge, the terror of little boys, --the Giant Despair of this DoubtingCastle in Koenigsberg; and occasionally the benign countenance of avenerable grand-uncle, whom Lamotte Fouqué called a hero of theolden time in morning gown and slippers, looks in at the door andsmiles. In the upper story of the same house lived a poor boy withhis mother, who was so far crazed as to believe herself to be theVirgin Mary, and her son the Saviour of the world. Wild fancies, likewise, were to sweep through the brain of that child. He was tomeet Hoffmann elsewhere and be his friend in after years, though asyet they knew nothing of each other. This was Werner, who has madesome noise in German literature as the author of many wildDestiny-Dramas. "

"Hoffmann died, I believe, in Berlin. "

"Yes. He left Koenigsberg at twenty years of age, and passed thenext eight years of his life in the Prussian-Polish Provinces, wherehe held some petty office under government; and took to himselfmanybad habits and a Polish wife. After this he was Music-Director atvarious German theatres, and led a wandering, wretched life for tenyears. He then went to Berlin as Clerk of the Exchange, and thereremained till his death, which took place some seven or eight yearsafterward. "

"Did you ever see him?"

"I was in Berlin during his lifetime, and saw him frequently. Ishall never forget the first time. It was at one of the æstheticTeas, given by a literary lady Unter den Linden, where the lionswere fed with convenient food, from tea and bread and butter, up tooysters and Rhine-wine. During the evening my attention was arrestedby the entrance of a strange little figure, with a wild head ofbrown hair. His eyes were bright gray; and his thin lips closelypressed together with an expression of not unpleasing irony. Thisstrangelooking personage began to bow his way through the crowd, with quick, nervous, hinge-like motions, much resembling those of amarionette. He had a hoarse voice, and such a rapid utterance, thatalthough I understood German well enough for ordinary purposes, Icould not understand one half he said. Ere long he had seatedhimself at the piano-forte, and was improvising such wild, sweetfancies, that the music of one's dreams is not more sweet and wild. Then suddenly some painful thought seemed to pass over his mind, asif he imagined, that he was there to amuse the company. He rose fromthe piano-forte, and seated himself in another part of the room;where he began to make grimaces, and talk loud while others weresinging. Finally he disappeared, like a hobgoblin, laughing, 'Ho!ho! ho!' I asked a person beside me who this strange being was. 'That was Hoffmann, ' was the answer. 'The Devil!' said I. 'Yes, 'continued my informant; 'and if you should follow him now, you wouldsee him plunge into an obscure and unfrequented wine-cellar, andthere, amid boon companions, with wine and tobacco-smoke, and quirksand quibbles, and quaint, witty sayings, turn the dim night intoglorious day. '"

"What a strange being!"

"I once saw him at one of his night-carouses. He was sitting inhis glory, at the head of the table; not stupidly drunk, but warmedwith wine, which made him madly eloquent, as the Devil's Elixir didthe Monk Medardus. There, in the full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his gray, hawk eye flashing from beneath his matted hair, and taking note of all that was grotesque in the company round him, sat this unfortunate genius, till the day began to dawn. Then hefound his way homeward, having, like the souls of the envious inPurgatory, his eyelids sewed together with iron wire;--though hiswas from champagne bottles. At such hours he wrote his wild, fantastic tales. To his excited fancy everything assumed a spectrallook. The shadows of familiar things about him stalked like ghoststhrough the haunted chambers of his soul; and the old portraits onthe walls winked at him, and seemed stepping down from their frames;till, aghast at the spectral throng about him, he would call hiswife from her bed, to sit by him while he wrote. "

"No wonder he died in the prime of life!"

"No. The only wonder is, that he could have followed this courseof life for six years. I am astonished that it did not kill himsooner. "

"But death came at last in an appalling shape. "

"Yes; his forty-sixth birth day found him sitting at home in hisarm-chair, with his friends around him. But the rare old wine, --healways drank the best, --touched not the sick-man's lips that night. His wonted humor was gone. Of all his 'jibes, his gambols, hissongs, his flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table ona roar, not one now, to mock his own grinning!--quitechap-fallen. '--The conversation was of death and the grave. And whenone of his friends said, that life was not the highest good, Hoffmann interrupted him, exclaiming with a startling earnestness;'No, no! Life, life, only life! on any condition whatsoever!' Fivemonths after this he had ceased to suffer, because he had ceased tolive. He died piecemeal. His feet and hands, his legs and arms, gradually, and in succession, became motionless, dead. But hisspirit was not dead, nor motionless; and, through the solitary dayor sleepless night, lying in his bed, he dictated to an amanuensishis last stories. Strange stories, indeed, were they for a dying manto write! Yet such delight did he take in dictating them, that hesaid to his friend Hitzig, that, upon the whole, he was willing togive up forever the use of his hands, if he could but preserve thepower of writing by dictation. Such was his love of life, --of whathe called the sweet habitude of being!"

"Was it not he, who in his last hours expressed such a longing tobehold the green fields once more; and exclaimed; 'Heaven! it isalready summer, and I have not yet seen a single green tree!'"

"Yes, that was Hoffmann. Soon afterwards he died. The closingscene was striking. He gradually lost all sensation, though his mindremained vigorous. Feeling no more pain, he said to his physician;'It will soon be over now. I feel no more pain. ' He thought himselfwell again; but the physician knew that he was dying, and said;'Yes, it will soon be over!' The next morning he called his wife tohis bed-side; and begged her to fold his motionless hands together. Then, as he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard him say, 'We must, then, think of God, also!' More sorrowful words than these haveseldom fallen from the lips of man. Shortly afterwards the flame oflife glared up within him; he said he was well again; that in theevening he should go on with the story he was writing; and wishedthat the last sentence might be read over to him. Shortly after thisthey turned his face to the wall, and he died. "

"And thus passed to its account a human soul, after muchself-inflicted suffering. Let us tread lightly upon the poet'sashes. For my part, I confess, that I have not the heart to take himfrom the general crowd of erring, sinful men, and judge him harshly. The little I have seen of the world, and know of the history ofmankind, teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, notinanger. When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinnedand suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptationsit has passed, --the brief pulsations of joy, --the feverishinquie-tude of hope and fear, --the tears of regret, --the feeblenessof purpose, --the pressure of want, --the desertion of friends, --thescorn of a world that has little charity, --the desolation of thesoul's sanctuary, --and threatening voices within, --healthgone, --happiness gone, --even hope, that stays longest with us, gone, --I have little heart for aught else than thankfulness, that itis not so with me, and would fain leave the erring soul of myfellow-man with Him, from whose hands it came, 'even as a little child, Weeping and laughing in its childish sport. '"

"You are right. And it is worth a student's while to observecalmly how tobacco, wine, and midnight did their work like fiendsupon the delicate frame of Hoffmann; and no less thoroughly upon hisdelicate mind. He who drinks beer, thinks beer; and he who drinkswine, thinks wine;--and he who drinks midnight, thinks midnight. Hewas a man of rare intellect. He was endowed with racy humor andsarcastic wit, and a glorious imagination. But the fire of hisgenius burned not peacefully, and with a steady flame, upon thehearth of his home. It was a glaring and irregular flame;--for thebranches that he fed it with, were not branches from the Tree ofLife, --but from another tree that grew in Paradise, --and they werewet with the unhealthy dews of night, and more unhealthy wine; andthus, amid smoke and ashes the fire burned fitfully, and went outwith a glare, which leaves the beholder blind. "

"This fire within him was a Meleager's fire-brand; and, when itburned out, he died. And, as you say, marks of all this are clearlyvisible in Hoffmann's writings. Indeed, when I read his strangefancies, it is with me, as when in the summer night I hear therising wind among the trees, and the branches bow, and beckon withtheir long fingers, and voices go gibbering and mockingthrough theair. A feeling of awe and mysterious dread comes over me. I wish tohear the sound of living voice or footstep near me, --to see afriendly and familiar face. In truth, if it be late at night, thereader as well as the writer of these unearthly fancies, would fainhave a patient, meek-eyed wife, with her knitting-work, at hiselbow. "

Berkley smiled; but Flemming continued without noticing thesmile, though he knew what was passing in the mind of hisfriend;

"The life and writings of this singular being interest me in ahigh degree. Oftentimes one may learn more from a man's errors, thanfrom his virtues. Moreover, from the common sympathies of ournature, souls that have struggled and suffered are dear to me. Willingly do I recognise their brotherhood. Scars upon theirforeheads do not so deform them, that they cease to interest. Theyare always signs of struggle; though alas! too often, likewise, ofdefeat. Seasons of unhealthy, dreamy, vague delight, are followed byseasons ofweariness and darkness. Where are then the bright fancies, that, amid the great stillness of the night, arise like stars in thefirmament of our souls? The morning dawns, the light of common dayshines in upon us, and the heavens are without a star! From thelives of such men we learn, that mere pleasant sensations are nothappiness;--that sensual pleasures are to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, from the palm of the hand; and that those who bow downupon their knees to drink of these bright streams that water life, are not chosen of God either to overthrow or to overcome!"

"I think you are very lenient in your judgment. This is not theusual defect of critics. Like Shakspeare's samphire-gatherer, theyhave a dreadful trade! and, to make the simile complete, they oughtto hang for it!"

"Methinks it would be hard to hang a man for the sake of asimile. But which of Hoffmann's works is it, that you have in yourhand?"

"His Phatasy-Pieces in Callot's manner. Who was this Callot?"

"He was a Lorrain painter of the seventeenth century, celebratedfor his wild and grotesque conceptions. These sketches of Hoffmannare imitations of his style. They are full of humor, poetry, andbrilliant imagination. "

"And which of them shall I read to you? The Ritter Glück; or theMusical Sufferings of John Kreisler; or that very exquisite story ofthe Golden Jar, wherein is depicted the life of Poesy, in thiscommon-place world of ours?"

"Read the shortest. Read Kreisler. That will amuse me. It is apicture of his own sufferings at the æsthetic Teas in Berlin, supposed to be written in pencil on the blank leaves of amusic-book. "

Thereupon Berkley leaned back in his easychair, and read asfollows. 

CHAPTER IV. MUSICAL

SUFFERINGS OF JOHN KREISLER. 

"They are all gone! I might have known it by the whispering, shuffling, coughing, buzzing through all the notes of the gamut. Itwas a true swarm of bees, leaving the old hive. Gottlieb has lightedfresh candles for me, and placed a bottle of Burgundy on thepiano-forte. I can play no more, I am perfectly exhausted. Myglorious old friend here on the music-stand is to blame for that. Again he has borne me away through the air, as Mephistopheles didFaust, and so high, that I took not the slightest notice of thelittle men under me, though I dare say they made noise enough. Arascally, worthless, wasted evening! But now I am well and merry!However, while I was playing, I took out my pencil, and onpagesixty-three, under the last system, noted down a couple of goodflourishes in cipher with my right hand, while the left wasstruggling away in the torrent of sweet sounds. Upon the blank pageat the end I go on writing. I leave all ciphers and sweet tones, andwith true delight, like a sick man restored to health, who can neverstop relating what he has suffered, I note down herecircumstantially the dire agonies of this evening's tea-party. Andnot for myself alone, but likewise for all those who from time totime may amuse and edify themselves with my copy of John SebastianBach's Variations for the Piano-forte, published by Nägeli inZürich, and who find my marks at the end of the thirtieth variation, and, led on by the great Latin Verte, (I will write it down themoment I get through this doleful statement of grievances, ) turnover the leaf and read. 

"They will at once see the connexion. They know, that theGeheimerath Rödelein's house is a charming house to visit in, andthat he has two daughters, of whom the whole fashionable worldproclaims with enthusiasm, that they dance like goddesses, speakFrench like angels, and play and sing and draw like the Muses. TheGeheimerath Rödelein is a rich man. At his quarterly dinners hebrings on the most delicious wines and richest dishes. All isestablished on a footing of the greatest elegance; and whoever athis tea-parties does not amuse himself heavenly, has no ton, noesprit, and particularly no taste for the fine arts. It is with aneye to these, that, with the tea, punch, wine, ice-creams, etc. , alittle music is always served up, which, like the otherrefreshments, is very quietly swallowed by the fashionable world. 

"The arrangements are as follows. --After every guest has had timeenough to drink as many cups of tea as he may wish, and punch andices have been handed round twice, the servants wheel out thecard-tables for the elder and more solid part of the company, whohad rather play cards than any musical instrument; and, to tell thetruth, this kind of playing does not make such a useless noise asothers, and you hear only the clink of money. 

"This is a hint for the younger part of the company to pounceupon the Misses Rödelein. A great tumult ensues; in the midst ofwhich you can distinguish these words, --

"'Schönes Fräulein! do not refuse us the gratification of yourheavenly talent! O, sing something! that's a gooddear!--impossible, --bad cold, --the last ball! have not practisedanything, --oh, do, do, we beg of you, ' etc. 

"Meanwhile Gottlieb has opened the piano-forte, and placed thewell-known music-book on the stand; and from the card-table criesthe respectable mamma, --

" 'Chantez donc, mes enfans!'

"That is the cue of my part. I place myself at the piano-forte, and the Rödeleins are led up to the instrument in triumph. 

"And now another difficulty arises. Neither wishes to singfirst. 

"'You know, dear Nanette, how dreadful hoarse I am. '

"'Why, my dear Marie, I am as hoarse as you are. '

"'I sing so badly!--'

"'O, my dear child; do begin!'

"My suggestion, (I always make the same!) that they should bothbegin together with a duet, is loudly applauded;--the music-book isthumbed over, and the leaf, carefully folded down, is at lengthfound, and away we go with Dolce dell' anima, etc. 

"To tell the truth, the talent of the Misses Rödelein is not thesmallest. I have been an instructer here only five years, and littleshort of two years in the Rödelein family. In this short time, Fräulein Nanette has made such progress, that a tune, which she hasheard at the theatre only ten times, and has played on thepiano-forte, at farthest, ten times more, she will sing right off, so that you know in a moment what it is. Fräulein Marie catches itat the eighth time; and if she is sometimes a quarter of a notelower than the piano-forte, after all it is very tolerable, considering her pretty little doll-face, and very passablerosy-lips. 

"After the duet, a universal chorus of applause! And nowarriettas and duettinos succeed each other, and right merrily Ihammer away at the thousand-times-repeated accompaniment. During thesinging, the Finanzräthin Eberstein, by coughing and humming, hasgiven to understand that she also sings. Fräulein Nanette says;

"'But, my dear Finanzräthin, now you must let us hear yourexquisite voice. '

"A new tumult arises. She has a bad cold in her head, --she doesnot know anything by heart! Gottlieb brings straightway two armfulsof music-books; and the leaves are turned over again and again. First she thinks she will sing Der Hölle Rache, etc. , then Hebesich, etc. , then Ach, Ich liebte, etc. In this embarrassment, Ipropose, Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese, etc. But she is for the heroicstyle; she wants to make a display, and finally selects the aria inConstantia. 

"O scream, squeak, mew, gurgle, groan, agonize, quiver, quaver, just as much as you please, Madam, --I have my foot on the fortissimopedal, and thunder myself deaf! O Satan, Satan! which of thy goblinsdamned has got into this throat, pinching, and kicking, and cuffingthe tones about so! Four strings have snapped already, and onehammer is lamed for life. My ears ring again, --my head hums, --mynerves tremble! Have all the harsh notes from the cracked trumpet ofa strolling-player been imprisoned in this little throat! (But thisexcites me, --I must drink a glass of Burgundy. )

"The applause was unbounded; and some one observed, that theFinanzräthin and Mozart had put me quite in a blaze. I smiled withdowncast eyes, very stupidly. I could but acknowledge it. And nowall talents, which hitherto had bloomed unseen, were in motion, wildly flitting to and fro. They were bent upon a surfeit of music;tuttis, finales, choruses must be performed. The Canonicus Kratzersings, you know, a heavenly bass, as was observed by the gentlemanyonder, with the head of Titus Andronicus, who modestly remarkedalso, that he himself was properly only a second-ratetenor; but, though he said it, who should not say it, was nevertheless member ofseveral academies of music. Forthwith preparations are made for thefirst chorus in the opera of Titus. It went off gloriously. TheCanonicus, standing close behind me, thundered out the bass over myhead, as if he were singing with bass-drums and trumpet obbligato ina cathedral. He struck the notes gloriously; but in his hurry he gotthe tempo just about twice too slow. However, he was true to himselfat least in this, that through the whole piece he dragged along justhalf a beat behind the rest. The others showed a most decidedpenchant for the ancient Greek music, which, as is well known, having nothing to do with harmony, ran on in unison or monotone. They all sang treble, with slight variations, caused by accidentalrising and falling of the voice, say some quarter of a note. 

"This somewhat noisy affair produced a universal tragic state offeeling, namely a kind of terror, even at the card-tables, which forthe momentcould no longer, as before, chime in melodramatic, byweaving into the music sundry exclamations; as, for instance;

" 'O! I loved, --eight and forty, --was so happy, --I pass, --then Iknew not, --whist, --pangs of love, --follow suit, ' etc. --It has a verypretty effect. (I fill my glass. )

"That was the highest point of the musical exhibition thisevening. 'Now it is all over, ' thought I to myself. I shut the book, and got up from the piano-forte. But the baron, my ancient tenor, came up to me, and said;

" 'My dear Herr Capellmeister, they say you play the mostexquisite voluntaries! Now do play us one; only a short one, Ientreat you!'

"I answered very drily, that to-day my fantasies had all gone awool-gathering; and, while we are talking about it, a devil, in theshape of a dandy, with two waistcoats, had smelt out Bach'sVariations, which were lying under my hat in the next room. Hethinks they are merely little variations, such as Nel cor mio nonpiù sento, or Ah, vous dirai-je, maman, etc. , and insists upon it, that I shall play them. I try to excuse myself, but they all attackme. So then, 'Listen, and burst with ennui, ' think I to myself, --andbegin to work away. 

"When I had got to variation number three, several ladiesdeparted, followed by the gentleman with the Titus-Andronicus head. The Rödeleins, as their teacher was playing, stood it out, thoughnot without difficulty, to number twelve. Number fifteen made theman with two waistcoats take to his heels. Out of most excessivepoliteness, the Baron stayed till number thirty, and drank up allthe punch, which Gottlieb placed on the piano-forte for me. 

"I should have brought all to a happy conclusion, but, alas! thisnumber thirty, --the theme, --tore me irresistibly away. Suddenly thequarto leaves spread out to a gigantic folio, on which a thousandimitations and developments of the theme stood written, and I couldnot choose but play them. The notes became alive, and glimmered andhopped all round about me, --an electric firestreamed through thetips of my fingers into the keys, --the spirit, from which it gushedforth, spread his broad wings over my soul, the whole room wasfilled with a thick mist, in which the candles burned dim, --andthrough which peered forth now a nose, and anon a pair of eyes, andthen suddenly vanished away again. And thus it came to pass, that Iwas left alone with my Sebastian Bach, by Gottlieb attended, as by afamiliar spirit. (Your good health, Sir. )

"Is an honest musician to be tormented with music, as I have beento-day, and am so often tormented? Verily, no art is so damnablyabused, as this same glorious, holy Musica, who, in her delicatebeing, is so easily desecrated. Have you real talent, --real feelingfor art? Then study music;--do something worthy of the art, --anddedicate your whole soul to the beloved saint. If without this youhave a fancy for quavers and demi-semi-quavers, practise foryourself and by yourself, and torment not therewith theCapellmeister Kreisler and others. 

"Well, now I might go home, and put the finishing touch to mysonata for the piano-forte; but it is not yet eleven o'clock, and, withal, a beautiful summer night. I will lay any wager, that, at mynext-door neighbour's, (the Oberjägermeister, ) the young ladies aresitting at the window, screaming down into the street, for thetwentieth time, with harsh, sharp, piercing voices, 'When thine eyeis beaming love, '--but only the first stanza, over and over again. Obliquely across the way, some one is murdering the flute, and has, moreover, lungs like Rameau's nephew; and, in notes of 'linkedsweetness long drawn out, ' his neighbour is trying acousticexperiments on the French horn. The numerous dogs of theneighbourhood are growing unquiet, and my landlord's cat, inspiredby that sweet duet, is making close by my window (for, of course, mymusico-poetic laboratory is an attic, ) certain tenderconfessions, --upward through the whole chromatic scale, softcomplaining, to the neighbour's puss, with whom he has been in lovesince March last! Till this is all fairly over, II think will sitquietly here. Besides, there is still blank paper and Burgundy left, of which I forthwith take a sip. 

"There is, as I have heard, an ancient law, forbidding those, whofollowed any noisy handicraft, from living near literary men. Shouldnot then musical composers, poor, and hard beset, and who, moreover, are forced to coin their inspiration into gold, to spin out thethread of life withal, be allowed to apply this law to themselves, and banish out of the neighbourhood all ballad-singers andbagpipers? What would a painter say, while transferring to hiscanvass a form of ideal beauty, if you should hold up before him allmanner of wild faces and ugly masks? He might shut his eyes, and inthis way, at least, quietly follow out the images of fancy. Cotton, in one's ears, is of no use; one still hears the dreadful massacre. And then the idea, --the bare idea, 'Now they are going to sing, --nowthe horn strikes up, '--is enough to send one's sublimest conceptionsto the very devil. "

CHAPTER V. SAINT GILGEN. 

It was a bright Sunday morning when Flemming and Berkley leftbehind them the cloud-capped hills of Salzburg, and journeyedeastward towards the lakes. The landscape around them was one toattune their souls to holy musings. Field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the perfume of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birdssinging, and the sound of village bells, and the moving breeze amongthe branches, --no laborers in the fields, but peasants on their wayto church, coming across the green pastures, with roses in theirhats, --the beauty and quiet of the holy day of rest, --all, all inearth and air, breathed upon the soul like a benediction. 

They stopped to change horses at Hof, a handfulof houses on thebrow of a breezy hill, the church and tavern standing opposite toeach other, and nothing between them but the dusty road, and thechurchyard, with its iron crosses, and the fluttering tinsel of thefuneral garlands. In the churchyard and at the tavern-door, weregroups of peasants, waiting for divine service to begin. They wereclothed in their holiday dresses. The men wore breeches and longboots, and frock-coats with large metal buttons; the women, strawhats, and gay calico gowns, with short waists and scant folds. Theywere adorned with a profusion of great, trumpery ornaments, andreminded Flemming of the Indians in the frontier villages ofAmerica. Near the churchyard-gate was a booth, filled with flauntingcalicos; and opposite sat an old woman behind a table, which wasloaded with ginger-bread. She had a roulette at her elbow, where thepeasants risked a kreutzer for a cake. On other tables, cases ofknives, scythes, reaping-hooks, and other implements of husbandrywere offered for sale. 

The travellers continued their journey, without stopping to hearmass. In the course of the forenoon they came suddenly in sight ofthe beautiful Lake of Saint Wolfgang, lying deep beneath them in thevalley. On its shore, under them, sat the white village of SaintGilgen, like a swan upon its reedy nest. They seemed to have takenit unawares, and as it were clapped their hands upon it in itssleep, and almost expected to see it spread its broad, snow-whitewings, and fly away. The whole scene was one of surpassingbeauty. 

They drove leisurely down the steep hill, and stopped at thevillage inn. Before the door was a magnificent, broad-armed tree, with benches and tables beneath its shadow. On the front of thehouse was written in large letters, "Post-Tavern by FranzSchoendorfer"; and over this was a large sun-dial, and ahalf-effaced painting of a bear-hunt, covering the whole side of thehouse, and mostly red. Just as they drove up, a procession ofpriests with banners, and peasants with their hats in their hands, passed by towards the church. They were singing a solemn psalm. Atthe same moment, a smart servant girl, with a black straw hat, setcoquettishly on her flaxen hair, and a large silver spoon stuck inher girdle, came out of the tavern, and asked Flemming what he wouldplease to order for breakfast. 

Breakfast was soon ready, and was served up at the head of thestairs, on an old-fashioned oaken table in the great hall, intowhich the chambers opened. Berkley ordered at the same time a tub ofcold water, in which he seated himself, with his coat on, and abed-quilt thrown round his knees. Thus he sat for an hour; ate hisbreakfast, and smoked a pipe, and laughed a good deal. He then wentto bed and slept till dinner time. Meanwhile Flemming sat in hischamber and read. It was a large room in the front of the house, looking upon the village and the lake. The windows were latticed, with small panes, and the window-sills filled with fragrantflowers. 

At length the heat of the noon was over. Day, like a wearypilgrim, had reached the westerngate of Heaven, and Evening stoopeddown to unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon. Flemming andBerkley sallied forth to ramble by the borders of the lake. Down thecool, green glades and alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of theforest, over the rising grounds, in the glimmering fretwork ofsunshine and leaf-shadow, --an exhilarating walk! The cool eveningair by the lake was like a bath. They drank the freshness of thehour in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved rejoicing andrevived, after the feverish, long confinement of the sultry summerday. And there, too, lay the lake, so beautiful and still! Did itnot recall, think ye, the lake of Thun?

On their return homeward they passed near the villagechurchyard. 

"Let us go in and see how the dead rest, " said Flemming, as theypassed beneath the belfry of the church; and they went in, andlingered among the tombs and the evening shadows. 

How peaceful is the dwelling-place of those who inhabit the greenhamlets, and populous cities of the dead! They need no antidote forcare, --nor armour against fate. No morning sun shines in at theclosed windows, and awakens them, nor shall until the last greatday. At most a straggling sunbeam creeps in through the crumblingwall of an old neglected tomb, --a strange visiter, that stays notlong. And there they all sleep, the holy ones, with their armscrossed upon their breasts, or lying motionless by their sides, --notcarved in marble by the hand of man, but formed in dust, by the handof God. God's peace be with them. No one comes to them now, to holdthem by the hand, and with delicate fingers smooth their hair. Theyheed no more the blandishments of earthly friendship. They need usnot, however much we may need them. And yet they silently await ourcoming. 

Beautiful is that season of life, when we can say, in thelanguage of Scripture, "Thou hast the dew of thy youth. " But ofthese flowers Death gathers many. He places them upon his bosom, andhis form becomes transformed into somethingless terrific thanbefore. We learn to gaze and shudder not; for he carries in his armsthe sweet blossoms of our earthly hopes. We shall see them allagain, blooming in a happier land. 

Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. They are waiting forus, and we shall not live long. They have gone before us, and arelike the angels in heaven. They stand upon the borders of the graveto welcome us, with the countenance of affection, which they wore onearth; yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual! O, he spakewell who said, that graves are the foot-prints of angels. 

Death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the dew of thy youth. Hehas placed thee upon his bosom, and his stern countenance wears asmile. The far country, toward which we journey, seems nearer to us, and the way less dark; for thou hast gone before, passing so quietlyto thy rest, that day itself dies not more calmly!

It was in an hour of blessed communion with the souls of thedeparted, that the sweet poet Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines, whichhave made death lovely, and his own name immortal!

"They are all gone into a world of light, And I alone sit lingering here!

Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

"It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed, After the sun's remove. 

"I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days, My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays. 

"O holy hope, and high humility, High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and ye have showed them me, To kindle my cold love. 

"Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just!

Shining nowhere but in the dark!

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

"He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair field or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. 

"And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams, Call to the soul, when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep!"

Such were Flemming's thoughts, as he stood among the tombs atevening in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen. A holy calm stole overhim. The fever of his heart was allayed. He had a moment's rest frompain; and went back to his chamber in peace. Whence came this holycalm, this long-desired tranquillity? He knew not; yet the placeseemed consecrated. He resolved to linger there, beside the lake, which was a Pool of Bethesda for him; and let Berkley go on alone tothe baths of Ischel. He would wait for him there in the solitude ofSaint Gilgen. Long after they had parted for the night, he sat inhis chamber, and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyedthesilence within and without. Hour after hour, slipped by unheeded, ashe sat lost in his reverie. At length, his candle sank in itssocket, gave one flickering gleam, and expired with a sob. Thisaroused him. 

He went to the window, and peered out into the dark night. It wasvery late. Twice already since midnight had the great pulpit-oratorTime, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned thehour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry, and still went onwith his sermon, thundering downward to the congregation in thechurchyard and in the village. But they heard him not. They were allasleep in their narrow pews, namely, in their beds and in theirgraves. Soon afterward the cock crew; and the cloudy heaven, likethe apostle, who denied his Lord, wept bitterly. 

CHAPTER VI. SAINT WOLFGANG. 

The morning is lovely beyond expression. The heat of the sun isgreat; but a gentle wind cools the air. Birds never sang more loudand clear. The flowers, too, on the window-sill, and on the table, rose, geranium, and the delicate crimson cactus, are all sobeautiful, that we think the German poet right, when he calls theflowers "stars in the firmament of the earth. " Out of doors all isquiet. Opposite the window stands the village schoolhouse. There aretwo parasite trees, with their outspread branches nailed against thewhite walls, like the wings of culprit kites. There the rods grow. Under them, on a bench at the door, sit school-girls; and barefooturchins in breeches are spelling out their lessons. The clockstrikestwelve, and one by one they disappear, and go into the hive, like bees at the sound of a brass pan. At the door of the next housesits a poor woman, knitting in the shade; and in front of her is anaqueduct pouring its cool, clear water into a rough wooden trough. Atravelling carriage without horses, stands at the inn-door, and apostilion in red jacket is talking with a blacksmith, who wears bluewoollen stockings and a leather apron. Beyond is a stable, and stillfurther a cluster of houses and the village church. They arerepairing the belfry and the bulbous steeple. A little farther, overthe roofs of the houses, you can see Saint Wolfgang's Lake. Water sobright and beautiful hardly flows elsewhere. Green, and blue, andsilver-white run into each other, with almost imperceptible change, like the streaks on the sides of a mackerel. And above are thepinnacles of the mountains; some bald, and rocky, and cone-shaped, and others bold, and broad, and dark with pines. 

Such was the scene, which Paul Flemming beheldfrom his window afew mornings after Berkley's departure. The quiet of the place hadsoothed him. He had become more calm. His heart complained lessloudly in the holy village silence, as we are wont to lower ourvoices when those around us speak in whispers. He began to feel attimes an interest in the lowly things around him. The face of thelandscape pleased him, but more than this the face of the poor womanwho sat knitting in the shade. It was a pale, meek countenance, withmore delicacy in its features than is usual among peasantry. It worealso an expression of patient suffering. As he was looking at her, adeformed child came out of the door and hung upon her knees. Shecaressed him affectionately. It was her child; in whom she beheldher own fair features distorted and hardly to be recognised, as onesometimes sees his face reflected from the bowl of a spoon. 

The child's deformity and the mother's tenderness interested thefeelings of Flemming. The landlady told him something of the poorwoman's history. She was the widow of a blacksmith, who had diedsoon after their marriage. But she survived to become a mother, justas, in oaks, immediately after fecundation, the male flower fadesand falls, while the female continues and ripens into perfect fruit. Alas! her child was deformed. Yet she looked upon him with eyes ofmaternal fondness and pity, loving him still more for his deformity. And in her heart she said, as the Mexicans say to their new-bornoffspring, "Child, thou art come into the world to suffer. Endure, and hold thy peace. " Though poor, she was not entirely destitute;for her husband had left her, beside the deformed child, a lifeestate in a tomb in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen. During the weekshe labored for other people, and on Sundays for herself, by goingto church and reading the Bible. On one of the blank leaves she hadrecorded the day of her birth, and that of her child's, likewise hermarriage and her husband's death. Thus she lived, poor, patient andresigned. Her heart was a passion-flower, bearing within it thecrown of thorns and the cross of Christ. Her ideas of Heaven werefew and simple. She rejected the doctrine that it was a place ofconstant activity, and not of repose, and believed, that, when sheat length reached it, she should work no more, but sit always in aclean white apron, and sing psalms. 

As Flemming sat meditating on these things, he paid new homage inhis heart to the beauty and excellence of the female character. Hethought of the absent and the dead; and said, with tears in hiseyes;

"Shall I thank God for the green Summer, and the mild air, andthe flowers, and the stars, and all that makes this world sobeautiful, and not for the good and beautiful beings I have known init? Has not their presence been sweeter to me than flowers? Are theynot higher and holier than the stars? Are they not more to me thanall things else?"

Thus the morning passed away in musings; andin the afternoon, when Flemming was preparing to go down to the lake, as his customwas, a carriage drew up before the door, and, to his greatastonishment, out jumped Berkley. The first thing he did was to givethe Postmaster, who stood near the door, a smart cut with his whip. The sufferer gently expostulated, saying, "Pray, Sir, don't; I am lame. "

Whereupon Berkley desisted, and began instead to shake thePostmaster's wife by the shoulders, and order his dinner in English. But all this was done so good-naturedly, and with such a rosy, laughing face, that no offence was taken. 

"So you have returned much sooner than you intended;" saidFlemming, after the first friendly salutations. 

"Yes, " replied Berkley; "I got tired of Ischel, --very tired. Idid not find the friends there, whom I expected. Now I am going backto Salzburg, and then to Gastein. There I shall certainly find them. You must go with me. "

Flemming declined the invitation; and proposedto Berkley, that heshould join him in his excursion on the lake. 

"You shall hear the grand echo of the Falkenstein, " said he, "andbehold the scene of the Bridal Tragedy; and then we will go on asfar as the village of Saint Wolfgang, which you have not yet seen, except across the lake. "

"Well, this afternoon I devote to you; for to-morrow we part oncemore, and who knows when we shall meet again?"

They went down to the water's side without farther delay; and, taking a boat with two oars, struck across an elbow of the laketowards a barren rock by the eastern shore, from which a small whitemonument shone in the sun. 

"That monument, " said one of the boatmen, a stout young lad inleather breeches, "was built by a butcher, to the glory of SaintWolfgang, who saved him from drowning. He was one day riding an oxto market along the opposite bank; when the animal taking fright, sprang into the water, and swam over to this place, with the butcheron his back. "

"And do you think he could have done this, " asked Berkley; "ifSaint Wolfgang had not helped him?"

"Of course not!" answered leather-breeches; and the Englishmanlaughed. 

From this point they rowed along under the shore to a lowpromontory, upon which stood another monument, commemorating a moretragical event. 

"This is the place I was speaking of, " said Flemming, as theboatmen rested on their oars. "The melancholy and singular event itcommemorates happened more than two centuries ago. There was abridal party here upon the ice one winter; and in the midst of thedance the ice broke, and the whole merry company were drownedtogether, except the fiddlers, who were sitting on the shore. "

They looked in silence at the monument, and at the blue quietwater, under which the bones of the dancers lay buried, hand inhand. The monument is of stone, painted white, with anover-hangingroof to shelter it from storms. In a niche in front is asmall image of the Saviour, in a sitting posture; and aninscription, upon a marble tablet below, says that it was placedthere by Longinus Walther and his wife Barbara Juliana von Hainberg;themselves long since peacefully crumbled to dust, side by side insome churchyard. 

"That was breaking the ice with a vengeance!" said Berkley, asthey pushed out into the lake again; and ere long they were floatingbeneath the mighty precipice of Falkenstein; a steep wall of rock, crowned with a chapel and a hermitage, where in days of old livedthe holy Saint Wolfgang. It is now haunted only by an echo, sodistinct and loud, that one might imagine the ghost of the departedsaint to be sitting there, and repeating the voices from below, notword by word, but sentence by sentence, as if he were passing themup to the recording angel. 

"Ho! ho! ho!" shouted Berkley; and the sound seemed to strike thewall of stone, like the flapping of steel plates; "Ho! ho! ho! Howareyou to-day, Saint Wolfgang! You infernal old rascal! How is theFrau von Wolfgang!--God save great George the King! Damn your eyes!Hold your tongue! Ho! ho! ha! ha! hi!"

And the words were recorded above; and a voice repeated them withawful distinctness in the blue depths overhead, and Flemming felt inhis inmost soul the contrast between the holy heavens, and themockery of laughter, and the idle words, which fall back from thesky above us and soil not its purity. 

In half an hour they were at the village of Saint Wolfgang, threading a narrow street, above which the roofs of quaint, picturesque old houses almost met. It led them to a Gothic church; amagnificent one for a village;--in front of which was a small court, shut in by Italian-looking houses, with balconies, and flowers atthe windows. Here a bronze fountain of elaborate workmanship wasplaying in the shade. On its summit stood an image of the patronSaint of the village; and, running round the under lip of thewater-basin below, they read this inscription in old Germanrhymes;

"I am in the honor of Saint Wolfgang raised. Abbot Wolfgang Habelof Emensee, he hath made me for the use and delight of poor pilgrimwight. Neither gold nor wine hath he; at this water shall he merrybe. In the year of the Lord fifteen hundred and fifteen, hath thework completed been. God be praised!"

As they were deciphering the rude characters of this piousinscription, a village priest came down a high flight of steps fromthe parsonage near the church, and courteously saluted thestrangers. After returning the salutation, the mad Englishman, without preface, asked him how many natural children were annuallyborn in the parish. The question seemed to astonish the good father, but he answered it civilly, as he did several other questions, whichFlemming thought rather indiscreet, to say the least. 

"You will excuse our curiosity, " said he to the priest, by way ofapology. "We are strangersfrom distant countries. My friend is anEnglishman and I an American. "

Berkley, however, was not so easily silenced. After a fewmoments' conversation he broke out into most audacious Latin, inwhich the only words clearly intelligible were;

"Plurimum reverende, in Christo religiosissime, ac clarissimeDomine, necnon et amice observandissime! Petrus sic est locutus;'Nec argentum mihi, nec aurum est; sed quod habeo, hoc tibi do;surge et ambula. '"

He seemed to be speaking of the fountain. The priest answeredmeekly, "Non intellexi, Domine!"

But Berkley continued with great volubility to speak of his beinga stranger in the land, and all men being strangers upon earth, andhoping to meet the good priest hereafter in the kingdom of Heaven. The priest seemed confounded, and abashed. Through the mist of astrange pronunciation he could recognise only here and thereafamiliar word. He took out his snuff-box; and tried to quote apassage from Saint Paul;

"Ut dixit Sanctus Paulus; qui bene facit--"

Here his memory failed him, or, as the French say, he was at theend of his Latin, and, stretching forth his long forefinger, heconcluded in German;

"Yes;--I don't--so clearly remember--what he did say. "

The Englishman helped him through with a moral phrase; and thenpulling off his hat, exclaimed very solemnly;

"Vale, domine doctissime et reverendissime!"

And the Dominie, as if pursued by a demon, made a sudden andprecipitate retreat down a flight of steps into the street. 

"There!" said Berkley laughing, "I beat him at his own weapons. What do you say of my Latin?"

"I say of it, " replied Flemming, "what Holophernes said of SirNathaniel's; 'Priscian a little scratched; 't will serve. ' I think Ihave heardbetter. But what a whim! I thought I should have laughedaloud. "

They were still sitting by the bronze fountain when the priestreturned, accompanied by a short man, with large feet, and a longblue surtout, so greasy, that it reminded one of Polilla's in theSpanish play, which was lined with slices of pork. His countenancewas broad and placid, but his blue eyes gleamed with a wild, mysterious, sorrowful expression. Flemming thought the Latin contestwas to be renewed, with more powder and heavier guns. He wasmistaken. The stranger saluted him in German, and said, that, havingheard he was from America, he had come to question him about thatdistant country, for which he was on the point of embarking. Therewas nothing peculiar in his manner, nor in the questions he asked, nor the remarks he made. They were the usual questions and remarksabout cities and climate, and sailing the sea. At length Flemmingasked him the object of his journey to America. Thestranger cameclose up to him, and lowering his voice, said very solemnly;

"That holy man, Frederick Baraga, missionary among the Indians atLacroix, on Lake Superior, has returned to his father-land, Krain;and I am chosen by Heaven to go forth as Minister Extraordinary ofChrist, to unite all nations and people in one church!"

Flemming almost started at the singular earnestness, with whichhe uttered these words; and looked at him attentively, thinking tosee the face of a madman. But the modest, unassuming look of thatplacid countenance was unchanged; only in the eyes burned amysterious light, as if candles had been lighted in the brain, tomagnify the daylight there. 

"It is truly a high vocation, " said he in reply. "But are yousure, that this is no hallucination? Are you certain, that you havebeen chosen by Heaven for this great work?"

"I am certain, " replied the German, in a tone of great calmnessand sincerity; "and, if Saint Peter and Saint Paul should come downfrom Heaven to assure me of it, my faith would be no stronger thanit now is. It has been declared to me by many signs and wonders. Ican no longer doubt, nor hesitate. I have already heard the voice ofthe Spirit, speaking to me at night; and I know that I am anapostle; and chosen for this work. "

Such was the calm enthusiasm with which he spoke, that Flemmingcould not choose but listen. He felt interested in this strangebeing. There was something awe-inspiring in the spirit thatpossessed him. After a short pause he continued;

"If you wish to know who I am, I can tell you in few words. Ithink you will not find the story without interest. "

He then went on to relate the circumstances recorded in thefollowing chapter. 

CHAPTER VII. THE STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS. 

"I was born in the city of Stein, in the land of Krain. My piousmother Gertrude sang me psalms and spiritual songs in childhood; andoften, when I awoke in the night, I saw her still sitting, patientlyat her work by the stove, and heard her singing those hymns ofheaven, or praying in the midnight darkness when her work was done. It was for me she prayed. Thus, from my earliest childhood, Ibreathed the breath of pious aspirations. Afterwards I went toLaybach as a student of theology; and after the usual course ofstudy, was ordained a priest. I went forth to the care of souls; myown soul filled with the faith, that ere long all people would beunited in one church. Yet attimes my heart was heavy, to behold howmany nations there are who have not heard of Christ; and how those, who are called Christians, are divided into numberless sects, andhow among these are many who are Christians in name only. Idetermined to devote myself to the great work of the one churchuniversal; and for this purpose, to give myself wholly up to thestudy of the Evangelists and the Fathers. I retired to theBenedictine cloister of Saint Paul in the valley of Lavant. Thefather-confessor in the nunnery of Laak, where I then lived, strengthened me in this resolve. I had long walked with this angelof God in a human form, and his parting benediction sank deep intomy soul. The Prince-Abbot Berthold, of blessed memory, was then headof the Benedictine convent. He received me kindly, and led me to thelibrary; where I gazed with secret rapture on the vast folios of theChristian Fathers, from which, as from an arsenal, I was to draw theweapons of holy warfare. In the study of these, the year of mynoviciate passed. I becamea Franciscan friar; and took the name ofBrother Bernardus. Yet my course of life remained unchanged. Iseldom left the cloister; but sat in my cell, and pored over thosetomes of holy wisdom. About this time the aged confessor in Laakdeparted this life. His death was made known to me in a dream. Itmust have been after midnight, when I thought that I came into thechurch, which was brilliantly lighted up. The dead body of thevenerable saint was brought in, attended by a great crowd. It seemedto me, that I must go up into the pulpit and pronounce his funeraloration; and, as I ascended the stairs, the words of my text cameinto my mind; 'Blessed in the sight of the Lord is the death of hissaints. ' My funeral sermon ended in a strain of exultation; and Iawoke with 'Amen!' upon my lips. A few days afterwards, I heard thaton that night the old man died. After this event I became restlessand melancholy. I strove in vain to drive from me my gloomythoughts. I could no longer study. I was no longer contented in thecloister. I even thought of leaving it. 

"One night I had gone to bed early, according to my custom, and hadfallen asleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a bright and wonderfullight, which shone all about me, and filled me with heavenlyrapture. Shortly after I heard a voice, which pronounced distinctlythese words, in the Sclavonian tongue; 'Remain in the cloister!' Itwas the voice of my departed mother. I was fully awake; yet sawnothing but the bright light, which disappeared, when the words hadbeen spoken. Still it was broad daylight in my chamber. I thought Ihad slept beyond my usual hour. I looked at my watch. It was justone o'clock after midnight. Suddenly the daylight vanished, and itwas dark. In the morning I arose, as if new-born, through thewonderful light, and the words of my mother's voice. It was nodream. I knew it was the will of God that I should stay; and I couldagain give myself up to quiet study. I read the whole Bible throughonce more in theoriginal text; and went on with the Fathers, inchronological order. Often, after the apparition of the light, Iawoke at the same hour; and though I heard no voice and saw nolight, yet was refreshed with heavenly consolation. 

"Not long after this an important event happened in the cloister. In the absence of the deacon of the Abbey, I was to preach theThanksgiving sermon of Harvest-home. During the week thePrince-Abbot Berthold gave up the ghost; and my sermon became atonce a Thanks-giving and Funeral Sermon. Perhaps it may not beunworthy of notice, that I was thus called to pronounce the burialdiscourse over the body of the last reigning, spiritual Prince Abbotin Germany. He was a man of God, and worthy of this honor. 

"One year after this event, I was appointed Professor of BiblicalHermeneutics in Klagenfurt, and left the Abbey forever. InKlagenfurt I remained ten years, dwelling in the same house, andeating at the same table, with seventeen other professors. Theirconversation naturally suggestednew topics of study, and brought tomy notice books, which I had never before seen. One day I heard attable, that Maurus Cappellari, a monk of Camaldoli, had been electedPope, under the name of Gregory Sixteenth. He was spoken of as avery learned man, who had written many books. At this time I was afirm believer in the Pope's infallibility; and when I heard thesebooks mentioned, there arose in me an irresistible longing to readthem. I inquired for them; but they were nowhere to be had. Atlength I heard, that his most important work, The Triumph of theHoly See, and of the Church, had been translated into German andpublished in Augsburg. Ere long the precious volume was in my hands. I began to read it with the profoundest awe. The farther I read, themore my wonder grew. The subject was of the deepest interest to me. I could not lay the book out of my hand, till I had read it throughwith the closest attention. Now at length my eyes were opened. I sawbefore me a monk, who had been educated in an Italian cloister; who, indeed, had read much, and yet only what was calculated tostrengthen him in the prejudices of his childhood; and who hadentirely neglected those studies upon which a bishop should mostrely, in order to work out the salvation of man. I perceived at thesame time, that this was the strongest instrument for battering downthe walls, which separate Christian from Christian. I saw, though asyet dimly, the way in which the union of Christians in the one truechurch was to be accomplished. I knew not whether to be mostastonished at my own blindness, that, in all my previous studies, Ihad not perceived, what the reading of this single book mademanifest to me; or at the blindness of the Pope, who had undertakento justify such follies, without perceiving that at the same momenthe was himself lying in fatal error. But since I have learned morethoroughly the ways of the Lord, I am now no more astonished atthis, but pray only to Divine providence, who so mysteriouslyprepares all people to be united in one true church. I no longerbelieved in the Pope's infallibility; nay, I believed even, that, tothe great injury of humanity, he lay in fatal error. I felt, moreover, that now the time had fully come, when I should publiclyshow myself, and found in America a parish and a school, and becomethe spiritual guide of men, and the schoolmaster of children. 

"It was then, and on that account, that I wrote in the Latintongue my great work on Biblical Hermeneutics. But in Germany itcannot be published. The Austrian censor of the press cannot findtime to read it, though I think, that if I have spent so manylaborious days and sleepless nights in writing it, this man oughtlikewise to find time enough not only to read it, but to examine allthe grounds of my reasoning, and point out to me any errors, if hecan find any. Notwithstanding, the Spirit gave me no repose, buturged me ever mightily on to the perfection of my great work. 

"One morning I sat writing, under peculiar influences of theSpirit, upon the Confusion of Tongues, the Division of the People, and the importance ofthe study of Comparative Philology, inreference to their union in one church. So wrapped was I in thethought, that I came late into my lecture-room; and after lecturereturned to my chamber, where I wrote till the clock struck twelve. At dinner, one of the Professors asked if any one had seen the star, about which so much was said. The Professor of Physics, said, thatthe student Johannes Schminke had come to him in the greatest haste, and besought him to go out and see the wonderful star; but, beingincredulous about it, he made no haste, and, when they came into thestreet, the star had disappeared. When I heard the star spoken of, my soul was filled with rapture; and a voice within me seemed tosay, 'The great time is approaching; labor unweariedly in thy work. 'I sought out the student; and like Herod, inquired diligently whattime the star appeared. He informed me, that, just as the clock wasstriking eight, in the morning, he went out of his house to go tothe college, and saw on the square a crowd looking at a bright star. It was the veryhour, when I was writing alone in my chamber on theimportance of Comparative Philology in bringing about the union ofall nations. I felt, that my hour had come. Strangely moved, Iwalked up and down my chamber. The evening twilight came on. Ilighted my lamp, and drew the green curtains before the windows, andsat down to read. But hardly had I taken the book into my hand, whenthe Spirit began to move me, and urge me then to make my lastdecision and resolve. I made a secret vow, that I would undertakethe voyage to America. Suddenly my troubled thoughts were still. Anunwonted rapture filled my heart. I sat and read till the supperbell rang. They were speaking at table of a red glaring meteor, which had just been seen in the air, southeast from Klagenfurt; andhad suddenly disappeared with a dull, hollow sound. It was the verymoment at which I had taken my final resolution to leave my nativeland. Every great purpose and event of my life, seemed heralded andattended by divine messengers; the voices of thedead; the brightmorning star, shining in the clear sunshine; and the red meteor inthe evening twilight. 

"I now began seriously to prepare for my departure. The chamber Ioccupied, had once been the library of a Franciscan convent. Only athick wall separated it from the church. In this wall was a niche, with heavy folding-doors, which had served the Franciscans as arepository for prohibited books. Here also I kept my papers, and mygreat work on Biblical Hermeneutics. The inside of the doors wascovered with horrible caricatures of Luther, Melancthon, Calvin, andother great men. I used often to look at them with the deepestmelancholy, when I thought that these great men likewise had laboredupon earth, and fought with Satan in the church. But they werepersecuted, denounced, condemned to die. So perhaps will it be withme. I thought of this often; and armed myself against the fear ofdeath. I was in constant apprehension, lest the police should searchmy chamber during my absence, and, by examining my papers, discovermy doctrine and designs. But the Spirit said to me; 'Be of goodcheer; I will so blind the eyes of thy enemies, that it shall notonce occur to them to think of thy writings. '

"At length, after many difficulties and temptations of the Devil, I am on my way to America. Yesterday I took leave of my dearestfriend, Gregory Kuscher, in Hallstadt. He seemed filled with theSpirit of God, and has wonderfully strengthened me in my purpose. All the hosts of heaven looked on, and were glad. The old man kissedme at parting; and I ascended the mountain as if angels bore me upin their arms. Near the summit, lay a newly fallen avalanche, overwhich, as yet, no footsteps had passed. This was my last temptation. 'Ha!' cried I aloud, 'Satan has prepared a snare for me; but I willconquer him with godly weapons. ' I sprang over the treacherous snow, with greater faith than St. Peter walked the waters of the Lake ofGalilee; and came down the valley, while the mountain peaks yetshonein the setting sun. God smiles upon me. I go forth, full of hopefulcourage. On Christmas next, I shall excommunicate the Pope. "

Saying these words, he slowly and solemnly took his leave, likeone conscious of the great events which await him, and withdrew withthe other priest into the church. Flemming could not smile asBerkley did; for in the solitary, singular enthusiast, who had justleft them, he saw only another melancholy victim to solitude andover-labor of the brain; and felt how painful a thing it is, thus tobecome unconsciously the alms-man of other men's sympathies, a kindof blind beggar for the charity of a good wish or a prayer. 

The sun was now setting. Silently they floated back to SaintGilgen, amid the cool evening shadows. The village clock struck nineas they landed; and as Berkley was to depart early in the morning, he went to bed betimes. On bidding Flemming good night he said;

"I shall not see you in the morning; so good bye, and God blessyou. Remember my partingwords. Never mind trifles. In this world aman must either be anvil or hammer. Care killed a cat!"

"I have heard you say that so often, " replied Flemming, laughing, "that I begin to believe it is true. But I wonder if Care shaved hisleft eyebrow, after doing the deed, as the ancient Egyptians used todo!"

"Aha! now you are sweeping cobwebs from the sky! Good night! Goodnight!"

A sorrowful event happened in the neighbourhood that night. Thewidow's child died suddenly. "Woe is me!"--thus mourns the childlessmother in one of the funeral songs of Greenland; "Woe is me, that Ishould gaze upon thy place and find it vacant! In vain for thee thymother dries the sea-drenched garments!" Not in these words, but inthoughts like these, did the poor mother bewail the death of herchild, thinking mostly of the vacant place, and the daily cares andsolicitudes of maternal love. Flemming saw a light in her chamber, and shadows moving toand fro, as he stood by the window, gazing intothe starry, silent sky. But he little thought of the awful domestictragedy, which was even then enacted behind those thin curtains!

CHAPTER VIII. FOOT-PRINTS OF ANGELS. 

It was Sunday morning; and the church bells were all ringingtogether. From all the neighbouring villages, came the solemn, joyful sounds, floating through the sunny air, mellow and faint andlow, --all mingling into one harmonious chime, like the sound of somedistant organ in heaven. Anon they ceased; and the woods, and theclouds, and the whole village, and the very air itself seemed topray, so silent was it everywhere. 

Two venerable old men, --high priests and patriarchs were they inthe land, --went up the pulpit stairs, as Moses and Aaron went upMount Hor, in the sight of all the congregation, --for the pulpitstairs were in front, and very high. 

Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon he heard thatday, --no, not even if he should live to be as old as he who preachedit. The text was, "I know that my Redeemer liveth. " It was meant toconsole the pious, poor widow, who sat right below him at the footof the pulpit stairs, all in black, and her heart breaking. He saidnothing of the terrors of death, nor of the gloom of the narrowhouse, but, looking beyond these things, as mere circumstances towhich the imagination mainly gives importance, he told his hearersof the innocence of childhood upon earth, and the holiness ofchildhood in heaven, and how the beautiful Lord Jesus was once alittle child, and now in heaven the spirits of little childrenwalked with him, and gathered flowers in the fields of Paradise. Good old man! In behalf of humanity, I thank thee for thesebenignant words! And, still more than I, the bereaved mother thankedthee, and from that hour, though she wept in secret for her child, yet

"She knew he was with Jesus, And she asked him not again. "

After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked forth alone into thechurchyard. There was no one there, save a little boy, who wasfishing with a pin hook in a grave half full of water. But a fewmoments afterward, through the arched gateway under the belfry, camea funeral procession. At its head walked a priest in white surplice, chanting. Peasants, old and young, followed him, with burning tapersin their hands. A young girl carried in her arms a dead child, wrapped in its little winding sheet. The grave was close under thewall, by the church door. A vase of holy water stood beside it. Thesexton took the child from the girl's arms, and put it into acoffin; and, as he placed it in the grave, the girl held over it across, wreathed with roses, and the priest and peasants sang afuneral hymn. When this was over, the priest sprinkled the grave andthe crowd with holy water; and then they all went into the church, each one stopping as he passed the grave to throw a handful of earthinto it, and sprinkle it with holy water. 

A few moments afterwards, the voice of the priest was heardsaying mass in the church, and Flemming saw the toothless old sextontreading the fresh earth into the grave of the little child, withhis clouted shoes. He approached him, and asked the age of thedeceased. The sexton leaned a moment on his spade, and shrugging hisshoulders replied;

"Only an hour or two. It was born in the night, and died thismorning early?"

"A brief existence, " said Flemming. "The child seems to have beenborn only to be buried, and have its name recorded on a woodentombstone. "

The sexton went on with his work, and made no reply. Flemmingstill lingered among the graves, gazing with wonder at the strangedevices, by which man has rendered death horrible and the graveloathsome. 

In the Temple of Juno at Elis, Sleep and his twin-brother Deathwere represented as children reposing in the arms of Night. Onvarious funeral monuments of the ancients the Genius of Deathissculptured as a beautiful youth, leaning on an inverted torch, inthe attitude of repose, his wings folded and his feet crossed. Insuch peaceful and attractive forms, did the imagination of ancientpoets and sculptors represent death. And these were men in whosesouls the religion of Nature was like the light of stars, beautiful, but faint and cold! Strange, that in later days, this angel of God, which leads us with a gentle hand, into the "Land of the greatdeparted, into the silent Land, " should have been transformed into amonstrous and terrific thing! Such is the spectral rider on thewhite horse;--such the ghastly skeleton with scythe andhour-glass;--the Reaper, whose name is Death!

One of the most popular themes of poetry and painting in theMiddle Ages, and continuing down even into modern times, was theDance of Death. In almost all languages is it written, --theapparition of the grim spectre, putting a sudden stop to allbusiness, and leading men away into the "remarkable retirement" ofthe grave. Itis written in an ancient Spanish Poem, and painted on awooden bridge in Switzerland. The designs of Holbein are well known. The most striking among them is that, where, from a group ofchildren sitting round a cottage hearth, Death has taken one by thehand, and is leading it out of the door. Quietly and unresistinggoes the little child, and in its countenance no grief, but wonderonly; while the other children are weeping and stretching forththeir hands in vain towards their departing brother. A beautifuldesign it is, in all save the skeleton. An angel had been better, with folded wings, and torch inverted!

And now the sun was growing high and warm. A little chapel, whosedoor stood open, seemed to invite Flemming to enter and enjoy thegrateful coolness. He went in. There was no one there. The wallswere covered with paintings and sculpture of the rudest kind, andwith a few funeral tablets. There was nothing there to move theheart to devotion; but in that hour the heart of Flemming wasweak, --weak as a child's. He bowed hisstubborn knees, and wept. Andoh! how many disappointed hopes, how many bitter recollections, howmuch of wounded pride, and unrequited love, were in those tears, through which he read on a marble tablet in the chapel wallopposite, this singular inscription;

"Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet theshadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly heart. "

It seemed to him, as if the unknown tenant of that grave hadopened his lips of dust, and spoken to him the words of consolation, which his soul needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. In amoment the anguish of his thoughts was still. The stone was rolledaway from the door of his heart; death was no longer there, but anangel clothed in white. He stood up, and his eyes were no morebleared with tears; and, looking into the bright, morning heaven, hesaid;

"I will be strong!"

Men sometimes go down into tombs, with painfullongings to beholdonce more the faces of their departed friends; and as they gaze uponthem, lying there so peacefully with the semblance, that they woreon earth, the sweet breath of heaven touches them, and the featurescrumble and fall together, and are but dust. So did his soul thendescend for the last time into the great tomb of the Past, withpainful longings to behold once more the dear faces of those he hadloved; and the sweet breath of heaven touched them, and they wouldnot stay, but crumbled away and perished as he gazed. They, too, were dust. And thus, far-sounding, he heard the great gate of thePast shut behind him as the Divine Poet did the gate of Paradise, when the angel pointed him the way up the Holy Mountain; and to himlikewise was it forbidden to look back. 

In the life of every man, there are sudden transitions offeeling, which seem almost miraculous. At once, as if some magicianhad touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into theair, the wind falls, and serenity succeedsthe storm. The causeswhich produce these sudden changes may have been long at work withinus, but the changes themselves are instantaneous, and apparentlywithout sufficient cause. It was so with Flemming; and from thathour forth he resolved, that he would no longer veer with everyshifting wind of circumstance; no longer be a child's plaything inthe hands of Fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. He resolvedhenceforward not to lean on others; but to walk self-confident andself-possessed; no longer to waste his years in vain regrets, norwait the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet desires; butto live in the Present wisely, alike forgetful of the Past, andcareless of what the mysterious Future might bring. And from thatmoment he was calm, and strong; he was reconciled with himself! Histhoughts turned to his distant home beyond the sea. Anindescribable, sweet feeling rose within him. 

"Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps, " said he; "and be aman among men, and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforthbemine a life of action and reality! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness. This alone is Life;

'Life that shall send

A challenge to its end, And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!'

Why have I not made these sage reflections, this wise resolve, sooner? Can such a simple result spring only from the long andintricate process of experience? Alas! it is not till Time, withreckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of HumanLife, to light the fires of passion with, from day to day, that Manbegins to see, that the leaves which remain are few in number, andto remember, faintly at first, and then more clearly, that, upon theearlier pages of that book, was written a story of happy innocence, which he would fain read over again. Then come listlessirresolution, and the inevitable inaction of despair; or else thefirm resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain, a morenoble history, than the child's story, with which the bookbegan. "

CHAPTER IX. THE LAST PANG. 

"Farewell to thee, Saint Gilgen!" said Flemming, as he turned onthe brow of the hill, to take his last look at the lake and thevillage below, and felt that this was one of the few spots on thewide earth to which he could say farewell with regret. "Thy majestichills have impressed themselves upon my soul, as a seal upon wax. The quiet beauty of thy lake shall be to me forever an image ofpeace and purity and stillness, and that inscription in thy littlechurchyard, a sentence of wisdom for my after life. "

Before the setting of the same sun, which then shone on that fairlandscape, he was far on his way towards Munich. He had left farbehind him the mountains of the Tyrol; and beheld themfor the lasttime in the soft evening twilight, their bases green with foresttrees, and here and there, a sharp rocky spire, and a rounded summitcapped with snow. There they lay, their backs, like the backs ofcamels; a mighty caravan, reposing at evening in its march acrossthe desert. 

From Munich he passed through Augsburg and Ulm, on his way toStuttgard. At the entrances of towns and villages, he saw largecrucifixes; and on the fronts of many houses, coarse paintings andimages of saints. In Gunzburg three priests in black were slowlypassing down the street, and women fell on their knees to receivetheir blessing. There were many beggars, too, in the streets; and anold man who was making hay in a field by the road-side, when he sawthe carriage approaching, threw down his rake, and came tumblingover the ditch, with his hat held out in both hands, uttering themost dismal wail. The next day, the bright yellow jackets of thepostilions, and the two great tassels of their bugle-horns, danglingdown their backs, like two cauliflowers, told him he was inWürtemberg; and, late in the evening, he stopped at a hotel inStuttgard; and from his chamber-window, saw, in the brightmoonlight, the old Gothic cathedral, with its narrow, lancet windowsand jutting buttresses, right in front of him. Ere long he hadforgotten all his cares and sorrows in sleep, and with them hishopes, and wishes, and good resolves. 

He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber, the nextmorning, when the great bell of the cathedral opposite began toring, and reminded him that it was Sunday. Ere long the organanswered from within, and from its golden lips breathed forth apsalm. The congregation began to assemble, and Flemming went up withthem to the house of the Lord. In the body of the church he foundthe pews all filled or locked; they seemed to belong to families. Hewent up into the gallery, and looked over the psalm-book of apeasant, while the congregation sang the sublime old hymn of MartinLuther, "Our God, he is a tower of strength, A trusty shield and weapon. "

During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black, with a whitesurplice thrown loosely about him, came pacing along one of theaisles, from beneath the organ-loft and ascended the pulpit. Afterthe hymn, he read a portion of Scripture, and then said;

"Let us unite in silent prayer. "

And turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, while the congregationremained standing. For a while there was a breathless silence in thechurch, which to Flemming was more solemnly impressive than anyaudible prayer. The clergyman then arose, and began his sermon. Histheme was the Reformation; and he attempted to prove how much easierit was to enter the kingdom of Heaven through the gateways of theReformed Evangelical Dutch church, than by the aisles andpenitential stair-cases of Saint Peter's. He then gave a history ofthe Reformation; and, when Flemming thought he was near the end, heheard him say, that he should divide his discourse into four heads. This reminded him of the sturdy old Puritan, Cotton Mather, whoafter preaching an hour, would coolly turn the hour-glass on thepulpit, and say; "Now, my beloved hearers, let us take anotherglass. " He stole out into the silent, deserted street, and went tovisit the veteran sculptor Dannecker. He found him in his parlour, sitting alone, with his psalm-book, and the reminiscences of a lifeof eighty years. As Flemming entered, he arose from the sofa, andtottered towards him; a venerable old man, of low stature, anddressed in a loose white jacket, with a face like Franklin's, hiswhite hair flowing over his shoulders, and a pale, blue eye. 

"So you are from America, " said he. "But you have a German name. Paul Flemming was one of our old poets. I have never been inAmerica, and never shall go there. I am now too old. I have been inParis and in Rome. But that was long ago. I am now eight and seventyyears old. "

Here he took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit down by hisside, on the sofa. And Flemmingfelt a mysterious awe creep over him, on touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amidthe gathering shade of years, and listened to life's curfew-bell, telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour hadcome, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till the morning. 

"You see, " he continued, in a melancholy tone, "my hands arecold; colder than yours. They were warmer once. I am now an oldman. "

"Yet these are the hands, " answered Flemming, "that sculpturedthe beauteous Ariadne and the Panther. The soul never growsold. "

"Nor does Nature, " said the old man, pleased with this allusionto his great work, and pointing to the green trees before hiswindow. "This pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. Ican even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. Myhearing is also unimpaired. For all which, I thank God. "

Then, directing Flemming's attention to a fine engraving, whichhung on the opposite wall of the room, he continued;

"That is an engraving of Canova's Religion. I love to sit hereand look at it, for hours together. It is beautiful. He made thestatue for his native town, where they had no church, until he builtthem one. He placed the statue in it. This engraving he sent me as apresent. Ah, he was a dear, good man. The name of his native town Ihave forgotten. My memory fails me. I cannot remember names. "

Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morningdevotions, Flemming did not remain long, but took his leave withregret. There was something impressive in the scene he hadwitnessed;--this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by theopen window, in the bright summer morning, --the labor of lifeaccomplished, the horizon reached, where heaven and earthmeet, --thinking it was angel's music, when he heard the church-bellsring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his chamber, hethought within himself, whether he likewise might not accomplishsomething, which should live after him;--might not bring somethingpermanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in silence. He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he could nolonger go to church, but must sit at home and read the bible inlarge print. His heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled withregrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of life; regret, that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had felt and dreamedonly. Thus the warm days in spring bring forth passion-flowers andforget-menots. It is only after mid-summer, when the days growshorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. Then, the heat ofthe day brings forward the harvest, and after the harvest, theleaves fall, and there is a gray frost. Much meditating upon thesethings, Paul Flemming reached his hotel. At that moment a person cladin green came down the church-steps, and crossed the street. It wasthe German student, of Interlachen. Flemming started as if a greensnake had suddenly crossed his path. He took refuge in hischamber. 

That night as he was sitting alone in his chamber, having madehis preparation to depart the following morning, his attention wasarrested by the sound of a female voice in the next room. A thinpartition, with a door, separated it from his own. He had not beforeobserved that the room was occupied. But, in the stillness of thenight, the tones of that voice struck his ear. He listened. It was alady, reading the prayers of the English Church. The tones werefamiliar; and awakened at once a thousand painfully sweetrecollections. It was the voice of Mary Ashburton! His heart couldnot be deceived; and all its wounds began to bleed afresh, likethose of a murdered man, when the murderer approaches. His firstimpulse was of affection only, boundless, irrepressible, delirious, as of old in the green valley of Interlachen. He waited for thevoice to cease; that he might go to her, and behold her face oncemore. And then his pride rose up within him, and rebuked thisweakness. He remembered his firm resolve; and blushed to findhimself so feeble. And the voice ceased; and yet he did not go. Pride had so far gained the mastery over affection. He lay down uponhis bed, like a child as he was. All about him was silence, and thesilence was holy, for she was near; so near that he could almosthear the beating of her heart. He knew now for the first time howweak he was, and how strong his passion for that woman. His heartwas like the altar of the Israelites of old; and, though drenchedwith tears, as with rain, it was kindled at once by the holy firefrom heaven!

Towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted with the strongexcitement; and, in that hour when, sleep being "nigh unto thesoul, " visions are deemed prophetic, he dreamed. O blessed visionofthe morning, stay! thou wert so fair! He stood again on the greensunny meadow, beneath the ruined towers; and she was by his side, with her pale, speaking countenance and holy eyes; and he kissed herfair forehead; and she turned her face towards him beaming withaffection and said, "I confess it now; you are the Magician!" andpressed him in a meek embrace, that he, "might rather feel than seethe swelling of her heart. " And then she faded away from his arms, and her face became transfigured, and her voice like the voice of anangel in heaven;--and he awoke, and was alone!

It was broad daylight; and he heard the postilion, and thestamping of horses' hoofs on the pavement at the door. At the samemoment his servant came in, with coffee, and told him all was ready. He did not dare to stay. But, throwing himself into the carriage, hecast one look towards the window of the Dark Ladie, and a momentafterwards had left her forever! He had drunk thelast drop of thebitter cup, and now laid the golden goblet gently down, knowing thathe should behold it no more!

No more! O how majestically mournful are those words! They soundlike the roar of the wind through a forest of pines!