Hyperion

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 thou know what
a Poet is? Why, fool, a Poet is as much as one should say,--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 Maria Bojardo, set all the
church-bells in Scandiano ringing, merely because he had found a name
for one of his heroes. Here, also, shall church-bells be rung, but more
solemnly.

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The
brightness 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 withdraws into itself.
Then stars arise, and the night is holy.

Paul Flemming had experienced this, though still young. The friend of
his youth was dead. The bough had broken "under the burden of the
unripe fruit." And when, after a season, he looked up again from the
blindness of his sorrow, all things seemed unreal. Like the man, whose
sight had been restored by miracle, he beheld men, as trees, walking.
His household gods were broken. He had no home. His sympathies cried
aloud from his desolate soul, and there came no answer from the busy,
turbulent world around him. He did not willingly give way to grief. He
struggled to be cheerful,--to be strong. But he could no longer look
into the familiar faces of his friends. 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 of time.

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

He had passed a sleepless night at Rolandseck, and had risen before
daybreak. He opened the window of the balcony to hear the rushing of
the Rhine. It was a damp December morning; and clouds were passing over
the sky,--thin, vapory clouds, whose snow-white skirts were "often
spotted with golden tears, which men call stars." The day dawned
slowly; and, in the mingling of daylightand starlight, the island and
cloister of Nonnenwerth made together but one 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 extended the Curtain of Mountains, back
to the Wolkenburg,--the Castle of the Clouds.

But Flemming thought not of the scene before him. Sorrow unspeakable
was upon his spirit in that lonely hour; and, hiding his face 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 me with
the icy breath of the grave! Chant no more that dirge of sorrow,
through the long and silent watches of the night!"

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

Slowly the landscape brightened. Down therushing stream came a boat,
with its white wings spread, and darted like a swallow through the
narrow pass of God's-Help. The boatmen were singing, but not the song
of Roland the Brave, which was heard of old by the weeping Hildegund,
as she sat within the walls of that cloister, which now looked forth in
the pale morning from amid the leafless linden trees. The dim
traditions of those gray old times rose in the traveller's memory; for
the ruined tower of Rolandseck was still looking down upon the Kloster
Nonnenwerth, as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed the
faithful Paladin to stone, and he were watching still to see the form
of his beloved one come forth, not from her cloister, but from her
grave. Thus the brazen clasps of the book of legends were opened, and,
on the page illuminated by the misty rays of the rising sun, he read
again the tales of Liba, and the mournful bride of Argenfels, and
Siegfried, the mighty slayer of the dragon. Meanwhile the mists had
risen from the Rhine, and the whole air was filled with golden vapor,
through which hebeheld the sun, hanging in heaven like a drop of blood.
Even thus shone the sun within him, amid the wintry vapors, uprising
from the valley of the shadow of death, through which flowed the stream
of his life,--sighing, sighing!




CHAPTER II. THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH.

Paul Flemming resumed his solitary journey. The morning was still
misty, but not cold. Across the Rhine the sun came wading through the
reddish vapors; and soft and silver-white outspread the broad river,
without a ripple upon its surface, or visible motion of the ever-moving
current. A little vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at anchor,
keel to keel with another, that lay right under it, its own
apparition,--and all was silent, and calm, and beautiful.

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

O, the pride of the German heart in this noble river! And right it is;
for, of all the rivers of this beautiful earth, there is none so
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 of Holland,
which boasts not its peculiar charms. By heavens! If I were a 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 this
chapter much too long. And to do it well, one should write like a god;
and his style flow onward royally with breaks and dashes, like the
waters of that royal river, and antique, quaint, and Gothic times, be
reflected in it. Alas! this evening my style flows not at all. Flow,
then, into this smoke-colored goblet, thou blood of the Rhine! out of
thy prison-house,--out of thy long-necked, tapering flask, 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 in whose ears the bells of
Andernach are ringing noon.

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

Flemming returned to the hotel disappointed. As he passed along the
narrow streets, he was dreaming of many things; but mostly of the
keeper's daughter, asleep in the churchyard of Feldkirche. Suddenly, on
turning the corner of an ancient, gloomy church, his attention 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 which stood a rude
wooden image of the Saviour on the Cross. A real crown of thorns was
upon his head, which was bowed downward, as if in the death agony; and
drops of blood were falling down his cheeks, and from his hands and
feet and side. The face was haggard and ghastly beyond all expression;
and wore a look of unutterable bodily anguish. The rude sculptor had
given it this, but his art could go no farther. The sublimity of death
in a dying Saviour, the expiring God-likeness of Jesus of Nazareth was
not there. The artist had caught no heavenly inspiration from his
theme. All was coarse, harsh, and revolting to a sensitive mind; and
Flemming turned away with a shudder, as he saw this fearful image
gazing at him, with its fixed and half-shut eyes.

He soon reached the hotel, but that face of agony still haunted him. 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's grandmother.
At all events she was old enough to be so. She took off her owl-eyed
spectacles, and, as she wiped the glasses with her handkerchief, said;

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

Flemming answered in the negative.

"Thou dear Heaven!" continued the old woman. "It is a very wonderful
story; and a true one, as every good Christian in Andernach will tell
you. And it all happened before the deathof my blessed man, four years
ago, let me see,--yes, four years ago, come Christmas."

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

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

"As soon as mass was over Frau Martha told the priest what had
happened, and he said it was not Pelz-Nickel, but, without doubt, St.
Castor or St. Florian. Then she went to the market and told Frau
Bridget all about it; and Frau Bridget said, that, two nights before,
Hans Claus, the cooper, had heard a great pounding in his shop, 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 out of town at
midnight on a donkey, and that the same night the old windmill, at
Kloster St. Thomas, had been mended up, and the old gate of the
churchyard at Feldkirche made as good as new, though nobody knew how
the man got across the river. Then Frau Martha went down to the
Rheinkrahn and told all thesestories over again; and the old ferryman
of Fahr said he could tell something about it; for, the very night that
the churchyard-gate was mended, he was lying awake in his bed, because
he could not sleep, and he heard a loud knocking at the door, and
somebody calling to him to get up and set him over the river. And when
he got up, he saw a man down by the river with a lantern and a ladder;
but as he was going down to him, the man blew out the light, and it was
so dark he could not see who he was; and his boat was old and leaky,
and he was afraid to set him over in the dark; but the man said he must
be in Andernach that night; and so he set him over. And after they had
crossed the river, he watched the man, till he came to an image of the
Holy Virgin, and saw him put the ladder against the wall, and go up and
light his lamp, and then walk along the street. And in the morning he
found his old boat all caulked, and tight, and painted red, and he
could not for his blessed life tell who did it, unless it werethe man
with the lantern. Dear soul! how strange it was!

"And so it went on for some time; and, whenever the man with the
lantern had been seen walking through the street at night, so sure as
the morning came, some work had been done for the sake of some good
soul; and everybody knew he did it; and yet nobody could find out who
he was, nor where he lived;--for, whenever they came near him, he blew
out his light, and turned down another street, and, if they 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 about the
streets, with her babe in her arms, and she was hungry, and cold, and
no soul in Andernach would take her in. And when she came to the
church, where the great crucifix stands, she saw no light in the little
chapel at the corner; but she sat down on a stone at the foot of the
cross and began to pray, and prayed, till she fell asleep, with her
poor little babe on her bosom. But she did not sleep long; for a bright
light shone full in her face; and, when she opened her eyes, she saw a
pale man, with a lantern, standing right before her. He was almost
naked; and there was blood upon his hands and body, and great tears in
his beautiful eyes, and his face was like the face of the Saviour on
the cross. Not a single word did he say to the poor woman; but looked
at her compassionately, and gave her a loaf of bread, and took the
little babe in his arms, and kissed it. Then the mother looked up to
the great crucifix, but there was no image there; and she shrieked and
fell down as if she were dead. And there she was found with her child;
and a few days after they both died, and were buried together in one
grave. And nobody would have believed her story, if a woman, who lived
at the corner, had not gone to the window, when she heard the scream,
and seen the figure hang the lantern up in its place, and then set the
ladder 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 woman in
spectacles told it to Flemming. It made a painful impression on his
sick and morbid soul; and he felt now for the first time in full force,
how great is the power of popular superstition.

The post-chaise was now at the door, and Flemming was soon on the road
to Coblentz, a city which stands upon the Rhine, at the mouth of the
Mosel, opposite Ehrenbreitstein. It is by no means a long drive from
Andernach to Coblentz; and the only incident which occurred to enliven
the way was the appearance of a fat, red-faced man on horseback,
trotting slowly towards Andernach. As they met, the mad little
postilion gave him a friendly cut with his whip, and broke 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 waxed exceedingly
angry, and replied, as the chaise whirled by;

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

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, with a brazen
helmet and a beard; and whenever the clock strikes, at each stroke of
the hammer, this giant's head opens its great jaws and smites its teeth
together, as if, like the brazen head of Friar Bacon, it would say;
"Time was; Time is; Time is past." This figure is known through all the
country round about, as "The Man in the Custom-House"; and, when a
friend in the country meets a friend from Coblentz, instead of saying,
"How are all the good people in Coblentz?"--he says, "How is the Man in
the Custom-House?" Thus the giant has a great partto play in the town;
and thus ended the first day of Flemming's Rhine-journey; and the only
good deed he had done was to give an alms to a poor beggar woman, who
lifted up her trembling hands and exclaimed;

"Thou blessed babe!"




CHAPTER III. HOMUNCULUS.

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

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

"Beware of dreams! Beware of the illusions of fancy! Beware of the
solemn deceivings of thy vast desires! Beneath me flows the Rhine, and,
like the stream of Time, it flows amid the ruins of the Past. 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, runs the stream beneath
us. Down from the distant Alps,--out into the wide world, it bursts
away, like a youth from the house of his fathers. Broad-breasted and
strong, and with earnest endeavours, like manhood, it makes itself a
way through these difficultmountain passes. And at length, in its old
age, its stops, and its steps are weary and slow, and it sinks into the
sand, and, through its grave, passes into the great ocean, which is its
eternity. Thus shall it be with thee.

"In ancient times there dwelt within these halls a follower of Jesus of
Jerusalem,--an Archbishop in the church of Christ. He gave himself up
to dreams; to the illusions of fancy; to the vast desires of the human
soul. He sought after the impossible. He sought after the Elixir of
Life,--the Philosopher's Stone. The wealth, that should have fed the
poor, was melted in his crucibles. Within these walls the Eagle of the
clouds sucked the blood of the Red Lion, and received the spiritual
Love of the Green Dragon, but alas! was childless. In solitude and
utter silence did the disciple of the Hermetic Philosophy toil from day
to day, from night to night. From the place where thou standest, he
gazed at evening upon hills, and vales, and waters spread beneath him;
and saw how the setting sun had changed them allto gold, by an alchymy
more cunning than his own. He saw the world beneath his feet; and said
in his heart, that he alone was wise. Alas! he read more willingly in
the book of Paracelsus, than in the book of Nature; and, believing that
`where reason hath experience, faith hath no mind,' would fain have
made unto himself a child, not as Nature teaches us, but as the
Philosopher taught,--a poor homunculus, in a glass bottle. And he died
poor and childless!"

Whether it were worth while to climb the Stolzenfels to hear such a
homily as this, some persons may perhaps doubt. But Paul Flemming
doubted not. He laid the lesson to heart; and it would have saved him
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 three statues of
Minerva. The first was of olive wood, and, according to popular
tradition, had fallen from heaven. The second was of bronze,
commemorating the victory of Marathon; and the third of gold and
ivory,--a great miracle of art, in the age of Pericles. And thus in the
citadel of Time stands Man himself. In childhood, shaped of soft and
delicate wood, just fallen from heaven; in manhood, a statue of bronze,
commemorating struggle and victory; and lastly, in the maturity of age,
perfectly shaped in gold and ivory,--a miracle of art!

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

And this reminds me, that I have not yet described my hero. I will do
it now, as he stands looking down on the glorious landscape;--but in
few words. Both in person and character he resembled Harold, the
Fair-Hair of Norway, who is described, in the old Icelandic Death-Song
of Regner Hairy-Breeches, as "the young chief so proud of his flowing
locks; he who spent his mornings among the young maidens; he who loved
toconverse with the handsome widows." This was an amiable weakness; and
it sometimes led him into mischief. Imagination was the ruling power of
his mind. His thoughts were twin-born; the thought itself, and its
figurative semblance in the outer world. Thus, through the quiet, still
waters of his soul each 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 Death cut down
the sweet, blue flower, that bloomed beside him, and wounded him with
that sharp sickle, so that he bowed his head, and would fain have been
bound up in the same sheaf with the sweet, blue flower. Then the world
seemed to him less beautiful, and life became earnest. It would have
been well if he could have forgotten the past; that he might not so
mournfully have lived in it, but might have enjoyed and improved the
present. But this his heart refused to do; and ever, as he floated upon
the great sea of life, he looked down through thetransparent waters,
checkered with sunshine and shade, into the vast chambers of the mighty
deep, in which his happier days had sunk, and wherein they were lying
still visible, like golden sands, and precious stones, and pearls; and,
half in despair, half in hope, he grasped downward after them again,
and drew back his hand, filled only with seaweed, and dripping with
briny tears!--And between him and those golden sands, a radiant image
floated, like the spirit in Dante's Paradise, singing "Ave-Maria!" and
while it sang, down-sinking, and slowly vanishing away.

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




CHAPTER IV. THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER.

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

The next stopping-place was the little tavern of the Star, an
out-of-the-way corner in the town of Salzig. It stands on the banks of
the Rhine; and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water's edge,
rise the mountains of Liebenstein and Sternenfels, each with its ruined
castle. These are the Brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at
each other face to face; and beneath them in the valley stands a
cloister,--meek emblem of that orphan child, they both so passionately
loved.

In a small, flat-bottomed boat did the landlady's daughter row Flemming
"over the Rhine-stream, rapid and roaring wide." She was a beautiful
girl of sixteen; with black hair, and dark, lovely eyes, and a face
that had a story to tell. How different faces are in this particular!
Some of them speak not. They are books in which not a line is written,
save perhaps a date. Others are great family bibles, with all the Old
and New Testament written in them. Others are Mother Goose and nursery
tales;--others bad tragedies or pickle-herring farces; and others, like
that of the landlady's daughter at the Star, sweet love-anthologies,
and songs of the affections. It was on that account, that Flemming said
to her, as they 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, and far
too well. That story he longed to hear, as if it were unknown to him;
for he knew that the girl, who had got it by heart when a child, would
tell it as it should be told. So he begged her to repeat the story,
which she was but too glad to do; for she loved and believed it, as if
it had all been written in the Bible. But before she began, she rested
a moment on her oars, and taking the crucifix, which hung suspended
from her neck, kissed it, and then let it sink down into her bosom, as
if it were an anchor she was letting down into her heart. Meanwhile her
moist, dark eyes were turned to heaven. Perhaps her soul was walking
with the souls of Cunizza, and Rahab, and Mary Magdalen. Or perhaps she
was thinking of that Nun, of whom St. Gregory says, in his Dialogues,
that, having greedily eaten a lettuce in a garden, without making the
sign of the cross, she found herself soon after possessed with a devil.

The probability, however, is, that she was looking up to the ruined
castles only, and not to heaven, for she soon began her story, and told
Flemming how, a great, great many years ago, an old man lived in the
Liebenstein with his two sons; and how both the young men loved the
Lady Geraldine, an orphan, under their father's care; and how the elder
brother went away in despair, and the younger was betrothed to the Lady
Geraldine; and how they were as happy as Aschenputtel and the Prince.
And then the holy Saint Bernard came and carried away all the young men
to the war, just as Napoleon did afterwards; and the young lord went to
the Holy Land, and the Lady Geraldine sat in her tower and wept, and
waited for her lover's return, while the old father built the
Sternenfels for them to live in when they were married. And when it was
finished, the old man died; and the elder brother came back and lived
in the Liebenstein, and took care of the gentle Lady. Ere long there
came news from the Holy Land, that the war was over; and the heart of
the gentle Lady beat with joy, till she heard that her faithless lover
was coming back with a Greek wife,--the wicked man! and then she went
into a convent and became a holy nun. So the young lord of Sternenfels
came home, and lived in his castle in great splendor with the Greek
woman, who was a wicked woman, and did what she ought not to do. But
the elder brother was angry for the wrong done the gentle Lady, and
challenged the lord of Sternenfels to single combat. And, while they
were fighting with their great swords in the valley of Bornhofen behind
the castle, the convent bells began to ring, and the Lady Geraldine
came forth with a train of nuns alldressed in white, and made the
brothers friends again, and told them she was the bride of Heaven, and
happier in her convent than she could have been in the Liebenstein or
the Sternenfels. And when the brothers returned, they found that the
false Greek wife had gone away with another knight. So they lived
together in peace, and were never 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 fast they
were floating down stream. For in telling the story she had forgotten
every thing else, and the swift current had swept them down to the tall
walnut trees of Kamp. They landed in front of the Capucin Monastery.
Lisbeth led the way through the little village, and turning to the
right pointed up the romantic, lonely valley which leads to the
Liebenstein, and even offered to go up. But Flemming patted her cheek
and shook his head. He went up the valley alone.




CHAPTER V. JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE.

The man in the play, who wished for `some forty pounds of lovely beef,
placed in a Mediterranean sea of brewis,' might have seen his ample
desires almost realized at the table d'hôte of the Rheinischen Hof, in
Mayence, where Flemming dined that day. At the head of the table sat a
gentleman, with a smooth, broad forehead, and large, intelligent eyes.
He was from Baireuth in Franconia; and talked about poetry and Jean
Paul, to a pale, romantic-looking lady on his right. There was music
all dinner-time, at the other end of the hall; a harp and a horn and a
voice; so that a great part of the fat gentleman'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 for this,--that he ventured to join in the
conversation, and asked the German if he had known the poet personally.

"Yes; I knew him well," replied the stranger. "I am a native of
Baireuth, where he passed the best years of his life. In my mind the
man and the author are closely united. I never read a page of his
writings without hearing his voice, and seeing his form before me.
There he sits, with his majestic, mountainous forehead, his mild blue
eyes, and finely cut nose and mouth; his massive frame clad loosely and
carelessly in an old green frock, from the pockets of which the corners
of books project, and perhaps the end of a loaf of bread, 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 a white poodle, with pink
eyes and a string round his neck. You would sooner have taken him for a
master-carpenter than for a poet. Is he a favorite author of yours?"

Flemming answered in the affirmative.

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

"I have always observed," replied Flemming, "that the true
understanding and appreciation of a poet depend more upon individual,
than upon national character. If there be a sympathy between the minds
of writer and reader, the bounds and barriers of a foreign tongue are
soon overleaped. If you once understand an author's character, the
comprehension of his writings becomes easy."

"Very true," replied the German, "and the character of Richter is too
marked to be easily misunderstood. Its prominent traits are tenderness
and manliness,--qualities, which are seldom found united in 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 of inexhaustible human love.
Every sound of human joy and of human sorrow finds a
deep-resoundingecho in his bosom. In every man, he loves his humanity
only, not his superiority. The avowed object of all his literary labors
was to raise up again the down-sunken faith in God, virtue, and
immortality; and, in an egotistical, revolutionary age, to warm again
our human sympathies, which have now grown cold. And not less boundless
is his love for nature,--for this outward, beautiful world. He embraces
it all in his arms."

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

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

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

"Most undoubtedly his wild imagination and his playfulness. He throws
over all things a strange and magic coloring. You are startled at the
boldness and beauty of his figures and illustrations, which are
scattered everywhere with a reckless prodigality;--multitudinous, like
the blossoms of early summer,--and as fragrant and beautiful. With a
thousand extravagances are mingled ten thousand beauties of thought and
expression, which kindle the reader's imagination, and lead it onward
in a bold flight, through the glow of sunrise and sunset, and the dewy
coldness and starlight of 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 German literature. When you read his works, it is as if you were
climbing a high mountain, in merry company, to see the sun rise. At
times you are enveloped in mist,--the morning wind sweeps by you with a
shout,--you hear the far-off muttering thunders. Wide beneath you
spreads the landscape,--field, meadow, town, and winding river. The
ringing of distant church-bells, or the sound of solemn village clock,
reaches you;--then arises the sweet and manifold fragrance of
flowers,--the birds begin to sing,--the vapors roll away,--up comes the
glorious sun,--you revel like the lark in the sunshine and bright blue
heaven, and all is a delirious dream of soul and sense,--when suddenly
a friend at your elbow laughs aloud, and offers you a piece of Bologna
sausage. As in real life, so in his writings,--the serious and the
comic, the sublime and the grotesque, the pathetic and the ludicrous
are mingled together. At times he is sententious, energetic, simple;
then again, obscure and diffuse. His thoughts are like mummies embalmed
in spices, and wrapped about with curious envelopements; but within
these the thoughts themselves are kings. 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 the dusty page, like the galley-slaves, that sweep the
streets of Rome, where you may chance to see the nobleman and the
peasant manacled together."

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

"Better an outlaw, than not free!--These are his own words. And thus he
changes at his will. Like the God Thor, of the old Northern mythology,
he now holds forth the seven bright stars in the bright heaven above
us, and now hides himself in clouds, and pounds away with 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 of his
style, wild, fantastic, and oft-times startling, like those in Gothic
cathedrals, are not merely what they seem, but massive coignes and
buttresses, which support the fabric. Remove them, and the roofand
walls fall in. And through these gurgoyles, these wild faces, 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. He is a
sea-monster, disporting himself on the broad ocean; his very sport is
earnest; there is something majestic and serious about it. In every
thing there is strength, a rough good-nature, all sunshine overhead,
and underneath the heavy moaning of the sea. Well may he be called
`Jean Paul, the Only-One.' "

With such discourse the hour of dinner passed; and after dinner
Flemming 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 important gentleman
conducted Flemming through the church, and showed him the choir, with
its heavy-sculptured stalls of oak, and the beautiful figures in brown
stone, over the bishops' tombs. He then led him, by a side-door, into
theold and ruined cloisters of St. Willigis. Through the low gothic
arches the sunshine streamed upon the pavement of tombstones, whose
images and inscriptions are mostly effaced by the footsteps of many
generations. There stands the tomb of Frauenlob, the Minnesinger. His
face is sculptured on an entablature in the wall; a fine,
strongly-marked, and serious countenance. Below it is a bas-relief,
representing the poet's funeral. 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-God
Bare-bones, but of Praise-the-Ladies Meissen, who wrote songs `somewhat
of lust, and somewhat of love.' But where sleeps the dust of his rival
and foe, sweet Master Bartholomew Rainbow?"

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

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

It was already night, when Flemming crossedthe Roman bridge over the
Nahe, and entered the town of Bingen. He stopped at the White Horse;
and, before going to bed, looked out into the dim starlight from his
window towards the Rhine, and his heart leaped up to behold the bold
outline of the neighbouring hills crested with Gothic ruins;--which in
the morning proved to be only a high, slated roof with fantastic
chimneys.

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

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

But at the farther end of the city, near the Castle and the Carls-Thor,
one warm heart was waiting to receive him; and this was the German
heart of his friend, the Baron of Hohenfels, with whom he was to pass
the winter in Heidelberg. No sooner had the carriage stopped at the
irongrated gate, and the postilion blown his horn, to announce the
arrival of a traveller, than the Baron was seen among the servants at
the door; and, a few moments afterwards, the two long-absent friends
were in each other's arms, and Flemming received a kiss upon each
cheek, and another on the mouth, as the pledge and seal of the German's
friendship. They held each other long by the hand, and looked into each
other's faces, and saw themselves in each other's eyes, both literally
and figuratively; literally, inasmuch as the images were there; and
figuratively, inasmuch as each was imagining what the other thought of
him, after the lapse of some years. In friendly hopes and questionings
and answers, the evening glided away at the supper-table, where many
more things were discussed than the roasted hare, and the
Johannisberger; and they sat late into the night, conversing of the
thoughts and feelings and delights, which fill the hearts of young men,
who have already enjoyed and suffered, and hoped and been disappointed.




CHAPTER VI. HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON.

High and hoar on the forehead of the Jettenbühl stands the Castle of
Heidelberg. Behind it rise the oak-crested hills of the Geissberg and
the Kaiserstuhl; and in front, from the broad terrace of masonry, you
can almost throw a stone upon the roofs of the city, so close do they
lie beneath. Above this terrace rises the broad front of the chapel of
Saint Udalrich. On the left, stands the slender octagon tower of the
horologe, and, on the right, a huge round tower, battered and shattered
by the mace of war, shores up with its broad shoulders the beautiful
palace and garden-terrace of Elisabeth, wife of the Pfalzgraf
Frederick. In the rear are older palaces and towers, forming a vast,
irregular quadrangle;--Rodolph's ancientcastle, with its Gothic
gloriette and fantastic gables; the Giant's Tower, guarding the
drawbridge over the moat; the Rent Tower, with the linden-trees growing
on its summit, and the magnificent Rittersaal of Otho-Henry, Count
Palatine of the Rhine and grand seneschal of the Holy Roman Empire.
From the gardens behind the castle, you pass under the archway of the
Giant's Tower into the great court-yard. The diverse architecture of
different ages strikes the eye; and curious sculptures. In niches on
the wall of Saint Udalrich's chapel stand rows of knights in armour,
all broken and dismembered; and on the front of Otho's Rittersaal, the
heroes of Jewish history and classic fable. You enter the open and
desolate chambers of the ruin; and on every side are medallions and
family arms; the Globe of the Empire and the Golden Fleece, or the
Eagle of the Cæsars, resting on the escutcheons of Bavaria and the
Palatinate. Over the windows and door-ways and chimney-pieces, are
sculptures and mouldings of exquisite workmanship; and the eyeis
bewildered by the profusion of caryatides, and arabesques, and
rosettes, and fan-like flutings, and garlands of fruits and flowers and
acorns, and bullocks'-heads with draperies of foliage, and muzzles of
lions, holding rings in their teeth. The cunning hand of Art was busy
for six centuries, in raising and adorning these walls; the mailed
hands of Time and War have defaced and overthrown them in less than
two. Next to the Alhambra of Granada, the Castle of Heidelberg is the
most magnificent ruin of the Middle Ages.

In the valley below flows the rushing stream of the Neckar. Close from
its margin, on the opposite side, rises the Mountain of All Saints,
crowned with the ruins of a convent; and up the valley stretches the
mountain-curtain of the Odenwald. So close and many are the hills,
which eastward shut the valley in, that the river seems a lake. But
westward it opens, upon the broad plain of the Rhine, like the mouth of
a trumpet; and like the blast of a trumpet is at times the wintry wind
through this narrow mountain pass. The blue Alsatian hills rise beyond;
and, on a platform or strip of level land, between the Neckar and the
mountains, right under the castle, stands the city of Heidelberg; as
the old song says, "a pleasant city, when it has done raining."

Something of this did Paul Flemming behold, when he rose the next
morning and looked from his window. It was a warm, vapory morning, and
a struggle was going on between the mist and the rising sun. The sun
had taken the hill-tops, but the mist still kept possession of the
valley and the town. The steeple of the great church rose through a
dense mass of snow-white clouds; and eastward, on the hills, the dim
vapors were rolling across the windows of the ruined castle, like the
fiery smoke of a great conflagration. It seemed to him 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 the valley 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 for him. He
was lying upon a sofa, in morning gown and purple-velvet slippers, both
with flowers upon them. He had a guitar in his hand, and a pipe in his
mouth, at the same time smoking, playing, and humming 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 his friend;
and told him it reminded him of a street-musician he once saw in
Aix-la-Chapelle, who was playing upon six instruments at once; having a
helmet with bells on his head, a Pan's-reed in his cravat, a fiddle in
his hand, a triangle on his knee, cymbals on his heels, and on his back
a bass-drum, which he played with his elbows. To tell the truth, the
Baron of Hohenfels was rather a miscellaneous youth, rather a universal
genius. He pursued all things with eagerness, but for a short time
only; music, poetry, painting, pleasure, even the study of the
Pandects. Hisfeelings were keenly alive to the enjoyment of life. His
great defect was, that he was too much in love with human nature. But
by the power of imagination, in him, the bearded goat was changed to a
bright Capricornus:--no longer an animal on earth, but a constellation
in heaven. An easy and indolent disposition made him gentle and
childlike in his manners; and, in short, the beauty of his character,
like that of the precious opal, was owing to a defect in its
organization. His person was tall and slightly built; his hair light;
and his eyes blue, and as beautiful as those of a girl. In the tones of
his voice, there was something indescribably gentle and winning; and he
spoke the German language, with the soft, musical accent of his native
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 few words, was
the bosom friend of Flemming.

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

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

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

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

"Take his or none, my friend, for you will find no others. And
seriously, his sketches are very good. There is one on the wall there,
which is beautiful, save and except that straddle-bug figure among 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 the ghost
of the Virgin Mary in Ruprecht's Tower, and the Devil in the Dungeon."

"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 the Baron,
with a smile; "a mouldy tradition of a credulous age. His brother
Frederick lived here in the castle with him, and had a flirtation with
Leonore von Luzelstein, a lady of the court, whom he afterwards
despised, and was consequently most cordially hated by her.
Frompolitical motives he was equally hateful to certain petty German
tyrants, who, in order to effect his ruin, accused him of heresy. But
his brother Louis would not deliver him up to their fury, and they
resolved to effect by stratagem, what they could not by intrigue.
Accordingly, Leonore von Luzelstein, disguised as the Virgin Mary, and
the father confessor of the Elector, in the costume of Satan, made
their appearance in the Elector's bed-chamber at midnight, and
frightened him so horribly, that he consented to deliver up his brother
into the hands of two Black Knights, who pretended to be ambassadors
from the Vehm-Gericht. They proceeded together to Frederick's chamber;
where luckily old Gemmingen, a brave soldier, kept guard behind the
arras. The monk went foremost in his Satanic garb; but, no sooner had
he set foot in the prince's bed-chamber, than the brave Gemmingen drew
his sword, and said quaintly, `Die, wretch!' and so he died. The rest
took to their heels, and were heard of no more. And now the souls of
Leonore and the monk haunt the scene of their midnight crime. You will
find the story in Grainberg's book, worked up with a kind of
red-morocco and burnt-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. I must
get acquainted with this mirror of owls, this modern Till Eulenspiegel.
See what a glorious morning we have! It is truly a wondrous winter!
what summer sunshine; what soft Venetian fogs! How the wanton,
treacherous air coquets with the old gray-beard trees! Such weather
makes the grass and our beards grow apace! But we have an old saying in
English, that winter never rots in the sky. So he will come down at
last in his old-fashioned, mealy coat. We shall have snow in spring;
and the blossoms will be all snow-flakes. And afterwards a summer,
which will be no summer, but, as Jean Paul says, only a winter painted
green. Is it not so?"

"Unless I am much deceived in the climate of Heidelberg," replied the
Baron, "we shall not have to wait long for snow. We have sudden changes
here, and I should not marvel much if it snowed before night."

"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 the weather
changed. The western wind began to blow, and its breath drew a
cloud-veil over the face of heaven, as a breath does over the human
face in a mirror. Soon the snow began to fall. Athwart the distant
landscape it swept like a white mist. The storm-wind came from the
Alsatian hills, and struck the dense clouds aslant through the air. And
ever faster fell the snow, a roaring torrent from those mountainous
clouds. The setting sun glared wildly from the summit of the hills, and
sank like a burning ship at sea, wrecked in the tempest. Thus the
evening set in; and winter stood at the gate wagging his white and
shaggy beard, like an old harper, chanting an old rhyme:--"How cold it
is! how cold it is!"

"I like such a storm as this," said Flemming, who stood at the window,
looking out into the tempest and the gathering darkness. "The silent
falling of snow is to me one of the most solemn things in 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 is wild 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 on those great harps,
made by the shrouds and masts of ships. Winter is here in earnest!
Whew! How the old churl whistles and threshes the snow! Sleet and rain
are falling too. Already the trees are bearded with icicles; and the
two broad branches of yonder pine look like the 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 work all night
building Gothic Cathedrals on our windows, just as the devil built the
Cathedral of Cologne. Sodraw the curtains, and come sit 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 we shall lead
about as solitary and studious a life here as we did of yore in little
Göttingen, with nothing to amuse us, save our own day-dreams."

"Pretty much so," replied the Baron; "which cannot fail to please you,
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 in the
fourteenth century by the Count Palatine Ruprecht, and had in the first
year more than five hundred students, all busily committing to memory,
after the old scholastic wise, the rules of grammar versified by
Alexander de Villa Dei, and the extracts made by Peter the Spaniard
from Michel Psellus's Synopsis of Aristotle's Organon, and the
Categories, with Porphory's Commentaries. Truly, I do not much wonder,
that Eregina Scotus should have been put to death byhis scholars with
their penknives. They must have been pushed 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 men of
retired habits, and Professors who study sixteen hours a day, and never
see the world but on a Sunday. Nature has, no doubt, for some wise
purpose, placed in their hearts this love of literary labor and
seclusion. Otherwise, who would feed the undying lamp of thought? But
for such men as these, a blast of wind through the chinks and crannies
of this old world, or the flapping of a conqueror's banner, would blow
it out forever. The light of the soul is easily extinguished. And
whenever I reflect upon these things I become aware of the great
importance, in a nation's history, of the individual fame of scholars
and literary men. I fear, that it is far greater than the world is
willing to acknowledge; or, perhaps I should say, than the world has
thought of acknowledging. Blot out from England's history the names of
Chaucer, Shakspere, Spenser, and Milton only, and how much of her glory
would you blot out with them! Take from Italy such names as Dante,
Petrarch, Boccaccio, Michel Angelo, and Raphael, and how much would
still be wanting to the completeness of her glory! How would the
history of Spain look if the leaves were torn out, on which are written
the names of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, and Calderon! What would be the
fame of Portugal, without her Camoens; of France, without her Racine,
and Rabelais, and Voltaire; or Germany, without her Martin Luther, her
Goethe, and Schiller!--Nay, what were the nations of old, without their
philosophers, poets, and historians! Tell me, do not these men in all
ages and in all places, emblazon with bright colors the armorial
bearings of their country? Yes, and far more than this; for in all ages
and all places they give humanity assurance of its greatness; 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 all this. Therein it has shown itself
somewhat ungrateful. Else, whence the great reproach, the general
scorn, the loud derision, with which, to take a familiar example, the
monks of the Middle Ages are regarded! That they slept their lives away
is most untrue. For in an age when books were few,--so few, so
precious, that they were often chained to their oaken shelves with iron
chains, like galley-slaves to their benches, these men, with their
laborious hands, copied upon parchment all the lore and wisdom of the
past, and transmitted it to us. 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, perhaps even the mysticism of the scholastic
philosophy, since, after all, we can find no harm in it, only the
mistaking of the possible for the real, and the high aspirings of the
human mind after a long-sought and unknown somewhat. I think the name
of Martin Luther, the monk of Wittemberg, alone sufficient to redeem
all monkhoodfrom the reproach of laziness! If this will not, perhaps
the vast folios of Thomas Aquinas will;--or the countless manuscripts,
still treasured in old libraries, whose yellow and wrinkled pages
remind one of the hands that wrote them, and the faces that once bent
over them."

"An eloquent homily," said the Baron laughing, "a most touching appeal
in behalf of suffering humanity! For my part, I am no friend of this
entire seclusion from the world. It has a very injurious effect on the
mind of a scholar. The Chinese proverb is true; a single conversation
across the table with a wise man, is better than ten years' mere study
of books. I have known some of these literary men, who thus shut
themselves up from the world. Their minds never come in contact with
those of their fellow-men. They read little. They think much. They are
mere dreamers. They know not what is new nor what is old. They often
strike upon trains of thought, which stand written in good authors some
century or so back, and are even current in the mouths of men
aroundthem. But they know it not; and imagine they are bringing forward
something very original, when they publish their thoughts."

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

"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 it
overshadow all one's thoughts. To this must all opinions come; no
thought can enter there, which shall not be wedded to the fixed idea.
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 could not get
down the narrow stair-case; and, when her husband died, his successor
was forced to marry the fat widow in the tower."

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

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

"And yet," continued Flemming, "no longer ago than yesterday, in the
Preface of a work by Dr. Rosenkranz, Professor of Philosophy in the
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, no London
Exchange, no Paris Chamber of Deputies, no Berlin nor Vienna Theatres,
no Strassburg Minster, nor Salzburg Alps,--no Grecian ruins nor
fantastic Catholicism, in fine, nothing, which after one's daily task
is finished, can divert and refresh him, without his knowing or caring
how,--I consider the sight of a proof-sheet quite as delightful as a
walk in the Prater of Vienna. I fill my pipe very quietly, take out my
ink-stand and pens, seat myself in the corner of my sofa, read,
correct, and now for the first time really set about thinking what I
have written. To see this origin of a book, this metamorphosis of
manuscript into print, is a delight to which I give myself up entirely.
Look you, this melancholy pleasure, which would have furnished the
departed Voss with worthy matter for more than one blessed Idyl--(the
more so, as on such occasions, I am generally arrayed in a morning
gown, though I am sorry to say, not a calamanco one, with great
flowers;) this melancholy pleasure was already grown here in Halle to a
sweet, pedantic habit. Since I began my hermit's life here, I have been
printing; and so long as I remain here, I shall keep on printing. In
all probability, I shall die with a proof-sheet in my hand."

"This," said Flemming, closing the book, "is no caricature by a writer
of comedy, but a portrait by a man's own hand. We can see by it how
easily, under certain circumstances, one may glide into habits of
seclusion, and in a kind of undress, slipshod hardihood, with a pipe
and a proof-sheet, defy the world. Into this state scholars have too
often fallen; thus giving some ground for the prevalent opinion, that
scholarship and rusticity are inseparable. To me, I confess, it is
painful to see the scholar and the world assume 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 a student;--and always,
when I sit alone at night, I recognise the divinity of the student, as
she reveals herself to me in the smoke of the midnight lamp. But,
because solitude and books are not unpleasant to me,--nay,
wished-for,--sought after,--shall I say to my 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 very wisely the good Jean Paul, Life in
every shape, should be precious to us, for the same reason that the
Turks carefully collect every scrap of paper that comes in their way,
because the name of God may be written upon it. Nothing is more true
than this, yet nothing more neglected!"

"If it be painful to see this misunderstanding between scholars and the
world," said the Baron, "I think it is still more painful to see the
private sufferings of authors by profession. How many have languished
in poverty, how many died broken-hearted, how many gone mad with
over-excitement and disappointed hopes! How instructive and painfully
interesting are their lives! with so many weaknesses,--so much to
pardon,--so much to pity,--so much to admire! I think he was not so far
out of the way, who said, that, next to the Newgate Calendar, the
Biography of Authors is the most sickening chapter in the history of
man."

"It is indeed enough to make one's heart ache!" interrupted Flemming.
"Only think of Johnson and Savage, rambling about the streets of London
at midnight, without a place to sleep in; Otway starved to death;
Cowley mad, and howling like a dog, through the aisles of Chichester
Cathedral, at the sound of church music; and Goldsmith, strutting up
Fleet Street in his peach-blossom coat, to knock a bookseller over the
pate with one of his own volumes; and then, in his poverty, about to
marry his landlady in Green Arbour Court."

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

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

"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 whose representation the
great pun was made;--I say the great pun, as we say the great ton of
Heidelberg. As one of the performers was singing the line, `L'amour a
vaincu Loth,' (vingt culottes,) a voice from the pit cried out, `Qu'il
en donne une à l'auteur!' "

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

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

"After all," said the Baron, "we must pardon much to men of genius. A
delicate organization renders them keenly susceptible to pain and
pleasure. And then they idealize every thing; and, in the moonlight 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 of wickedness.
Talk as you will about principle, impulse is more attractive, even when
it goes too far. The passions of youth, like unhooded hawks, fly high,
with musical bells upon their jesses; and we forget the cruelty of the
sport in the dauntless bearing of the gallant 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. Flemming was lost in a
day-dream.




CHAPTER VIII. LITERARY FAME.

Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording
illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old
one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters, never to be
effaced. These are the high nobility of Nature,--Lords of the Public
Domain of Thought. Posterity shall never question their titles. But
those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men,
must soon be as well forgotten, as if they had never been. To this
great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they
should soon make up their minds to this; well knowing, that, as their
bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell
no tales of them; so musttheir names likewise be utterly forgotten, and
their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an
individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the
universe of thought. If, then, the imagination can trace the noble dust
of heroes, till we find it stopping a beer-barrel, and know 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 it finds
them mouldered into the common dust of conversation, and used to stop
men's mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out the flaws of opinion.
Such, for example, are all popular adages and wise proverbs, which are
now resolved into the common mass of thought; their authors forgotten,
and having no more an individual being among men.

It is better, therefore, that men should soon make up their minds to be
forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive,
in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is Fame; namely,
their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in
his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care
of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection;
impossible perhaps to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the
indomitable will of man can achieve much,--at times even this victory
over himself; being persuaded, that fame comes only when deserved, and
then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

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

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 darkness of the
past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they
pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly
Paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and,
above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as
from the trail of pencils!

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,--not all happy, in the
outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and in pain,
and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons!
Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those, who, in sorrow and privation,
and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have
worked right on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling
much, enduring much, fulfilling much;--and then, with shattered nerves,
and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and
slept the sleep of death,--and the world talks of them, while they
sleep!

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified
them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem
of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had been
stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their
souls! And as in the sun's eclipse we can behold the great stars
shining in the heavens, so in this life eclipse 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 the Baron,
suddenly exclaiming;

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

"This is all sunshine," said Flemming, as he drank. "The wine of the
Prince, and the Prince of wines. By the way, did you ever read that
brilliant Italian dithyrambic, Redi's Bacchus in Tuscany? an ode which
seems to have been poured out of the author's soul, as from a golden
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 in
Italy; and I wonder, that this precious wine has never inspired a
German poet to write a Bacchus on the Rhine. Many little songs we have
on this theme, but none very extraordinary. The best are Max
Schenkendorf's Song of the Rhine, and the Song of Rhine Wine, by
Claudius, a poet who never drank Rhenish without sugar. We will drink
for him a blessing on the Rhine."

And again the crystal lips of the goblets kissed each other, with a
musical chime, as of evening bells at vintage-time from the villages on
the Rhine. Of a truth, I do not much wonder, that the Germanpoet
Schiller loved to write by candle-light with a bottle of Rhine-wine
upon the table. Nor do I wonder at the worthy schoolmaster Roger
Ascham, when he says, in one of his letters from Germany to Mr. John
Raven, of John's College; `Tell Mr. Maden I will drink with him now a
carouse of wine; and would to God he had a vessel of Rhenish wine; and
perchance, when I come to Cambridge, I will so provide here, that every
year I will have a little piece of Rhenish wine.' Nor, in fine, do I
wonder at the German Emperor of whom 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 the glass five times as long as any of us, and never
drank less than a good quart at once of Rhenish wine.' These were
scholars and gentlemen.

"But to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout," said
the Baron, with an unusual glow, caught no doubt from the golden
sunshine, imprisoned, like the student Anselmus, in the glass bottle;
"where should the scholar live? In solitudeor in society? In the green
stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of nature beat,
or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing
heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray
city. Oh, they do greatly err, who think, that the stars are all the
poetry which cities have; and therefore that the poet's only dwelling
should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees.
Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by
the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets and harvest-fields, and
nut-brown waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with
all the sights and sounds of rural life. But after all, what are these
but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human
life? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song?
Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the
world of God within us. There lies the Land of Song; there lies the
poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets
tumultuous, bearingalong so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of
humanity;--the many homes and households, each a little world in
itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of
human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass;--and to be
in this and be a part of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing,
with his fellow-men;--such, such should be the poet's life. If he would
describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the
scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in
contact with other minds. It is better that his armour should be
somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rusting on
the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently
shut in between the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations
of street scenery. A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined
castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart,
which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron
nerves and sinews, as Challey bridged the Savine in Switzerland, and
Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with chain bridges. These
are the great themes of human thought; not green grass, and flowers,
and moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of Nature we make our
own, and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory."

"I fear, however," interrupted Flemming, "that in cities the soul of
man grows proud. He needs at times to be sent forth, like the Assyrian
monarch, into green fields, `a wonderous wretch and weedless,' to eat
green herbs, and be wakened and chastised by the rain-shower and
winter's bitter weather. Moreover, in cities there is danger of the
soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and forgetful of its high vocation.
There have been souls dedicated to heaven from childhood and guarded by
good angels as sweet seclusions for holy thoughts, and prayers, and all
good purposes; wherein pious wishes dwelt like nuns, and every image
was a saint; and yet in life's vicissitudes, by the treachery of
occasion, by the thronging passionsof great cities, have become soiled
and sinful. They resemble those convents on the river Rhine, which have
been changed to taverns; from whose chambers the pious inmates have
long departed, and in whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers have
effaced the images of buried saints, and whose walls are written over
with ribaldry and the names of strangers, and resound no more with holy
hymns, but with revelry and loud voices."

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

"I agree with you," exclaimed Flemming; "and such should be the Poet's
everywhere; forhe has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing Italy
within the four walls of his library. He has in his books the ruins of
an antique world,--and the glories of a modern one,--his Apollo and
Transfiguration. He must neither forget nor undervalue his vocation;
but thank God that he is a poet; and everywhere be true to himself, and
to `the vision and the faculty divine' he feels within him."

"But, at any rate, a city life is most eventful," continued the Baron.
"The men who make, or take, the lives of poets and scholars, always
complain that these lives are barren of incidents. Hardly a literary
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, which suddenly turn
aside the stream of Time, and change the world's history in an hour.
There is certainly a uniformity, pleasing or unpleasing, in literary
life, which for the most part makes to-day seem twin-born with
yesterday. But if, byincidents, you mean events in the history of the
human mind, (and why not?) noiseless events, that do not scar the
forehead of the world as battles do, yet change it not the less, then
surely the lives of literary men are most eventful. The complaint and
the apology are both foolish. I do not see why a successful book is not
as great an event as a successful campaign; only different in kind, and
not easily compared."

"Indeed," interrupted Flemming, "in no sense is the complaint strictly
true, though at times apparently so. Events enough there are, were they
all set down. A life, that is worth writing at all, is worth writing
minutely. Besides, all literary men have not lived in silence and
solitude;--not all in stillness, not all in shadow. For many have lived
in troubled times, in the rude and adverse fortunes 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 the strong breath
of public opinion, and, like spectre-ships, come sailing right against
the wind. Others have been puffed out by the first adverse wind that
blew; disgraced and sorrowful, because they could not please others.
Truly `the tears live in an onion, that should water such a sorrow.'
Had they been men, they would have made these disappointments their
best friends, and learned from them the needful lesson of
self-reliance."

"To confess the truth," added the Baron, "the lives of literary men,
with their hopes and disappointments, and quarrels and calamities,
present a melancholy picture of man's strength and weakness. On that
very account the scholar can make them profitable for
encouragement,--consolation,--warning."

"And after all," continued Flemming, "perhaps the greatest lesson,
which the lives of literary men teach us, is told in a single word;
Wait!--Every man must patiently bide his time. He must wait. More
particularly in lands, like my native land, where the pulse of life
beats with such feverish and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful.
Our national character wants the dignity of repose. We seem to live in
the midst of a battle,--there is such a din,--such a hurrying to and
fro. In the streets of a crowded city it 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 to be calm. In this stress of wind
and tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors, and are swept out
into the main. The voices of the Present say, Come! But the voices of
the Past say, Wait! With calm and solemn footsteps the rising tide
bears against the rushing torrent up stream, and pushes back the
hurrying waters. With no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less
certainly, does a great mind bear up against public opinion, and push
back its hurrying stream. Therefore should every man wait;--should bide
his time. Not in listless idleness,--not in uselesspastime,--not in
querulous dejection; but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavours,
always willing and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, when
the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. And if it never
comes, what matters it? What matters it to the world whether I, or you,
or another man did such a deed, or wrote such a book, sobeit the deed
and book were well done! It is the part of an indiscreet and
troublesome ambition, to care too much about fame,--about what the
world says of us. To be always looking into the faces of others for
approval;--to be always anxious for the effect of what we do and say;
to be always shouting to hear the echo of our own voices! If you look
about you, you will see men, who are wearing life away in feverish
anxiety of fame, and the last we shall ever hear of them will be the
funeral bell, that tolls them to their early graves! Unhappy men, and
unsuccessful! because their purpose is, not to accomplish well their
task, but to clutch the `trick and fantasy of fame'; and they go to
their graveswith purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled. Better
for them, and for the world in their example, had they known how to
wait! Believe me, the talent of success is nothing more than doing what
you can do well; and doing well 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,--no hasty, feverish, exhausting
excitement."

Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion. I make no record of the winter.
Paul Flemming buried himself in books; in old, dusty books. He studied
diligently the ancient poetic lore of Germany, from Frankish Legends of
Saint George, and Saxon Rhyme-Chronicles, down through Nibelungen
Lieds, and Helden-Buchs, and Songs of the Minnesingers and
Mastersingers, and Ships of Fools, and Reinecke Foxes, and
Death-Dancesand Lamentations of Damned Souls, into the bright, sunny
land of harvests, where, amid the golden grain and the blue
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 in Spring,
bearing in their hands, from door to door, a swallow, as herald 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 the islands
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 of ours,
where Spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy
cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the East-wind nailed to the mast!
Yet even here, and in the stormy month of March even, there are bright,
warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale the balmy air. The
pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirring sound of wings. Old
flies crawl out of the cracks, to sun themselves; and think it is
summer. They die in their conceit; and so do our hearts within us, when
the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern sea; and again,

"The driving hail

Upon the window beats with icy flail."

The red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its beautiful purple
flowers unfolding a fortnight before the leaves. The moose-wood
follows, with rose-colored buds and leaves; and the dog-wood, robed in
the white of its own pure blossoms. Thencomes the sudden rain-storm;
and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. Where do they hide themselves
in such storms? at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks? At the
fireside of the great, hospitable sun, to-morrow, not before;--they
must sit in wet garments until then.

In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the South it is intoxicating,
and sets a poet beside himself. The birds begin to sing;--they utter a
few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent woods.
Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the
neighbouring marshes. They, too, belong to the orchestra of Nature;
whose vast theatre is again opened, though the doors have been so long
bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost, like
cobwebs. This is the prelude, which announces the rising of the broad
green curtain. Already the grass shoots forth. The waters leap with
thrilling pulse through the veins of the earth; the sap through the
veins of the plants and trees; and the blood through the veins of man.
What a thrill of delight in spring-time! What a joy in being and
moving! Men are at work in gardens; and in the air there is an odor of
the fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and blush. The white
blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like snow-flakes; and ere
long our next-door neighbours will be completely hidden from us by the
dense green foliage. The May-flowers open their soft blue eyes.
Children are let loose in the fields and gardens. They hold butter-cups
under each others' chins, to see if they love butter. And the little
girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions; pull out
the yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the down
from the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers want them at
home.

And at night so cloudless and so still! Not a voice of living
thing,--not a whisper of leaf or waving bough,--not a breath of
wind,--not a sound upon the earth nor in the air! And overhead bends
the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like
the inverted bellof some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and
breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild
storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One
does not wish to sleep; but lies awake to hear the pleasant 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's
grandfather,--in the highest degree poor and pious."

"Bravo!" exclaimed the Baron. "That is the best criticism I have heard
upon the book. For my part, I dislike the thing as much as Goethe did.
It was once very popular, and lay about in every parlour and bed-room.
This annoyed the old gentleman exceedingly; and I do not wonder at it.
He complains, that at one time nothing was sung or said but this
Urania. He believed in Immortality; but wished to cherish his belief
inquietness. He once told a friend of his, that he had, however,
learned one thing from all this talk about Tiedge and his Urania; which
was, that the saints, as well as the nobility, constitute an
aristocracy. He said he found stupid women, who were proud because they
believed in Immortality with Tiedge, and had to submit himself to not a
few mysterious catechizings and tea-table lectures on this point; and
that he cut them short by saying, that he had no objection whatever to
enter into another state of existence hereafter, but prayed only that
he might be spared the honor 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 it not all turned out just as we said? And, with such a
conceited clatter 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," said Flemming.

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

"Bettina Brentano, for instance."

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

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

"She afterwards married Achim von Arnim, and is now a widow. And not
the least singular part of the affair, is, that, having grown older,
and I hope colder, she should herself publish the letters which passed
between her and Goethe."

"Particularly the letter in which she describes her first visit to
Weimar, and her interview with the hitherto invisible divinity of her
dreams. The old gentleman took her upon his knees, and she fell asleep
with her head upon his shoulder. It reminds me of Titania and Nick
Bottom, begging your pardon, always, for comparing your All-sided-One
to Nick Bottom. Oberon must have touched her eyes with the juice of
Love-in-idleness. However, this book of Goethe's Correspondence with a
Child is a very singular and valuable revelation of the feelings, which
he excited in female hearts. You say she afterwards married Achim von
Arnim?"

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

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

"And who has not?" said the Baron with asmile. "They are the
gypsy-children of song, born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes
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 Heinrich von
Ofterdingen, and Walter von der Vogelweide, and Count Kraft von
Toggenburg, and your own ancestor, I dare say, Burkhart von Hohenfels.
They were always singing of the gentle summer-time. They seem to have
lived poetry, as well as sung it; like the birds who make 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 Aubades and
Watch-Songs of the old Minnesingers. What do you think of the
shoe-maker poets that came after them,--with their guilds and
singing-schools? It makes me laugh to think how the great German
Helicon, shrunk toa rivulet, goes bubbling and gurgling over the pebbly
names of Zwinger, Wurgendrussel, Buchenlin, Hellfire, Old Stoll, Young
Stoll, Strong Bopp, Dang Brotscheim, Batt Spiegel, Peter Pfort, and
Martin Gumpel. And then the Corporation of the Twelve Wise Masters,
with their stumpfereime and klingende-reime, and their Hans Tindeisen's
rosemary-weise; and Joseph Schmierer's flowery-paradise-weise, and
Frauenlob's yellow-weise, and blue-weise, and frog-weise, and
looking-glass-weise!"

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

"By the way," interrupted the Baron, "did you ever read Hoffmann's
beautiful story of Master Martin, the Cooper of Nuremberg? I will read
it to you this very night. It is the most delightful picture of that
age, which you can conceive. But look! the sun has already set
behindthe Alsatian hills. Let us go up to the 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 stole over
his countenance. He told not to his friend the sorrow, with which his
heart was heavy; but kept it for himself alone. He knew that the time,
which comes to all men,--the time to suffer and be silent,--had come to
him likewise; and he spake no word. O well has it been said, that there
is no grief like the grief which does not speak.




CHAPTER III. OWL-TOWERS.

"There sits the old Frau Himmelhahn, perched up in her owl-tower," said
the Baron to Flemming, as they passed along the Hauptstrasse. "She
looks down through her round-eyed spectacles from her nest up there,
and watches every one that goes by. I wonder what mischief she is
hatching now? Do you know she has nearly ruined your character in town?
She says you have a rakish look, because you carry a cane, and your
hair curls. Your gloves, also, are a shade too 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 in
the Clothes-Philosophy."

"And ignorant of every thing else. She asked a friend of mine the other
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, she contrives 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, who know me
better, know that I am something more than they would imply by the
name."

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

"Excellent!"

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

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

"And amuse ourselves, as old Frau Himmelhahn does, at her window in 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 a wooden bench
under the linden-trees.

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

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

Here their attention was diverted by a wild-looking person, who passed
with long strides under the archway in the fosse, right beneath them,
and disappeared among the bushes. He was ill-dressed,--his hair flying
in the wind,--his movements hurried and 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 a strange
owl!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three figures, dressed in black, now came from one of the green alleys,
and stopped on the brink of a little fountain, that was playing among
the gay flowers in the garden. The eldest of the three was a lady in
that season of life, when the early autumn gives to the summer leaves a
warmer glow, yet fades them not. Though the mother of many children,
she was still beautiful;--resembling those trees, which blossom in
October, when the leaves are changing, and whose fruit and blossom are
on the branch at once. At her side was a girl of some sixteen years,
who seemed to lean upon her arm for support. Her figure was slight; her
countenance beautiful, though deadly white; and her meek eyes like the
flower of the night-shade, pale and blue, but sending forth golden
rays. They were attended by a tall youth of foreign aspect, who seemed
a young Antinous, with a mustache and a nose à la Kosciusko. In other
respects a perfect hero of romance.

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

"Why, he is already married, you know," replied Flemming. "And his 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 the poor
child looks."

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

"And she has hardly recovered from that disease, before she seems
threatened 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 pretend that
one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such wounds
always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon without
emotion. There are names I can never hear spoken without almost
starting!"

"But whom have we here?"

"That is the French poet Quinet, with his sweet German wife; one of the
most interesting women I ever knew. He is the author of a very wild
Mystery, or dramatic prose-poem, in which the Ocean, Mont-Blanc, and
the Cathedral of Strassburg have parts to play; and the saints on the
stained windows of the minster speak, and the statues and dead kings
enact the Dance of Death. It is entitled Ahasuerus, 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 of writers. The tales
of Paul de Kock, who is, I believe, the most popular of all, seem to me
like obscene stories told at dinner-tables, after the ladies have
retired. It has been well said of him, that he is not only populaire
but populacier; and equally well said of George Sand and Victor Hugo,
that their works stand like fortifications, well built and well
supplied with warlike munitions; but ineffectual against the Grand Army
of God, which marches onward, as if nothing had happened. In surveying
a national literature, the point you must start from, is national
character. That lets you into many a secret; as, for example, Paul de
Kock's popularity. The most prominent trait in the French character, is
love 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, that the
gentry of France rush into Paris to escape from ennui, as, in the noble
days of chivalry, the defenceless inhabitants of the champaign fled
into the castles, at theapproach of some plundering knight, or lawless
Baron; forsaking the inspired twilight of their native groves, for the
luxurious shades of the royal gardens. What do you think of that?"

The Baron replied with a smile;

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

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

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

"Magnificent!" cried the Baron. "I always experience something of the
same feeling when I walk through a conservatory. The luxuriant plants
of the tropics,--those illustrious exotics, with their gorgeous,
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 your illustration is
finer;--indeed, a grand figure. Put it down for an epic poem."




CHAPTER IV. A BEER-SCANDAL.

On their way homeward, Flemming and the Baron passed through a narrow
lane, in which was a well-known Studenten-Kneipe. At the door stood a
young man, whom the Baron at once recognised as his friend Von Kleist.
He was a student; and universally acknowledged, among his young
acquaintance, as a "devilish handsome fellow"; notwithstanding a
tremendous scar on his cheek, and a cream-colored mustache, as soft as
the silk of Indian corn. In short he was a renowner, and a duellist.

"What are you doing here, Von Kleist?"

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

"Shall we go in, Flemming?"

"Certainly. I should like to see how these things are managed in
Heidelberg. You are a Baron, and I am a stranger. It is of no
consequence what you and I do, as the king's fool Angeli said to the
poet Bautru, urging him to put on his hat at the royal dinner-table."

William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his Autobiography, that, when
he was committed to the guard-room in White Hall, he thought himself in
hell; for "some were sleeping, others swearing, others smoking tobacco;
and in the chimney of the room there were two bushels of broken
tobacco-pipes, and almost half a load of ashes." What he would have
thought if he had peeped into this Heidelberg Studenten-Kneipe, I know
not. He certainly would not have thought himself in heaven; unless it
were a Scandinavian heaven. The windows were open; and yet so dense was
the atmosphere with the smoke of tobacco, and the fumes of beer, that
the tallow candles burnt but dimly. A crowd of students were sitting at
three long tables, in the large hall; a medley of fellows, known at
German Universities under the cant names of Old-Ones, Mossy-Heads,
Princes of Twilight, and Pomatum-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 they made, as travellers used to be, in the old Dutch
taverns, they would have had a longer bill to pay for that, than for
their beer.

In a large arm-chair, upon the middle table, sat one of those
distinguished individuals, known among German students as a Senior, or
Leader of a Landsmannschaft. He was booted and spurred, and wore a very
small crimson cap, and a very tight blue jacket, and very long 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 loud voice;

"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 in the
college dialect, entered two by two, looking wild, and green, and
foolish. As they came forward, they were obliged to pass under a pair
of naked swords, held cross-wise by two Old-Ones, who, with pieces of
burnt cork, made an enormous pair of mustaches, on the smooth, rosy
cheeks of each, as he passed beneath this arch of triumph. While the
procession was entering the hall, the President lifted up his voice
again, and began to sing the well-known Fox-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 strips of
paper had been twisted into the hair of the Branders, as those are
called who have been already one semestre at the University, and then
at a given signal were set on fire, and the Branders rode round the
table on sticks, amid roars of laughter. When this ceremony was
completed, the President rose from his chair, and in a solemn voice
pronounced a long discourse, in which old college jokes were mingled
with much parental advice to young men on entering life, and the whole
was profusely garnished with select passages from the Old Testament.
Then they all seated themselves at the table and the heavy
beer-drinking set in, as among the Gods and Heroes of the old Northern
mythology.

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

These words were addressed to a pale, quiet-looking person, who sat
opposite, and was busy in making a wretched, shaved poodle sit on his
hind legs in a chair, by his master's side, and hold a short clay pipe
in his mouth,--a performance to which the poodle seemed no wise
inclined.

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

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

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

"Strike!"

And the glasses rang, with a salutation like the crossing of swords.

"Set to!"

Each set the goblet to his lips.

"Out!"

And each poured the contents down his throat, as if he were pouring
them through a tunnel into a beer-barrel. The other two glasses
followed in quick succession, hardly a long breath drawn between. The
pale Student was victorious. He was first to drain the third goblet. He
held it for a moment inverted, to let the last drops fall out, and then
placing it quietly on the table, looked his antagonist in the face, and
said;

"Hit!"

Then, with the greatest coolness, he looked under the table and
whistled for his dog. His antagonist stopped midway in his third glass.
Every vein in his forehead seemed bursting; his eyes were wild and
bloodshot, his hand gradually loosened its hold upon the table, and he
sank and rolled together like a sheet of lead. He was drunk.

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

"Arrogant! Absurd! Impertinent! Dummer Junge!"

Von Kleist went home that night with no less than six duels on his
hands. He fought them all out in as many days; and came off with only a
gash through his upper lip and another through his right eyelid 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 heavy heart, and
her dusky eyes were troubled with tears. She was one of those gentle
beings, who seem created only to love and to be loved. A shade of
melancholy softened her character. She shunned the glare of daylight
and of society, and wished to be alone. Like the evening primrose, her
heart opened only after sunset; but bloomed through the dark night with
sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the contrary, flaunted in the garish
light of society. There was no sympathy between them. Their souls never
approached, never understood each other, and words were often spoken
which wounded deeply. And therefore Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber
that night with tears in her eyes.

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

"Why have these gentle feelings been given me!" said she in her heart.
"Why have I been born with all these warm affections,--these ardent
longings after what is good, if they lead only to sorrow and
disappointment? I would love some one;--love him once and
forever;--devote myselfto him alone,--live for him,--die for him,--
exist alone in him! But alas! in all this wide world there is none to
love me, as I would be loved,--none whom I may love, as I am capable of
loving. How empty, how desolate, seems the world about me! Why has
Heaven given me these affections, only to fall and fade!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This short reverie of love and hate was brokenby the sound of a clear,
mellow voice, which, in the universal stillness of the hour, seemed
almost like the voice of a spirit. It was a voice, without the
accompaniment of any instrument, singing those sweet lines of Goethe;

"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 to close it.
It was a beautiful night, and the stars were shining peacefully over
the mountain of All-Saints. The sound of the Neckar was soft and low,
and nightingales were singing among the brown shadows of the woods. The
large red moon shone, like a ruby, in the horizon's ample ring; and
golden threads of light seemed braided together with the rippling
current of the river. Tall and spectral stood the white statues on the
bridge. The outline of thehills, the castle, the arches of the bridge,
and the spires and roofs of the town were as strongly marked as if cut
out of pasteboard. Amid this fairy 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 laid her
weary head upon that pillow, from which, but a few months before, she
thought she should never raise it again. "O, that I had died then! I
dare not love him, but I will pray for him!"

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

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




CHAPTER VI. GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND.

"There are many things, which, having no corporeal evidence, can be
perceived and comprehended only by the discursive energies of reason.
Hence the ambiguous nature of matter can be comprehended only by
adulterated opinion. Matter is the principle of all bodies, and is
stamped with the impression of forms. Fire, air, and water derive their
origin and principle from the scalene triangle. But the earth was
created from right-angled triangles, of which two of the sides are
equal. The sphere and the pyramid contain in themselves the figure of
fire; but the octaedron was destined to be the figure of air, and the
icosaedron of water. The right-angled isosceles triangle produces from
itself a square, andthe square generates from itself the cube, which is
the figure peculiar to earth. But the figure of a beautiful and perfect
sphere was imparted to the most beautiful 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 concord with itself, ever moving musically
and melodiously. If I use a novel language, excuse me. As Apuleius
says, pardon must be granted to novelty of words, when it serves to
illustrate the obscurity of things."

These words came from the lips of the lion-like philosopher, who has
been noticed before in these pages. He was sitting with Flemming,
smoking a long pipe. As the Baron said, he was indeed a strange owl;
for the owl is a grave bird; a monk, who chants midnight mass in the
great temple of Nature;--an anchorite,--a pillar saint,--the very
Simeon Stylites of his neighbourhood. Such, likewise, was the
philosophical Professor. Solitary, but with a mighty current, flowed
the river of his life, like the Nile, without a tributary stream, and
making fertile only a single strip in the vast desert. His temperament
had been in youth a joyous one; and now, amid all his sorrows and
privations, for he had many, he looked upon the world as a glad,
bright, glorious world. On the many joys of life he gazed still with
the eyes of childhood, from the far-gone Past upward, trusting,
hoping;--and upon its sorrows with the eyes of age, from the distant
Future, downward, triumphant, not despairing. He loved solitude, and
silence, and candle-light, and the deep midnight. "For," said he, "if
the morning hours are the wings 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 the air, has an epicurean morsel,--a parson's nose;
and on this oily midnight my spirit revels and is glad."

Such was the Professor, who had been talking in a half-intelligible
strain for two hours or more. The Baron had fallen fast asleep in his
chair; but Flemming sat listening with excited imagination, and the
Professor continued in the following words, which, to the best of his
listener's memory, seemed gleaned here and there from Fichte's Destiny
of Man, and Shubert's History of the Soul.

"Life is one, and universal; its forms many and individual. Throughout
this beautiful and wonderful creation there is never-ceasing motion,
without rest by night or day, ever weaving to and fro. Swifter than a
weaver's shuttle it flies from Birth to Death, from Death to Birth;
from the beginning seeks the end, and finds it not, for the seeming end
is only a dim beginning of a new out-going and endeavour after the end.
As the ice upon the mountain, when the warm breath of the summer sun
breathes upon it, melts, and divides into drops, each of which reflects
an image of the sun; so life, in the smile of God's love, divides
itself into separate forms, each bearing in it and reflecting an image
of God's love. Of all these forms the highest and most perfect inits
god-likeness is the human soul. The vast cathedral of Nature is full of
holy scriptures, and shapes of deep, mysterious meaning; but all is
solitary and silent there; no bending knee, no uplifted eye, no lip
adoring, 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 comprehended and
felt. It was an ancient saying of the Persians, that the waters rush
from the mountains and hurry forth into all the lands to find the Lord
of the Earth; and the flame of the Fire, when it awakes, gazes no more
upon the ground, but mounts heavenward to seek the Lord of Heaven; and
here and there the Earth has built the great watch-towers of the
mountains, and they lift their heads far up into the sky, and gaze ever
upward and around, to see if the Judge of the World comes not! Thus in
Nature herself, without man, there lies a waiting, and hoping, a
looking and yearning, after an unknown somewhat. Yes; when, above
there, where the mountain lifts its head over all others, that it may
be alone with the clouds and storms of heaven, the lonely eagle looks
forth into the gray dawn, to see if the day comes not! when, by the
mountain torrent, the brooding raven listens to hear if the chamois is
returning from his nightly pasture in the valley; and when the soon
uprising sun calls out the spicy odors of the thousand flowers, the
Alpine flowers, with heaven's deep blue and the blush of sunset on
their leaves;--then there awakes in Nature, and the soul of man can see
and comprehend it, an expectation and a longing for a future revelation
of God's majesty. It awakens, also, when in the fulness of life, field
and forest rest at noon, and through the stillness is heard only the
song of the grasshopper and the hum of the bee; and when at evening the
singing lark, up from the sweet-smelling vineyards rises, or in the
later hours of night Orion puts on his shining armour, to walk forth in
the fields of heaven. But in the soul of man alone is this longing
changed to certainty and fulfilled. For lo! thelight of the sun and the
stars shines through the air, and is nowhere visible and seen; the
planets hasten with more than the speed of the storm through infinite
space, and their footsteps are not heard, but where the sunlight
strikes the firm surface of the planets, where the stormwind smites the
wall of the mountain cliff, there is the one seen and the other heard.
Thus is the glory of God made visible, and may be seen, where in the
soul of man it meets its likeness changeless and firm-standing. Thus,
then, stands Man;--a mountain on the boundary between two worlds;--its
foot in one, its summit far-rising into the other. From this summit the
manifold landscape of life is visible, the way of the Past and
Perishable, which we have left behind us; and, as we evermore ascend,
bright glimpses of the daybreak of Eternity beyond us!"

Flemming would fain have interrupted this discourse at times, to answer
and inquire, but the Professor went on, warming and glowing more
andmore. At length, there was a short pause, and Flemming said;

"All these indefinite longings,--these yearnings after an unknown
somewhat, I have felt and still feel within me; but not yet their
fulfilment."

"That is because you have not faith;" answered the Professor. "The
Present is an age of doubt and disbelief, and darkness; out of which
shall arise a clear and bright Hereafter. In the second part of
Goethe's Faust, there is a grand and striking scene, where in the
classical Walpurgis Night, on the Pharsalian Plains, the mocking
Mephistopheles sits down between the solemn antique Sphinxes, and
boldly questions them, and reads their riddles. The red light of
innumerable watch-fires glares all round about, and shines upon the
terrible face of the arch-scoffer; while on either side, severe,
majestic, solemnly serene, we behold the gigantic forms of the children
of Chimæra, half buried in the earth, their mild eyes gazing fixedly,
as if they heard through the midnight, the swift-rushing wings of the
Stymphalides, striving to outstrip the speed of Alcides' arrows! Angry
griffins are near them; and not far are Sirens, singing their wondrous
songs from the rocking branches of the willow trees! Even thus does a
scoffing and unbelieving Present sit down, between an unknown Future
and a too believing Past, and question and challenge the gigantic forms
of faith, half buried in the sands of Time, and gazing forward
steadfastly into the night, whilst sounds of anger and voices of
delight alternate vex and soothe the ear of man!--But the time will
come, when the soul of man 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 of deep, mysterious meaning, that he must die, who hath
looked upon a God. And this is the fate of the soul, that it should die
continually. No sooner here on earth does it awake to its peculiar
being, than it struggles to behold and comprehend the Spirit of Life.
In the first dim twilight of its existence, it beholds this spirit, is
pervaded by its energies,--is quick and creative likethe spirit itself,
and yet slumbers away into death after having seen it. 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 of existences in
ever-ascending series. The soul aspires ever onward to love and to
behold. It sees the image more perfect in the brightening twilight of
the dawn, in the ever higher-rising sun. It sleeps again, dying in the
clearer vision; but the image seen remains as a permanent kind; and the
slumberer awakes anew and ever higher after its own image, till at
length, in the full blaze of noonday, a being comes forth, which, like
the eagle, can behold the sun and die not. Then both live on, even when
this bodily element, the mist and vapor through which the young eagle
gazed, dissolves and falls to earth."

"I am not sure that I understand you," said Flemming; "but if I do, you
mean to say, that, as the body continually changes and takes unto
itselfnew properties, and is not the same to-day as yesterday, so
likewise the soul lays aside its idiosyncrasies, and is changed by
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 the soul that then
lives in me is a higher and more perfect soul; and so onward
forevermore."

"I mean what I say," continued the Professor; "and can find no more
appropriate language to express my meaning than that which I have used.
But as I said before, pardon must be granted to the novelty of words,
when it serves to illustrate the obscurity of things. And I think you
will see clearly from what I have said, that this earthly life, when
seen hereafter from heaven, will seem like an hour passed long ago, and
dimly remembered;--that long, laborious, full of joys and sorrows as it
is, it will then have dwindled down to a mere point, hardly visible to
the far-reaching ken of the disembodied spirit. But the spirit itself
soars onward. And thus death is neither an end nor a beginning. It is a
transition not from one existence to another, but from one state of
existence to another. No link is broken in the chain of being; any more
than in passing from infancy to manhood, from manhood to old age. There
are seasons of reverie and deep abstraction, which seem to me analogous
to death. The soul gradually loses its consciousness of what is passing
around it; and takes no longer cognizance of objects which are near. It
seems for the moment to have dissolved its connexion with the body. It
has passed as it were into another state of being. It lives in another
world. It has flown over lands and seas; and holds communion with those
it loves, in distant regions of the earth, and the more distant heaven.
It sees familiar faces, and hears beloved voices, which to the bodily
senses are no longer visible and audible. And this likewise is death;
save that when we die, the soul returns no more to the dwelling it has
left."

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

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

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

"I have listened to you patiently and without interruption. Now listen
to me. You complain of the skepticism of the age. This is one form in
which the philosophic spirit of the age presents itself. Let me tell
you, that another form, whichit assumes, is that of poetic reverie.
Plato of old had dreams like these; and the Mystics of the Middle Ages;
and still their disciples walk in the cloud-land and dream-land of this
poetic philosophy. Pleasant and cool upon their souls lie the shadows
of the trees under which Plato taught. From their whispering leaves
comes wafted across the noise of populous centuries a solemn and
mysterious sound, which to them is the voice of the Soul of the World.
All nature has become spiritualized and transfigured; and, wrapt in
beautiful, vague dreams of the real and the ideal, they live in this
green world, like the little child in the German tale, who sits by the
margin of a woodland lake, and hears the blue heaven and the branches
overhead dispute with their reflection in the water, which is the
reality and which the image. I willingly confess, that such day-dreams
as these appeal strongly to my imagination. Visitants and attendants
are they of those lofty souls, which, soaring ever higher and higher,
build themselves nests under the very eaves of the stars, forgetful
that theycannot live on air, but must descend to earth for food. Yet I
recognise them as day-dreams only; as shadows, not substantial things.
What I mainly dislike in the New Philosophy, is the cool impertinence
with which an old idea, folded in a new garment, looks you in the face
and pretends not to know you, though you have been familiar friends
from childhood. I remember an English author who, in speaking of your
German Philosophies, says very wisely; `Often a proposition of
inscrutable and dread aspect, when resolutely grappled with, and torn
from its shady den, and its bristling entrenchments of uncouth
terminology,--and dragged forth into the open light of day, to be seen
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 anxious novice is
reminded of Dryden in the Battle of the Books; there is a helmet of
rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic; and within it, at the farthest
corner, is a head no bigger than a walnut.'--Can you believe, thatthese
words ever came from the lips of Carlyle! He has himself taken up the
uncouth terminology of late; and many pure, simple minds are much
offended at it. They seem to take it as a personal insult. They are
angry; and deny the just meed of praise. It is, however, hardly worth
while to lose our presence of mind. Let us rather profit as we may,
even from this spectacle, and recognise the monarch in his masquerade.
For, hooded and wrapped about with that strange and antique garb, there
walks a kingly, a most royal soul, even as the Emperor Charles walked
amid solemn cloisters under a monk's cowl;--a monarch still in soul.
Such things are not new in the 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 preach to the wind? Why reason with thunder-showers? Better
sit quiet, and see 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 in
Literature, Philosophy, and Religion, which, though pleasant to walk
in, and lying under the shadow of great names, yet lead to no important
result. They resemble rather those roads in the western forests of my
native land, which, though broad and pleasant at first, and lying
beneath the shadow of great branches, finally dwindle to a squirrel
track, and run up a tree!"

The Professor hardly knew whether he should laugh or be offended at
this sally; and, laying his hand upon Flemming's arm, he said
seriously;

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

The high and animated tone of voice in which the Professor uttered
these words aroused the Baron from his sleep; and, not distinctly
comprehending what was said, but thinking the Professor asked what time
it was, he innocently exclaimed;

"I should think it must be near midnight!"

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

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

"Alas! how little veneration we have!" said Flemming. "I could not help
closing the discussion with a jest. An ill-timed levity often takes me
by surprise. On all such occasions I think of a scene at the
University, where, in the midst of a grave discussion on the
possibility of Absolute Motion, a scholar said he had seen a rock
splitopen, from which sprang a toad, who could not be supposed to have
any knowledge of the external world, and consequently his motion must
have been absolute. The learned Professor, who presided on that
occasion, was hardly more startled and astonished, than was our learned
Professor, five minutes ago. But come; wind up your watch, and let us
go to bed."

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

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

"I think the poor man would be very thankful," said the Baron with a
smile, "if he were always sure of eating it in one. He is what the
Transcendentalists call a god-intoxicated man; and I advise him, as
Sauteul advised Bossuet, to go to Patmos and write a new Apocalypse."




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 the
Baths of Ems, and urging him to meet her there before the fashionable
season.

"Come," said he to Flemming; "make this short journey with me. We will
pass a few pleasant days at Ems, and visit the other watering-places of
Nassau. It will drive away the melancholy day-dreams that haunt you.
Perhaps some future bride is even now waiting for you, with dim
presentiments and undefined longings, at the 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 way slowly
along the lovely Bergstrasse, famed throughout Germany for its beauty.
They passed the ruined house where Martin Luther lay concealed after
the Diet of Worms, and through the village of Handschuhsheimer, as old
as the days of King Pepin the Short,--a hamlet, lying under the hills,
half-buried in blossoms and green leaves. Close on the right rose the
mountains of the mysterious Odenwald; and on the left lay the Neckar,
like a steel bow in the meadow. Farther westward, a thin, smoky vapor
betrayed the course of the 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 slow sank the broad red sun, half-hidden amid folding
clouds.

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

The postilion seized one of his fat horses by the tail, and swung
himself up to his seat again. They rattled through the paved streets of
Weinheim, and took no heed of the host of the Golden Eagle, who stood
so invitingly at the door of his own inn; and the ruins of Burg
Windeck, above there, on its mountain throne, frowned at them for
hurrying by, without staying to do him homage.

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

They crossed the bridge, and turned up the stream, passing under an
arch of stone, which serves as a gateway to this enchanted Valley of
Birkenau. A cool and lovely valley! shut in by high hills;--shaded by
alder-trees and tall poplars, under which rushes the Wechsnitz, a noisy
mountain brook, that ever and anon puts its broad shoulder to the wheel
of a mill, and shows that it can labor as well as laugh. At one of
these mills they stopped for the night.

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

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

"I am persuaded," said Flemming, "that, in order fully to understand
and fell the popular poetry of Germany, one must be familiar with the
German landscape. Many sweet little poems are the outbreaks of
momentary feelings;--words, to which the song of birds, the rustling of
leaves, and the gurgle of cool waters form the appropriate music. Or
perhaps I should say they are words, which man has composed to the
music of nature. Can you not, even now, hear this brooklet tellingyou
how it is on its way to the mill, where at day-break the miller's
daughter opens her window, and comes down to bathe 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 many
others of our little songs, it requires a poet to fell and understand
it. Sing them in the valley and woodland shadows, and under the leafy
roofs of garden walks, and at night, and alone, as they were written.
Sing them not in the loud world,--for the loud world laughs such things
to scorn. It is Mueller who says, in that little 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 an expression.
Hecalls them the songs of a Wandering Horn-player. There is one among
them much to our present purpose. He expresses in it, the feeling of
unrest and desire of motion, which the sight and sound 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 dull prose
commentary and explanation in matter of fact. The song is pretty; and
was probably suggested by some such scene as this, which we are now
beholding. Doubtless all your old national traditions sprang up in the
popular mind as this song in the poet's."

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

"People always have, who live in mills, and near water-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 flights of sound!
what thrilling, pathetic chimes! what wild, joyous revelry of passion!
what a delirium of sense!--what an expression of agony and woe! all the
feelings of suffering and rejoicing humanity sympathized with and
finding a voice in those tones. Flemming and the Baron listened with
ever-increasing delight.

"How wonderful this is!" exclaimed Flemming, transported by his
feelings. "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 solitary sweetvoice
darts off like a bird, and floats away and revels in the bright, warm
sunshine! And then mark! how, amid the chorus of a hundred voices and a
hundred instruments,--of flutes, and drums, and trumpets,--this
universal shout and whirl-wind of the vexed air, you can so clearly
distinguish the melancholy vibration of a single string, touched by the
finger,--a mournful, sobbing sound! Ah, this is indeed human life!
where in the rushing, noisy crowd, and amid sounds of gladness, and a
thousand mingling emotions, distinctly audible to the ear of thought,
are the pulsations of some melancholy string 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 yet harmonious
mazes of the dance, came forth a sylph-like form, her scarf floating
behind her, as if she were fanning the air with gauze-like wings.
Noiseless as a feather or a snow-flake falls, did her feet touch the
earth. She seemed to floatin the air, and the floor to bend and wave
under her, as a branch, when a bird alights upon it, and takes wing
again. Loud and rapturous applause followed each wonderful step, each
voluptuous movement; and, with a flushed cheek and burning eye, and
bosom panting to be free, stood the gracefully majestic figure for a
moment still, and then the winged feet of the swift dancing-girls
glanced round her, and she was lost again in the throng.

"How truly exquisite this is!" exclaimed the Baron, after joining
loudly in the applause. "What a noble figure! What grace! what
attitudes! How much soul in every motion! how much expression in every
gesture! I assure you, it produces upon me the same effect as a
beautiful poem. It is a poem. Every step is a word; and the whole
together a poem!"

The Baron and Flemming were delighted with the scene; and at the same
time exceedingly amused with the countenance of an old prude in the
next box, who seemed to look upon the wholemagic show, with such
feelings as Michal, Saul's daughter, experienced, when she looked from
her window and saw King David dancing and leaping with his scanty
garments.

"After all," said Flemming, "the old French priest was not so far out
of the way, when he said, in his coarse dialect, that the dance is the
Devil's procession; and paint and ornaments, the whetting of the
devil's sword; and the ring that is made in dancing, the devil's
grindstone, whereon he sharpens his sword; and finally, that a ballet
is the pomp and mass of the Devil, and whosoever entereth therein,
entereth into his pomp and mass; for the woman who singeth is the
prioress of the Devil, and they that answer are clerks, and they that
look on are parishioners, and the cymbals and flutes are the bells, and
the musicians that play are the ministers, of the Devil."

"No doubt this good lady near us, thinks so likewise," answered the
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 the theatre, to
see the end of all things. When the crowd is gone, and the curtain
raised again to air the house, and the lamps are all out, save here and
there one behind the scenes, the contrast with what has gone before is
most impressive. Every thing wears a dream-like aspect. The empty boxes
and stalls,--the silence,--the smoky twilight, and the magic scene
dismantled, produce in me a strange, mysterious feeling. It is like a
dim reflection of a theatre in water, or in a dusty mirror; and reminds
me of some of Hoffmann's wild Tales. It is a practical moral lesson,--a
commentary on the play, and makes the show complete."

It was truly as he said; only tenfold more desolate, solemn, and
impressive; 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 length passed out
through the dimly-lighted passage, they heard a vulgar-looking fellow,
with a sensual face and shaggy whiskers, say to some persons who were
standing near him, and seemed to be hangers-on of the play-house;

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

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




CHAPTER VIII. OLD HUMBUG.

What most interested our travellers in the ancient city of Frankfort,
was neither the opera nor the Ariadne of Dannecker, but the house in
which Goethe was born, and the scenes he frequented in his childhood,
and remembered in his old age. Such for example are the walks around
the city, outside the moat; the bridge over the Maine, with the golden
cock on the cross, which the poet beheld and marvelled at when a boy;
the cloister of the Barefooted Friars, through which he stole with
mysterious awe to sit by the oilcloth-covered table of old Rector
Albrecht; and the garden in which his grandfather walked up and down
among fruit-trees and rose-bushes, in long morning gown, black velvet
cap, and the antique leather gloves, which he annually received as
Mayor on Pipers-Doomsday, representing a kind of middle personage
between Alcinous 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 leafy gardens, outside
the moat; "but, after all, Goethe was a magnificent old 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 form of strength; assiduous, careful,
toiling, without haste, without rest; and his sublime old age,--the age
of serene and classic repose, where he stands like Atlas, as Claudian
has painted him in the Battle of the Giants, holding the world aloft
upon his head, the ocean-streams hard frozen in his hoary locks."

"A good illustration of what the world calls his indifferentism."

"And do you know I rather like this indifferentism? Did you never have
the misfortune to live in a community, where a difficulty in the parish
seemed to announce the end of the world? or to know one of the
benefactors of the human race, in the very `storm and pressure period'
of his indiscreet enthusiasm? If you have, I think you will see
something beautiful in the calm and dignified attitude which the old
philosopher assumes."

"It is a pity, that his admirers had not a little of this philosophic
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! The Many-sided Master-Mind of
Germany! His enemies rush into the other extreme, and hurl at him the
fierce names of Old Humbug! and Old Heathen! which hit like
pistol-bullets."

"I confess, he was no saint."

"No; his philosophy is the old ethnic philosophy. You will find it all
in a convenient andconcentrated, portable form in Horace's beautiful
Ode to Thaliarcus. What I most object to in the old gentleman is his
sensuality."

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

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

"Ah, my friend, Goethe is an artist; and looks upon all things as
objects of art merely. Why should he not be allowed to copy in words
what 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 gives us only
sinful Magdalens and rampant Fauns. He does not so much idealize as
realize."

"He only copies nature."

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

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

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

"And what do you think of Eckermann?"

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

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

"He certainly was. Did it ever occur to you that he was in some points
like Ben Franklin? a kind of rhymed Ben Franklin? The practical
tendency of his mind was the same; his love of science was the same;
his benignant, philosophic spirit was the same; and a vast number of
his little poetic maxims and sooth-sayings seem nothing more than the
worldly wisdom of Poor Richard, versified."

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

"And every one who passes through Weimar must throw a book upon his
grave, as travellers did of old a stone upon the grave of Manfredi, at
Benevento. But, of all that has been said or sung, what most pleases me
is Heine's Apologetic, if I may so call it; in which he says, that the
minor poets, who flourished under the imperialreign of Goethe `resemble
a young forest, where the trees first 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 united themselves for the contest. The adherents of the old
faith, the orthodox, were vexed, that, in the trunk of the vast tree,
no niche with its holy image was to be found; nay, that even the naked
Dryads of 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 the new faith, the apostles of liberalism, were vexed on the other
hand, that the tree could not serve as the Tree of Liberty, or, at any
rate, as a barricade. In fact the tree was too high; no one could plant
the red cap upon its summit, or dance the Carmagnole beneath its
branches. The multitude, however, venerated this tree for the
veryreason, that it reared itself with such independent grandeur, and
so graciously filled the world with its odor, while its branches,
streaming magnificently toward heaven, made it appear, as if 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 find something
to admire in my favorite author, notwithstanding his frailties; or, to
use an old German saying, that you can drive the hens 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 see the
living figure of the poet walking before them.

"Here at the window,--that full-length cast. Excellent, is it not! He
is dressed, as usual, in his long yellow nankeen surtout, with a white
cravat crossed in front. What a magnificent head! and what 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 square shoulders
braced back, and his hands behind him. He looks as if he were standing
before the fire. I feel tempted to put a live coal into his hand, it
lies so invitingly half-open. Gleim's description of 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 with great
delight. He was one evening reading the Göttingen Musen-Almanach in a
select society at Weimar, when a young man came in, dressed in a short,
green shooting-jacket, booted and spurred, and having a pair of
brilliant, black, Italian eyes. He in turn offered to read; but finding
probably the poetry of the Musen-Almanach of that year rather too
insipid for him, he soon began to improvise the wildest and most
fantastic poems imaginable, and in all possible forms and measures, all
the while pretending to read from the book. `That is either Goethe or
the Devil,' said good old father Gleim to Wieland, who sat near him. To
which the `Great I of Osmannstadt' replied; `It is both, for he has the
Devil in him to-night; and at such times he is like a wanton colt, that
flings out 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 a pleasant
spring morning. Calm, like a god, the old man sat; and with a smile
seemed to bid farewell to the light of day, on which he had gazed for
more than eighty years. Books were near him, and the pen which had just
dropped, as it were from his dying fingers. `Open the shutters, and let
in more light!' were the last words that came from those lips. Slowly
stretching forth his hand, he seemed to write inthe air; and, as it
sank down again and was motionless, the spirit of the old man
departed."

"And yet the world goes on. It is strange how soon, when a great man
dies, his place is filled; and so completely, that he seems no longer
wanted. But let us step in here. I wish to buy that cast; and send 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 struck
across through Hochheim to the Rhine, and then up among the hills of
the Rheingau to Schlangenbad, where they tarried only to bathe, and to
dine; and then pursued their way to Langenschwalbach. The town lies in
a valley, with gently-sloping hills around it, and long avenues of
poplars leading forth into the fields. One interminable street cuts the
town in twain, and there are old houses with curious faces carved upon
their fronts, and dates of the olden time.

Our travellers soon sallied forth from their hotel, impatient to drink
the strength-giving watersof the fountains. They continued their walk
far up the valley under the poplars. The new grain was waving 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 tottering out of the woods,
with a heavy bundle of sticks on his shoulders.

Returning upon their steps, they passed down the valley and through the
long street to the tumble-down old Lutheran church. A flight of stone
steps leads from the street to the green terrace or platform 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 sown in corruption shall be
raised hereafter in incorruption. On the steps stood an old man,--a
very old man,--holding a little girl by the hand. He took off his
greasy cap as they passed, and wished them good day. His teeth were
gone; he could hardly articulate a syllable. The Baron asked him how
old the church was. Hegave no answer; but when the question was
repeated, came close up to them, and taking off his cap again, turned
his ear attentively, and said;

"I am hard of hearing."

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

The little girl ran into a house close at hand, and brought out the
great key. The church door swung open, and, descending a few steps,
they passed through a low-roofed passage into the church. All was in
ruin. The gravestones in the pavement were started from their places;
the vaults beneath yawned; the roof above was falling piecemeal; there
were rents in the old tower; and mysterious passages, and side doors
with crazy flights of wooden steps, leading down into the churchyard.
Amid all this ruin, one thing only stood erect; it was a statue of a
knight in armour, standing in a niche under 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 keeping guard over
the dead men below?"

"I do not know," replied the old man; "but I have heard my grandfather
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 the sexton
of your parish, who can remember only, that he once heard his
grandfather say, that you were a great warrior!"

Flemming made no reply, for he was thinking of the days, when from that
old pulpit, some bold reformer thundered down the first tidings of a
new doctrine, and the roof echoed with the grand old hymns of Martin
Luther.

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

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

Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach; and the evening at the
Allée-Saal was quite solitary; for as yet no company had arrived to
fill its chambers, or sit under the trees before the door. The next
morning even Flemming and the Baron were gone; for the German's heart
was beating with strong desire to embrace his sister; and the heart of
his friend cared little whither he went, sobeit he were not too much
alone.

After a few hours' drive, they were looking down from the summit of a
hill right upon the house-tops of Ems. There it lay, deep sunk in the
hollow beneath them, as if some inhabitant of Sirius, like him spoken
of in Voltaire's tale of Micromegas, held it in the hollow of his hand.
High and peaked rise the hills, that throw their shadows into this
romantic valley, and at their base winds the river Lahn. Our
travellersdrove through the one long street, composed entirely of
hotels and lodging-houses. Sick people looked out of the windows, as
they passed. Others were walking leisurely up and down, beneath the few
decapitated trees, which represent a public promenade; and a boy, with
a blue frock and crimson cap, was driving three donkeys down the
street. In short, they were in a fashionable watering-place; as yet
sprinkled only by a few pattering drops of the summer rain of
strangers, which generally follows the first hot days.

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

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

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

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

"Gives him opium."

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

They had now reached the house, and were ushered into a room gaily
lighted and filled with guests. The hostess came forward to receive
them, dressed in white, and sailing down the room like a swan. When the
customary salutations had passed and Flemming had been duly presented,
the Baron said, not without a certain degree of malice;

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

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

"The same as ever, my dear Baron. It is astonishing how he holds out.
But let us not talk of these things now. I must introduce your friend
to his countryman, the Grand Duke of Mississippi; alike remarkable for
his wealth, his modesty, and the extreme simplicity of his manners. He
drives only six horses. Besides, he is known as a man of learning and
piety;--has his private chapel, and private clergyman, 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 trouble of smoking."

"Decidedly a man of genius!"

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

"Pray, Mr. Flemming, what do you think of that Rembrandt?" said he,
pointing to a picture onthe wall. "Exquisite picture! The grandeur of
sentiment and splendor of chiaroscuro are of the first order. Just
observe the liquidity of the water, and the silveryness of the clouds!
Great power! There is a bravura of handling in that picture, Sir, which
requires the eye of the connoisseur to appreciate."

"Yes, a most undoubted--copy!"

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

"Good bye! Good bye! Mr. Flemming!" said he, instead of good evening.
"I am ravished to see you in Ems. Nice place;--all that there is of
most nice. I drink my water and am good! Do you not think the Frau
Kranich has a very beautiful leather?"

He meant skin. Flemming laughed outright; but it was not perceived by
the Prince, because at that moment he was pushed aside, in the rush of
a gallopade, and Flemming beheld his face no more. At the same moment
the Baron introduced a friend of his, who also spoke English and said;

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

Soon after, the Baron stood with an impassioned, romantic lady leaning
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 been Raphael."

And so likewise said to himself a very tall man with fiery red hair,
and fancy whiskers, who was waltzing round and round in one spot, and
in a most extraordinary waistcoat; thus representing a fiery,
floating-light, to warn men of the hidden rocks, on which the breath of
vanity drives them shipwreck. At length, his partner, tired of
spinning, sank upon a sofa, like a child's top, when it reels 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, it sometimes
makes me shudder to see a young rake clasp his arms round the waist of
a pure and innocent girl. What would you say, were you to see him
sitting on a sofa with his arms round your wife?"

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

And merrily went the dance; and bright eyes and flushed cheeks were 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 of Flemming, who,
though he never danced, yet, like Henry of Ofterdingen, in the Romance
of Novalis, thought to music. The wheeling waltz set the wheels of his
fancy going. And thus the moments glided on, and the footsteps of Time
were not heard amid the sound of music and voices.

But suddenly this scene of gayety was interrupted. The door opened
wide; and the short figure of a gray-haired old man presented itself,
with a flushed countenance and wild eyes. He was but half-dressed, and
in his hand held a silver candlestick without a light. A sheet was
wound round his head, like a turban; and he tottered 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 the room by
the servants. Flemming looked at the lady of the festival, and she was
deadly pale. For a moment all was confusion; and the dance and the
music stopped. Theimpression produced on the company was at once
ludicrous and awful. They tried in vain to rally. The whole society was
like a dead body, from which the spirit has departed. Ere long the
guests had all dispersed, and left the lady of the mansion to her
mournful, expiring lamps, and still more mournful reflections.

"Truly," said Flemming, to the Baron, as they wended their way
homeward, "this seems not like reality; but like one of the sharp
contrasts we find in novels. Who shall say, after this, that there is
not more romance in real life, than we find written in books!"

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

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

"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" said the eldest of the two figures, repeating an 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 of
Madeleine; and the pale and shrinking figure, that walked by her side,
and listened to those words, was Emma of Ilmenau. A young man joined
them, where the path turns into the thick woodlands; and they
disappeared 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 of
All-Saints, in its majestic, holy stillness;--the river flowed so far
below, that the murmur of itswaters was not heard;--there was not a
sigh of the evening wind among the leaves,--not a sound upon the earth
nor in the air;--and yet that night there fell a star from heaven!




CHAPTER X. THE PARTING.

It was now that season of the year, which an old English writer calls
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 the stars were
few in heaven. But, after the heat of the day, the coolness and the
twilight descended like a benediction upon the earth, by all those
gentle sounds attended, which are the meek companions 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 the magnificent
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 more for 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 longings and aimless desires, that were
never still.

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

The hour, the scene, and the near-approaching separation of the two
young friends, had filled their hearts with a pleasant, though at the
same time not painless excitement. They had been conversing about the
magnificent old ruin, and the ages in which it had been built, and the
vicissitudesof time and war, that had battered down its 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; for careful,
sorrowing, he seeth in his son's bower the wine-hall deserted, the
resort of the wind, noiseless; the knight sleepeth; the warrior lieth
in darkness; there is no noise of the harp, no joy in the dwellings, as
there was before."

"Even as you say," replied the Baron; "but it often astonishes me,
that, coming from that fresh green world of yours beyond the sea, you
should feel so much interest in these old things; nay, at times, seem
so to have drunk in their spirit, as really to live in the times of
old. For my part, I do not see what charm there is in the pale and
wrinkled countenance of the Past, so to entice the soul of a young man.
It seems to me like falling in love with one's grandmother. Give me the
Present;--warm, glowing, palpitating with life. She is my mistress; and
the Future stands waiting like my wife that is to be, for whom, to tell
the truth, I care very little just now. Indeed, my friend, I wish you
would take more heed of this philosophy of mine; and not waste the
golden hours of youth in vain regrets 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 still young
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 were ten years
ago, the comparison is vastly in favor of the present. Much of the
fever and fretfulness of life is over. The world and I look each other
more calmly in the face. My mind is more self-possessed. It has done me
good to be somewhat parched by the heat 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 mastery yet. 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 of accident. Do not trust
this momentary calm. I know you better than you know yourself. There is
something Faust-like in you; you would fain grasp the highest and the
deepest; and `reel from desire to enjoyment, and in enjoyment languish
for desire.' When a momentary change 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 you say.
There are times when my soul is restless; and a voice sounds within me,
like the trump of the archangel, and thoughts that were buried, long
ago, come out of their graves. At such times my favorite occupations
and pursuits no longer charm me. The quiet face of Nature seems to mock
me."

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

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

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

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

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

When he had retired to his chamber, a feeling of utter loneliness came
over him. The night before one begins a journey is always a dismal
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; as was the
case with those, that Flemming was now leaving. No wonder he was sad
and sleepless. Thoughts came and went, and bright and gloomy fancies,
and dreams and visions, and sweet faces looked under his closed
eyelids, and vanished away, and came again, and again departed. He
heard the clock strike from hour to hour, and said, "Another hour is
gone." At length the birds began to sing; and ever and anon the cock
crew. He arose, and looked forth into the gray dawn; and before him lay
the city he was so soon to leave, all white and ghastly, like a city
that had arisen from its grave.

"All things must change," said he to the Baron, as he embraced him, and
held him by the hand."Friends must be torn asunder, and swept along in
the current of events, to see each other seldom, and perchance no more.
For ever and ever in the eddies of time and accident we whirl away.
Besides which, some of us have a perpetual motion in our wooden heads,
as Wodenblock had in his wooden leg; and like him we travel on, without
rest or sleep, and have hardly time to take a friend by the hand in
passing; and at length are seen hurrying through some distant land,
worn to a skeleton, and all unknown."




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 the pleasant
summer-time! What a time it is! How June stands illuminated in the
Calendar! The windows are all wide open; only the Venetian blinds
closed. Here and there a long streak of sunshine streams in through a
crevice. We hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it
swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound.
The trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red
and white. The whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine. The
birds sing. The cock struts about, and crows loftily. Insects chirp in
the grass. Yellow butter-cups stud the green carpet like golden
buttons, and the red blossoms 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
village gleams afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow winds
the river,--careless, indolent. It seems to love the country, and is in
no haste to reach the sea. The bee only is at work,--the hot and angry
bee. All things else are at play; he never plays, and is vexed that any
one should.

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

It is no longer day. Through the trees rises the red moon, and the
stars are scarcely seen. In the vast shadow of night, the coolness and
the dews descend. I sit at the open window to enjoy them; 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 of grass. I cannot see
the red and blue flowers, but I know that they are there. Far away in
the meadow gleams the silver Charles. The tramp of horses' hoofs sounds
from the wooden bridge. Then all is still, save the continuous wind of
the summer night. Sometimes I know not if it be the wind or the sound
of the neighbouring sea. The village clock strikes; and I feel that I
am not alone.

How different is it in the city! It is late, and the crowd is gone. You
step out upon the balcony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, dewy
night, as if you folded her garments about you. The whole starry heaven
is spread out overhead. Beneath lies the public walk with trees, like a
fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent darkness the spirit plunges
and floats away, with some beloved spirit clasped in its embrace. The
lamps are still burning up and down the long street. People go by, with
grotesque shadows, now foreshortened and now lengthening away into the
darkness and vanishing, while a new one springs up behind the walker,
and seems to pass him on the sidewalk. The iron gates of the park shut
with a jangling clang. There are footsteps, and loud voices;--a
tumult,--a drunken brawl,--an alarm of fire;--then silence again. And
now at length the city is asleep, and we can see the night. The belated
moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to welcome her. The
moonlight is broken. It lies here and there in the squares, and the
opening of streets,--angular, like blocks of white marble.

Under such a green, triumphal arch, O Reader! with the odor of flowers
about thee, and the song of birds, shalt thou pass onward into the
enchanted land, as through the Ivory Gate of dreams! And as a prelude
and majestic march, one sweet human voice, I know not whose, but coming
from the bosom of the Alps, sings this sublime ode, 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 look forward to
the future with such strong desire? The present is thine,--and the
past;--and the future shall be! O that thou didst look forward to the
great hereafter with half the longing wherewith thou longest for an
earthly future,--which a few days at most will bring thee! to the
meeting of the dead, as to the meeting of the absent! Thou glorious
spirit-land! O, that I could behold thee as thou art,--the region of
life, and light, and love, and the dwelling-place of those beloved
ones, whose being has flowed onward like a silver-clear stream into the
solemn-sounding main, into the ocean 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 one of the
mountains of the Furca Pass, and gazed, with tears in his eyes, and
ardent longing in his heart, up into the blue-swimming heaven overhead,
and at the glaciers and snowy mountain-peaks around him. Highest and
whitest of all, stood the peak of the Jungfrau, which seemed near him,
though it rose afar off from the bosom of the Lauterbrunner Thal. There
it stood, holy and high and pure, the bride of heaven, all veiled and
clothed in white, and lifted the thoughts of the beholder heavenward.
O, he little thought then, as he gazed at it with longing and delight,
how soon a form was to arise in his own soul, as holy, and high, and
pure as this, and like this point heavenward.

Thus lay the traveller on the mountain summit, reposing his weary limbs
on the short, brown grass, which more resembled moss than grass. He had
sent his guide forward, that he might be alone. His soul within him was
wild with a fierce and painful delight. The mountain air excited him;
the mountain solitudes enticed, yet maddened him. Every peak, every
sharp, jagged iceberg, seemed to pierce him. The silence was awful and
sublime. It was like that in the 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 were near unto him; but between him and heaven
every evil deed he had done arose gigantic, like those mountain-peaks,
and breathed an icy breath upon him. O, let not the soul that suffers,
dare to look Nature in the face, where she sits majestically aloft in
the solitude of the mountains; for her face is hard and stern, and
looks not in compassion upon her weak and erring child. It is the
countenance of an accusing archangel, who summons us to judgment. In
the valley she wears the countenance of a Virgin Mother, looking at us
with tearful eyes, and a face of pity and love!

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

Even the sunny morning, which followed thisgloomy day, had not chased
the desolate impression from the soul of Flemming. His excitement
increased as he lost himself more and more among the mountains; and
now, as he lay all alone on the summit of the sunny hill, with only
glaciers and snowy peaks about him, his soul, as I have said, was wild
with a fierce and painful delight.

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

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

Flemming gave him half his summer wages. He was glad to do a good deed
in secret, and yet so near heaven. The man received it as his due, like
a toll-keeper; and soon after departed, leaving the traveller 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, as if to say; "O take me with
you! leave me not here companionless!"

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

"How wonderful! how glorious!"

After lingering a few hours in the cold, desolate valley, he climbed in
the afternoon the steep Mayen-Wand, on the Grimsel, passed the Lake of
the Dead, with its ink-black waters; and through the melting snow, and
over slippery stepping-stones in the beds of numberless shallow brooks,
descended to the Grimsel Hospital, where he 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 him
already standing on the rusticbridge, which hangs over the verge of the
Falls of the Aar at Handeck, where the river pitches down a precipice
into a narrow and fearful abyss, shut in by perpendicular cliffs. At
right angles with it comes the beautiful Aerlenbach; and halfway down
the double cascade mingles into one. Thus he pursued his way down the
Hasli Thal into the Bernese Oberland, restless, impatient, he knew not
why, stopping seldom, and never long, and then rushing forward again,
like the rushing river whose steps he followed, and in whose ice-cold
waters ever and anon he bathed his wrists, to cool the fever in his
blood; for the noonday sun was hot.

His heart dilated in the dilating valley, that grew broader and greener
at every step. The sight of human faces and human dwellings soothed
him; and through the fields of summer grain, in the broad meadows of
Imgrund, he walked with a heart that ached no more, but trembled only,
as our eyelids when we have done weeping. As he climbed the opposite
hill, which hems in this romanticvalley, and, like a heavy yoke, chafes
the neck of the Aar, he believed the ancient tradition, which says,
that once the valley was a lake. From the summit of the hill he looked
southward upon a beautiful landscape of gardens, and fields of grain,
and woodlands, and meadows, and the ancient castle of Resti, looking
down upon Meyringen. And now all around him were the singing of birds,
and grateful shadows of the leafy trees; and sheeted waterfalls
dropping from the woodland cliffs, seen only, but unheard, the fluted
columns breaking into mist, and fretted with frequent spires and
ornaments of foam, and not unlike the towers of a Gothic church
inverted. There, in one white sheet of foam, the Riechenbach pours down
into its deep beaker, into which the sun never shines. Face to face it
beholds the Alpbach falling from the opposite hill, "like a downward
smoke." When Flemming saw the innumerable runnels, sliding down the
mountain-side, and leaping, all life and gladness, he would fain have
clasped them in his arms and been their playmate, and revelled withthem
in their freedom and delight. Yet he was weary with the day's journey,
and entered the village of Meyringen, embowered in cherry-trees, which
were then laden with fruit, more like a way-worn traveller than an
enthusiastic poet. As he went up the tavern steps he said in his heart,
with the Italian Aretino; "He who has not been at a tavern, knows not
what a paradise it is. O holy tavern! O miraculous tavern! holy,
because no carking cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and
miraculous, because of the spits, which of themselves turn round and
round! Of a truth all courtesy and good manners come from taverns, so
full of bows, and Signor, sì! and Signor, nò!"

But even in the tavern he could not rest long. The same evening at
sunset he was floating on the lake of Brienz, in an open boat, close
under the cascade of the Giessbach, hearing the peasants sing the Ranz
des Vaches. He slept that night at the other extremity of the 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 in the evening went across
the beautiful meadows to Interlachen, where many things happened to
him, and detained him long.




CHAPTER III. INTERLACHEN.

Interlachen! How peacefully, by the margin of the swift-rushing Aar,
thou liest, on the broad lap of those romantic meadows, all
overshadowed by the wide arms of giant trees! Only the round towers of
thine ancient cloister rise above their summits; the round towers
themselves, but a child's playthings under the great church-towers of
the mountains. Close beside thee are lakes, which the flowing band of
the river ties together. Before thee opens the magnificent valley of
Lauterbrunn, where the cloud-hooded Monk and pale Virgin stand like
Saint Francis and his Bride of Snow; and all around thee are fields,
and orchards, and hamlets green, from which the church-bells answer
each other at evening! The eveningsun was setting when I first beheld
thee! The sun of life will set ere I forget thee! Surely it was a scene
like this, that inspired the soul of 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. The landlord
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 his customers from the
lees of a wine-cask. His house, he said, was full; and so was every
house in Interlachen; but, if the gentleman would walk into the
parlour, he would procure a chamber for him, in the neighbourhood.

On the sofa sat a gentleman, reading; a stout gentleman of perhaps
forty-five, round, ruddy, and with a head, which, being a little bald
on the top, looked not unlike a crow's nest, with one egg in it. A
good-humored face turned from the book as Flemming entered; and a
good-humored voice exclaimed;

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

Saying these words, the stout gentleman rose and shook Flemming
heartily 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 up the
Righi. Mr. Berkley was an Englishman of fortune; a good-humored, humane
old bachelor; remarkable alike for his common sense and his
eccentricity. That is to say, the basis of his character was good,
sound common sense, trodden down and smoothed by education; but this
level groundwork his strange and whimsical fancy used as a
dancing-floor, whereon to exhibit her eccentric tricks. His ruling
passion was cold-bathing; and he usually ate his breakfast sitting in a
tub of cold water, and reading a newspaper. He kissed every child he
met; and to every old man, said in passing, "God bless you!" with such
an expression of voice and countenance, that no one could doubt his
sincerity. He reminded one of Roger Bontemps, or the Little 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 mountain top."

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

"Where have you been since?"

"At Zurich and Schaffhausen. If you go to Zurich, beware how you stop
at the Raven. They will cheat you. They cheated me; but I had my
revenge, for, when we reached Schaffhausen, I wrote in the Traveller'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 the author
of those lines!"

"Bitter as Juvenal!" exclaimed Flemming.

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

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

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

Presently a female figure, clothed in black, entered the room and sat
down by the window. She rather listened to the conversation, than
joined in it; but the few words she said were spoken in a voice so
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 of the
soul! The intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and
in his eye; and the heart of man is written uponhis countenance. But
the soul reveals itself in the voice only; as God revealed 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 eternal fountain, invisible to man!

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

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

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

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

"So, you perceive, my nest is to be in a cloister. It already makes me
think of a bird's-nest I once saw on an old tower of Heidelberg castle,
built in the jaws of a lion, which formerly served as a spout. But pray
tell me, who was that young lady, with the 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 long ago at
Naples. She is passing the summer here with her mother, for her
health."

"What is her name?"

"Ashburton."

"Is she beautiful?"

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

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

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

A servant girl, with a candle in her hand, opened the door, and
conducted Flemming and Berkley to the chamber which had been engaged.
It was a large room on the lower floor, wainscoted with pine, and
unpainted. Three lofty and narrowwindows, with leaden lattices and
small panes, looked southward towards the valley of Lauterbrunnen and
the mountains. In one corner was a large square bed, with a tester and
checked curtains. In another, a huge stove of painted tiles, reaching
almost to the ceiling. An old sofa, a few high-backed antique chairs,
and a table, completed the furniture of the room.

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

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

When he had departed, Flemming opened the lattice of one of the
windows. The moon had risen, and silvered the dark outline of the
nearest hills; while, afar off, the snowy summits of the Jungfrau and
the Silver-Horn shone like a white cloud in the sky. Close beneath the
windows was a flower-garden; and the breath of the summer night came to
him with dewy fragrance. There was a grateful seclusion about the
place. He blessed the happy accident, which gave him such a lodging,
and fell asleep that night thinking of the nuns, who once had slept in
the same quiet cells; but neither wimpled nun nor cowled monk appeared
to him in his dreams; not even the face of Mary 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 Edward beheld
the Countess of Salisbury at her castle gate, he thought he had never
seen before so noble nor so fair a lady; he was stricken therewith to
the heart with a sparkle of fine love, that endured long after; he
thought no lady in the world so worthy to be beloved, as she. And so
likewise thought Paul Flemming, when he beheld the English lady in the
fair light of a summer morning. I will not disguise the truth. She is
my heroine; and I mean to describe her with 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 maiden
Amoret, 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 peacefully through
it. At times it wore an expression of seriousness,--of sorrow even; and
then seemed to make the very air bright with what the Italian poets so
beautifully call the lampeggiar dell' angelico riso,--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 them a cold, living
light, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the river 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 are beautiful
which, like the planets, have a steady, lambent light;--are luminous,
but not sparkling. Such eyes the Greek poets give to the Immortals. But
I forget myself.

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

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

Last night he had heard a voice to which his soul responded; and he
might have gone on his way, and taken no farther heed. But he would
have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at evening he thought of
this evening at Interlachen. To-day he had seen more clearly the
vision, and his restless soul calm. The place seemed pleasant to him;
and he could not go. He did not ask himself whence came this calm. He
felt it; and was happy in the feeling; and blessed thelandscape and the
summer morning, as if they possessed the wonder-working power.

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

"I see by the smile on your countenance," he continued, "that it is 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 the gloomy
thoughts which used to haunt you. I like to see people cheerful and
happy. What is the use of giving way to sadness in this beautiful
world?"

"Ah! this beautiful world!" said Flemming, with a smile. "Indeed, I
know not what to think of it. Sometimes it is all gladness and
sunshine, and Heaven itself lies not far off. And then it changes
suddenly; and is dark and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky. In
the lives of the saddestof us, there are bright days like this, when we
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 our hearths
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, when he is only sad."

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

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

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

"Thank you."

The breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence. Flemming watched
the entrance of every guest; but she came not,--the guest he most
desired to see.

"And now for the Grindelwald!" said Berkley.

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

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

They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen, and turned eastward among
the mountains of the Grindelwald. There they passed the day;
half-frozen by the icy breath of the Great Glacier, upon whose surface
stand pyramids and blocks of ice, like the tombstones of a cemetery. It
was a weary day to Flemming. He wished himself at Interlachen; and was
glad when, towards evening, he saw once more the cone-roofed towers of
the cloister rising above the walnut trees.

That evening is written in red letters in his history. It gave him
another revelation of thebeauty and excellence of the female character
and intellect; not wholly new to him, yet now renewed and fortified. It
was from the lips of Mary Ashburton, that the revelation came. Her form
arose, like a tremulous evening star, in the firmament of his soul. He
conversed with her; and with her alone; and knew not when to go. All
others were to him as if they were not there. He saw their forms, but
saw them as the forms of inanimate things. At length her mother came;
and Flemming beheld in her but another Mary Ashburton, with beauty more
mature;--the same forehead and eyes, the same majestic figure; and, as
yet, no trace of age. He gazed upon her with a feeling of delight, not
unmingled with holy awe. She was to him the rich and glowing Evening,
from whose bosom the tremulous star was born.

Berkley took no active part in the conversation, but did what was much
more to the purpose, that it is to say, arranged a drive for the next
day with the Ashburtons, and of course invited Flemming, who went home
that night with a halo round hishead; and wondering much at a dandy,
who stood at the door of the hotel, and said to his companion, 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 and lowering.
From the mountain tops hung a curtain of mist, whose heavy folds waved
to and fro in the valley below. Over all the landscape, the soft,
summer rain was falling. No admiring eyes would look up that 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 his own sweet will;
but no foot stirs abroad for all that; no traveller moves, if he has
time to stay. The rainy daygives him time for reflection. He has
leisure now to take cognizance of his impressions, and make up his
account with the mountains. He remembers, too, that he has friends at
home; and writes up the Journal, neglected for a week or more; and
letters neglected longer; or finishes the rough pencil-sketch, begun
yesterday in the open air. On the whole he is not sorry it rains;
though disappointed.

Flemming was both sorry and disappointed; but he did not on that
account fail to go over to the Ashburtons at the appointed hour. He
found them sitting in the parlour. The mother was reading, and the
daughter retouching a sketch of the Lake of Thun. After the usual
salutations, Flemming seated himself near the daughter, and said;

"We shall have no Staubbach to-day, I presume; only this Giessbach 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 time to
finish some of these rough sketches."

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

"How absurd!" exclaimed Mary Ashburton, with a smile that passed
through the misty air of Flemming's thoughts, like a sunbeam; "For one,
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 her beautiful
face; often repeating to himself those lines in Marlow's Faust;

"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 of Mrs.
Ashburton, had she not been wholly absorbed in the follies of a
fashionable novel. Ere long the fair sketcher had paused for a moment;
and Flemming had taken her sketch-book in his hands and was looking it
through from the beginning with ever-increasing delight, half of which
he dared not express, though he favored her with some comments and
bursts of admiration.

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

'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; "it will
serve to illustrate the sketch."

"And the sketch to illustrate the ballad. And now we suddenly slide
down the Alps into Italy, and are even in Rome, if I mistake not. This
is surely a head of Homer?"

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

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

"Certainly not! It is only an artist's dream. It was thus, that Homer
appeared to him in his visions of the antique world. Every one, you
know, forms an image in his fancy of persons and things he has never
seen; and the artist reproduces them in marble or on canvass."

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

"No; not entirely. I have drawn my impressions from another source.
Whenever I think of Homer, which is not often, he walks before 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. "And I
perceive from your words, as well as from this book, that you have a
true feeling for art, and understand what it is. You have had bright
glimpses into the enchanted land."

"I trust," replied the lady modestly, "that I am not wholly without
this feeling. Certainly I have as strong and passionate a love of Art
as of Nature."

"But does it not often offend you to hear people speaking of Art and
Nature as opposite and discordant things? Surely nothing can be more
false. Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man. Indeed,
Art signifies no more than this. Art is Power. That is the original
meaning of the word. It is the creative power by which the soul of man
makes itself known, through some external manifestation or outward
sign. As we can always hear the voice of God, walking in the 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 of all steep hills
and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows';--so, under the twilight
and the starlight of past ages, do we hear the voice of man, walking
amid the works of his hands, and city walls and towers and the spires
of churches, thrust up themselves for shows."

The lady smiled at his warmth; and he continued;

"This, however, is but a similitude; and Art and Nature are more nearly
allied than by similitudes only. Art is the revelation of man; and not
merely that, but likewise the revelation of Nature, speaking through
man. Art preëxists in Nature, and Nature is reproduced in Art. As
vaporsfrom the ocean, floating landward and dissolved in rain, are
carried back in rivers to the ocean, so thoughts and the semblances of
things that fall upon the soul of man in showers, flow out again in
living streams of Art, and lose themselves in the great ocean, which is
Nature. Art and Nature are not, then, discordant, but ever harmoniously
working in each other."

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

"Thus in this wondrous world wherein we live, which is the World of
Nature, man has made unto himself another world hardly less wondrous,
which is the World of Art. And it lies infolded and compassed 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 the skill of
the artist, and the differencebetween him and the mere amateur. What we
call miracles and wonders of art are not so to him who created them.
For they were created by the natural movements of his own great soul.
Statues, paintings, churches, poems, are but shadows of
himself;--shadows in marble, colors, stone, words. He feels and
recognises their beauty; but he thought these thoughts and produced
these things as easily as inferior minds do thoughts and things
inferior. Perhaps more easily. Vague images and shapes of beauty
floating through the soul, the semblances of things as yet indefinite
or ill-defined, and perfect only when put in art,--this Possible
Intellect, as the Scholastic Philosophers have termed it,--the artist
shares in common with us all. The lovers of art are many. But the
Active Intellect, the creative power,--the power to put these shapes
and images in art, to imbody the indefinite, and render perfect, is his
alone. He shares the gift with few. He knows not even whence nor how
this is. He knows only that it is; that God has 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 enthusiast for the
Germans. For my part I cannot endure their harsh language."

"You would like it better, if you knew it better," answered Flemming.
"It is not harsh to me; but homelike, hearty, and full of feeling, like
the sound of happy voices at a fireside, of a winter's night, when the
wind blows, and the fire crackles, and hisses, and snaps. 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 with
knittingwork."

"O, those are English prejudices," exclaimed Flemming. "Nothing can be
more--"

"And their very literature presents itself to my imagination under 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 brown papers,
filled withgreasy cakes and slices of bacon; and of fryings in frowzy
back-parlours; and this shuts you out from a glorious world of poetry,
romance, and dreams!"

Mary Ashburton smiled, and Flemming continued to turn over the leaves
of the sketch-book, with an occasional criticism and witticism. At
length he came to a leaf which was written in pencil. People of a
lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when 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 poorest sketch in
the book. I was trying one day to draw the picture of an artist's life
in Rome, as it presented itself to my imagination; and this is the
result. Perhaps it may awaken some pleasant recollection in your mind."

Flemming waited no longer; but read with the eyes of a lover, not of a
critic, the following description, which inspired him with a new
enthusiasm for Art, and for Mary Ashburton.

"I often reflect with delight upon the young artist's life in Rome. A
stranger from the cold and gloomy North, he has crossed the Alps, and
with the devotion of a pilgrim journeyed to the Eternal City. He dwells
perhaps upon the Pincian Hill; and hardly a house there, which is not
inhabited by artists from foreign lands. The very room he lives in has
been their abode from time out of mind. Their names are written all
over the walls; perhaps some further record of them left in a rough
sketch upon the window-shutter, with an inscription and a date. These
things consecrate the place, in his imagination. Even these names,
though unknown to him, are not without associations in his mind.

"In that warm latitude he rises with the day. The night-vapors are
already rolling away over the Campagna sea-ward. As he looks from his
window, above and beyond their white folds he recognises the tremulous
blue sea at Ostia. Over Soracte rises the sun,--over his own beloved
mountain; though no longer worshipped there, asof old. Before him, the
antique house, where Raphael lived, casts its long, brown shadow down
into the heart of modern Rome. The city lies still asleep and silent.
But above its dark roofs, more than two hundred steeples catch the
sunshine on their gilded weather-cocks. Presently the bells begin to
ring, and, as the artist listens to their pleasant chimes, he knows
that in each of those churches over the high altar, hangs a painting by
some great master's hand, whose beauty comes between him and heaven, so
that he cannot pray, but wonder 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 the
Corridor Chiaramonti,--through vestibules, galleries, chambers,--he
passes, as in a dream. All are filled with busts and statues; or
painted in daring frescoes. What forms of strength and beauty! what
glorious creations of the human mind! and in that last chamber of all,
standing alone upon his pedestal, the Apollo found at Actium,--in such
a majestic attitude,--with such a noble countenance, life-like,
god-like!

"Or perhaps he passes into the chambers of the painters; but goes no
further than the second. For in the middle of that chamber a large
painting stands upon the heavy easel, as if unfinished, though more
than three hundred years ago the great artist completed it, and then
laid his pencil away forever, leaving this last benediction to the
world. It is the Transfiguration of Christ by Raphael. A child looks
not at the stars with greater wonder, than the artist at this painting.
He knows how many studious years are in that picture. He knows the
difficult path that leads to perfection, having himself taken some of
the first steps.--Thus he recalls the hour, when that broad canvass was
first stretched upon its frame, and Raphael stood before it, and laid
the first colors upon it, and beheld the figures one by one born into
life, and 'looked upon the work of his own hands with a smile, that it
should have succeeded so well.' He recalls too, the hour, when, the
task accomplished, the pencil dropped from the master's dying hand, and
his eyes closed to open on a more glorious transfiguration, and at
length the dead Raphael lay in his own studio, before this wonderful
painting, more glorious than any conqueror under the banners and
armorial hatchments of his funeral!

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

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

"The whole period of the Middle Ages seems very strange to me. At times
I cannot persuade myself that such things could have been, as history
tells us; that such a strange world was a part of our world,--that such
a strange life was a part of the life, which seems to us who are living
it now, so passionless and commonplace. It is only when I stand amid
ruined castles, that look at me so mournfully, and behold the heavy
armour of old knights, hanging upon the wainscot of Gothic chambers; or
when I walk amid the aisles of some dusky minster, whose walls are
narrative ofhoar antiquity, and whose very bells have been baptized,
and see the carved oaken stalls in 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 to their midnight psalms;--it is only at such
times, that the history of the Middle Ages is a reality to me, and not
a passage in romance.

"Likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those ages have something of
this power of making the dead Past a living Present in my mind. What
curious figures are emblazoned on the creaking parchment, making its
yellow leaves laugh with gay colors! You seem to come upon them
unawares. Their faces have an expression of wonder. They seem all to be
just startled from their sleep by the sound you made when you unloosed
the brazen clasps, and opened the curiously-carved oaken covers, that
turn on hinges, like the great gates of a city. To the building of that
city some diligent monk gave the whole of a long life. With what
strange denizens he peopled it! Adam and Eve standing under a tree,
she, with the apple in her hand;--the patriarch Abraham, with a tree
growing out of his body, and his descendants sitting owl-like upon its
branches;--ladies with flowing locks of gold; knights in armour, with
most fantastic, long-toed shoes; jousts and tournaments; and
Minnesingers, and lovers, whose heads reach to the towers, where their
ladies sit;--and all so angular, so simple, so childlike,--all in such
simple 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 he had just
bought as a present for somebody's child in England; and a cane with a
chamois-horn on the end of it, which he had just bought for himself.
This was the first time, that Flemming had been sorry to see the
good-natured man. His presence interrupted the delightful conversation
he was carrying on "under four eyes," with Mary Ashburton. He
reallythought Berkley a bore, and wondered it had never occurred to him
before. Mrs. Ashburton, too, must needs lay down her book; and the
conversation became general. Strange to say, the Swiss dinner-hour of
one o'clock, did not come a moment too soon for Flemming. It did not
even occur to him that it was early; for he was 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, he drew
from his pocket a medical thesis, and presented it to her, as the
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 same thing; and so often,
that it had become a habit. He was continually drawing, from his pocket
or his memory, some scrap of song or story; and inviting some fair
Angélique, either with her father's permission or without, to attend
the dissection of anauthor, upon whom he was to discourse. He soon gave
proofs of this to Mary Ashburton.

"What books have we here for afternoon reading?" said Flemming, taking
a volume from the parlour table, when they had returned from the
dining-room. "O, it is Uhland's Poems. Have you read any thing of his?
He and Tieck are the best living poets of Germany. They dispute 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 with angel-like
perfection.' I have opened at random upon the ballad of the Black
Knight. You repeat the German after me, and I will translate to you.
Pfingsten war, das Fest der Freude!"

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

"Well, then, listen. I will improvise a translation for your own
particular 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, "but rather
too grim and ghostly for this dull afternoon."

"It begins joyously enough with the feast of Pentecost, and the crimson
banners at the old castle. Then the contrast is well managed. The
Knight in black mail, and the waving in of the mighty shadow in the
dance, and the dropping of the faded flowers, are all strikingly
presented to the imagination. However, it tellsits own story, and needs
no explanation. Here is something in a different vein, though still
melancholy. The Castle by the Sea. Shall I read it?"

"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 a great
deal to his reader's imagination. All his readers should be poets
themselves, or they will hardly comprehend him. I confess, Ihardly
understand the passage where he speaks of the castle's stooping
downward to the mirrored wave below, and then soaring upward into the
gleaming sky. I suppose, however, he wishes to express the momentary
illusion we experience at beholding a perfect reflection of an old
tower in the sea, and look at it as if it were not a mere shadow in the
water; and yet the real tower rises far above, and seems to float in
the crimson evening clouds. Is that the meaning?"

"I should think it was. To me it is all a beautiful cloud landscape,
which I comprehend and feel, and yet should find some difficulty
perhaps in explaining."

"And why need one always explain? Some feelings are quite
untranslatable. No language has yet been found for them. They gleam
upon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet, when we
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 with such a
spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought in where the
candlesare lighted, are found to be only worms, like so many others."

"Very true. We ought sometimes to be content with feeling. Here, now,
is an exquisite piece, which soothes one like the fall of evening
shadows,--like the dewy coolness of twilight after a sultry day. I
shall not give you a bald translation of my own, because I have 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 translated it?"

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

"And is Uhland always so soothing and spiritual?"

"Yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world. I am now trying to find
here a little poem on the Death of a Country Clergyman; in which he
introduces a beautiful picture. But I cannot turn to it. No matter. He
describes the spirit of the good old man, returning to earth on a
bright summer morning, and standing amid the golden corn and the red
and blue flowers, and mildly greeting the reapers as of old. The idea
is beautiful, is it not?"

"Yes, very beautiful!"

"But there is nothing morbid in Uhland's mind. He is always fresh and
invigorating, like a breezy morning. In this he differs entirely from
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 their hands,
sobbing and sighing, and making signals to Death, to come and ferry
them over the lake. And now their spirits stand in the green fields of
German song, like two weeping-willows, bending over agrave. To read
their poems, is like wandering through a village churchyard on a summer
evening, reading the inscription upon the grave-stones, and recalling
sweet images of the departed; while above 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 poems here. I
should like to read to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient Castle.
It is an imitation of Gray's Elegy. You have been at Baden-Baden?

"Yes; last summer."

"And have not forgotten--"

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

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

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

"I am sorry I have not a translation of it for you. Instead of it I
will give you a sweet and mournful poem from Salis. It is called the
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 her tears.
Flemming wondered, that Berkley could say she was not beautiful. Still
he was rather pleased than offended at it. He felt at that moment how
sweet a thing it would be to possess one, who should seem beautiful to
him alone, and yet to him be more beautiful than all the world beside!
How bright the world became to him at that thought! It was like one of
those paintings in which all the light streams from the face of the
Virgin. O, there is nothing holier in this life of ours, than the first
consciousness of love,--the first fluttering of its silken wings; the
first rising sound and breath of thatwind, which is so soon to sweep
through the soul, to purify or to destroy!

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

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

And, through the silence of the awful midnight, the voice of an
avalanche answered from the distant mountains, and seemed to say;

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




CHAPTER VII. TAKE CARE!

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

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

"And the mountains, beyond," he continued; "the Monk and the
Silver-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 the hills
opposite. It was there that I was most moved by the magnificence of
Swiss scenery. It was a morning like this; and the clouds, that were
hovering about on their huge, shadowy wings, made the scene only the
more magnificent. Before me lay the whole panorama of the Alps; pine
forests standing dark and solemn at the base of the mountains; and
half-way up a veil of mist; above which rose the snowy summits, and
sharp needles of rock, which seemed to float in the air, like a fairy
world. Then the glaciersstood on either side, winding down through the
mountain ravines; and, high above all, rose the white, dome-like summit
of Mont Blanc. And ever and anon from the shroud of mist came the awful
sound of an avalanche, and a continual roar, as of the wind through a
forest of pines, filled the air. It was the roar of the Arve and
Aveiron, breaking from their icy fountains. Then the mists began to
pass away; and it seemed as if the whole firmament were rolling
together. It recalled to my mind that sublime passage in the
Apocalypse; 'I saw a great white throne; and him that sat thereon;
before whose face the heavens and the earth fled away, and found no
place!' O, I cannot believe that upon this earth there is a more
magnificent scene."

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

"Yes; it filled me with a strange sensation of awe to think of this.
They seemed to me like the dragons of Northern Romance, which come down
from the mountains and devour whole villages. A little hamlet in
Chamouni was once abandoned by its inhabitants, terrified at the
approach of the icy dragon. But is it possible you have never been at
Chamouni?

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

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

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

I do not mean to describe the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, nor the bright
day passed there. I know that my gentle reader is blessed with the
divine gift of a poetic fancy; and can see already how the mountains
rise, and the torrents fall, and the sweet valley lies between; and
how, along the dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and travellers
come and go in charabans, like Punch and Judy in a show-box. He knows
already how romantic ladies sketch romantic scenes; while sweet
gentlemen gather sweet flowers; and how cold meat tastes under the
shadow of trees, and how time flies when we are 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 slope near the
Staubbach, or Brook of Dust, when a young man clad in green, came down
the valley. It was a German student, with flaxen ringlets hanging over
his shoulders, and a guitar in his hand. His step was free and elastic,
and his countenance wore the joyous expression of youth and health. He
approached the company with a courteous 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 love makes us compassionate and generous. Flemming
gave him a piece of gold; and after a short conversation he seated
himself, at alittle distance on the grass, and began to play and sing.
Wonderful and many were the sweet accords and plaintive sounds that
came from that little instrument, touched by the student's hand. Every
feeling of the human heart seemed to find an expression there, and
awaken a kindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard him. He sang
sweet German songs, so full of longing, and of pleasing sadness, and
hope and fear, and passionate desire, and soul-subduing sorrow, that
the tears came into Mary Ashburton's eyes, though she understood not
the words he sang. Then his countenance glowed with triumph, and he
beat the 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 into Flemming'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, which resounded
above the loud clang of his guitar, like the jeering laugh of Till
Eulenspiegel. Then slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he took off
his green cap, and made a leg to the ladies, in the style of Gil Blas;
waved his hand in the air, and walked quickly down the valley, singing
"Adé! Adé! Adé!"




CHAPTER VIII. THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

The power of magic in the Middle Ages created monsters, who followed
the unhappy magician everywhere. The power of Love in all ages creates
angels, who likewise follow the happy or unhappy lover everywhere, even
in his dreams. By such an angel was Paul Flemming now haunted, both
when he waked and when he slept. He walked as in a dream; 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 in every sound he
heard; and it was the voice of Mary Ashburton! Day and night succeeded
each other, with pleasant interchange of light and darkness; but to him
thepassing of time was only as a dream. When he arose in the morning,
he thought only of her, and wondered if she were yet awake; and when he
lay down at night he thought only of 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 in
day-dreams, hardly less real; for, in each delirious vision of his
waking hours, her beauteous form passed like the form of Beatrice
through Dante's heaven; and, as he lay in the summer afternoon, and
heard at times the sound of the wind in the trees, and the sound of
Sabbath bells ascending up to heaven, holy wishes and prayers ascended
with them from his inmost soul, beseeching that he might not love in
vain! And whenever, in silence and alone, he looked into the silent,
lonely countenance of Night, he recalled the impassioned lines 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 this page,
and laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are near thee,
thou, too, must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone; and confess,
that a foolish world is prone to laugh in public, at what in private it
reverences, as one of the highest impulses of our nature,--namely,
Love!

One by one the objects of our affection depart from us. But our
affections remain, and like vines stretch forth their broken, wounded
tendrils for support. The bleeding heart needs a balm to heal it; and
there is none but the love of its kind,--none but the affection of a
human heart! Thus the wounded, broken affections of Flemming began to
lift themselves from the dust and cling around this new object. Days
and weeks passed; and, like the Student Crisostomo, he ceased to love
because he began to adore. And with this adoration mingled the prayer,
that, in that hour when the world is still, and the voices that praise
are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight, and themaiden, in her
day-dreams, counted the number of her friends, some voice in the sacred
silence of her thoughts might whisper his name! And was it indeed so?
Did any voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts whisper his
name?--We shall soon learn.

They were sitting together one morning, on the green, flowery meadow,
under the ruins of Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching the ruins. The
birds were singing one and all, as if there were no aching hearts, no
sin nor sorrow, in the world. So motionless was the bright air, that
the shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass. The distant
snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and nothing frowned, save the square
tower of the old ruin above them.

"What a pity it is," said the lady, as she stopped to rest her weary
fingers; "what a pity it is, that there is no old tradition connected
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 very old one
for the Black Forest. A lady with dishevelled hair; a robber with a
horrible slouched hat; and a night-storm among the roaring pines."

"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 golden threads of
thought, they will float away on the air like gossamer threads, 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 the leaves 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 shining leaves and
rustic benches underneath their overhanging eaves! A leafy dwelling,
fit to be the home of elf or fairy, where first I told my love to thee,
thou cold and stately Hermione! A little peasant girl stood near, and
listened all the while, with eyes of wonder and delight, and an
unconscious smile, to hear the stranger still speak on in accents deep
yet mild,--none else was with us in that hour, save God and that
peasant child!"

"Why, it is in rhyme!"

"No, no! the rhyme is only in your imagination. You promised not to
interrupt me, and you have already snapped asunder the gossamer threads
of as sweet a dream as was ever spun from a poet's brain."

"It certainly did rhyme!"

"This was the reverie of the Student Hieronymus, as he sat at midnight
in his chamber, with his hands clasped together, and resting upon
anopen volume, which he should have been reading. His pale face was
raised, and the pupils of his eyes dilated as if the spirit-world were
open before him, and some beauteous vision were standing there, and
drawing the student's soul through his eyes up into Heaven, as the
evening sun through parting summer-clouds, seems to draw into its bosom
the vapors of the earth. O, it was a sweet vision! I can see it before
me now!

"Near the student stood an antique bronze lamp, with strange figures
carved upon it. It was a magic lamp, which once belonged to the Arabian
astrologer El Geber, in Spain. Its light was beautiful as the light of
stars; and, night after night, as the lonely wight sat alone and read
in his lofty tower, through the mist, and mirk, and dropping rain, it
streamed out into the darkness, and was seen by many wakeful eyes. To
the poor Student Hieronymus it was a wonderful Aladdin's Lamp; for in
its flame a Divinity revealed herself unto him, and showed him
treasures. Whenever he opened a ponderous, antiquatedtome, it seemed as
if some angel opened for him the gates of Paradise; and already he was
known in the city as Hieronymus the Learned.

"But, alas! he could read no more. The charm was broken. Hour after
hour he passed with his hands clasped before him, and his fair eyes
gazing at vacancy. What could so disturb the studies of this melancholy
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 have thoughtlessly
looked at the sun, our dazzled eyes, though closed, behold it still; so
he beheld by day and by night the radiant image of her upon whom he had
too rashly gazed. Alas! he was unhappy; for the proud Hermione
disdained the love of a poor student, whose only wealth was a magic
lamp. In marble halls, and amid the gay crowd that worshipped her, she
had almost forgotten that such a being lived as the Student Hieronymus.
The adoration of his heart had been to her only as the perfume of a
wild flower, which she had carelessly crushedwith her foot in passing.
But he had lost all; for he had lost the quiet of his thoughts; and his
agitated soul reflected only broken and distorted images of things. The
world laughed at the poor student, who, in his torn and threadbare
cassock, dared to lift his eyes to the Lady Hermione; while he sat
alone, in his desolate chamber, and suffered in silence. He remembered
many things, which he would fain forget; but which, if he had forgotten
them, he would wish again to remember. Such were the linden-trees of
Bülach, under whose pleasant shade he had told his love to Hermione.
This was the scene which he wished most to forget, yet loved most to
remember; and of this he was now dreaming, with his hands clasped upon
his book, and that kind of music in his thoughts, which you, Lady,
mistook for rhyme.

"Suddenly the cathedral clock struck twelve with a melancholy clang. It
roused the Student Hieronymus from his dream; and rang in his ears,
like the iron hoofs of the steeds of Time. Themagic hour had come, when
the Divinity of the lamp most willingly revealed herself to her votary.
The bronze figures seemed alive; a white cloud 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, like distant, sweetchiming bells, announced
the approach of the midnight Divinity. Through his streaming tears the
heart-broken Student beheld 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 grew more calm; for her presence was, to his feverish heart,
like a tropical night,--beautiful and soothing and invigorating. At
length she stood before him revealed in all her beauty; and he
comprehended the visible language of her sweet but silent lips; which
seemed to say;--'What would the Student Hieronymus to-night?'--'Peace!'
he answered, raising his clasped hands, and smiling through histears.
'The Student Hieronymus imploreth peace!' 'Then go,' said the spirit,
'go to the Fountain of Oblivion in the deepest solitude of the Black
Forest, and cast this scroll into its waters; and thou shalt be at
peace once more. Hieronymus opened his arms to embrace the Divinity,
for her countenance assumed the features of Hermione; but she vanished
away; the music ceased; the gorgeous cloud-land sank and fell asunder;
and the student was alone within the four bare walls of his chamber. As
he bowed his head downward, his eye fell upon a parchment scroll, which
was lying beside the lamp. Upon it was written only the name of
Hermione!

"The next morning Hieronymus put the scroll into his bosom, and went
his way in search of the Fountain of Oblivion. A few days brought him
to the skirts of the Black Forest. He entered, not without a feeling of
dread, that land of shadows; and passed onward under melancholy pines
and cedars, whose branches grew abroad and mingled together, and, as
they swayed up and down, filled the air with solemn twilight and a
sound of sorrow. As he advanced into the forest, the waving moss hung,
like curtains, from the branches overhead, and more and more shut out
the light of heaven; and he knew that the Fountain of Oblivion was not
far off. Even then the sound of falling waters was mingling with the
roar of the pines overhead; and ere long he came to a river, moving in
solemn majesty through the forest, and falling with a dull, leaden
sound into a motionless and stagnant lake, above which the branches of
the forest met and mingled, forming perpetual night. This was the
Fountain of Oblivion.

"Upon its brink the student paused, and gazed into the dark waters with
a steadfast look. They were limpid waters, dark with shadows only. And
as he gazed, he beheld, far down in their silent depths, dim and
ill-defined outlines, wavering to and fro, like the folds of a white
garment in the twilight. Then more distinct and permanent shapes
arose;--shapes familiar to his mind, yet forgotten and remembered
again, as the fragmentsof a dream; till at length, far, far below him
he beheld the great city of the Past, with silent marble streets, and
moss-grown walls, and spires uprising with a wave-like, flickering
motion. And amid the crowd that thronged those streets, he beheld faces
once familiar and dear to him; and heard sorrowful, sweet voices,
singing; 'O forget us not! forget us not!' and then the distant,
mournful sound of funeral bells, that were tolling below, in the city
of the Past. But in the gardens of that city, there were children
playing, and among them, one who wore his features, as they had been in
childhood. He was leading a little girl by the hand, and caressed her
often, and adorned her with flowers. Then, like a dream, the scene
changed, and the boy had grown older, and stood alone, gazing into the
sky; and, as he gazed, his countenance changed again, and Hieronymus
beheld him, as if it had been his own image in the clear water; and
before him stood a beauteous maiden, whose face was like the face of
Hermione, and he feared 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 breathed freely again, when he found the scroll still there. He
drew it forth, and read the blessed name of Hermione, and the city
beneath him vanished away, and the air grew fragrant as with the breath
of May-flowers, and a light streamed through the shadowy forest and
gleamed upon the lake; and the Student Hieronymus pressed the dear name
to his lips and exclaimed with streaming eyes; 'O, scorn me as thou
wilt, still, still will I love thee; and thy name shall irradiate the
gloom of my life, and make the waters of Oblivion smile!' And the name
was no longer Hermione, but was changed to Mary; and the Student
Hieronymus--is lying at your feet! O, gentle Lady!

'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 lady sat
on the border of the green, sunny meadow! The hearts of some women
tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and
then are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the
breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest. And such was the
proud heart of Mary Ashburton. It had remained unmoved by the presence
of this stranger; and the sound of his footsteps and his voice excited
in it no emotion. He had deceived himself! Silently they walked
homeward through the green meadow. The very sunshine was sad; and the
rising wind, through the old ruin above them, sounded in his ears like
a hollow laugh!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is a miserable piece of business!" exclaimed Berkley, when he had
finished. "Strange enough! And yet I have long ceased to marvel at the
caprices of women. Did not Pan captivate the chaste Diana? Did not
Titania love Nick Bottom, with his ass's head? Do you think that
maidens' eyes are no longer touched with the juice of love-in-idleness!
Take my word for it, she is in love with somebody else. There must be
some reason for this. No; women never have any reasons, except their
will. But never mind. Keep a stout heart. Care killed a cat. After
all,--what is she? Who is she? Only a--"

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

"Yes," answered Berkley; "that is the waywith you all, you young men.
You see a sweet face, or a something, you know not what, and flickering
reason says, Good night; amen to common sense. The imagination invests
the beloved object with a thousand superlative charms; furnishes her
with all the purple and fine linen, all the rich apparel and furniture,
of human nature. I did the same when I was young. I was once as
desperately in love as you are now; and went 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 certain attributes,'
said the lady. 'Damn your attributes, Madam,' said I; 'I know nothing
of attributes.' 'Sir,' said she, with dignity, 'you have been
drinking.' So we parted. She was married afterwards to another, who
knew something about attributes, I suppose. I have seen her once since,
and only once. She had a baby in a yellow gown. I hate 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 my word for it."

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

"O, never mind the lot," cried Berkley laughing, "so long as you don't
get Lot's wife. If the cucumber is bitter, throw it away, as the
philosopher Marcus Antoninus says, in his Meditations. Forget her, 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 too deep ever
to heal. I shall carry it with me always. I enter no more into the
world, but will dwell only in the world of my own thoughts. All great
and unusual occurrences, whether of joy or sorrow, lift us above this
earth; and we should do well always to preserve this elevation.
Hitherto I have not done so. But now I will no more descend; I will sit
apart and above the world, with my mournful, yet holy thoughts."

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

"No, my friend; you do not understand my character," said Flemming,
shaking his head. "I love this woman with a deep, and lasting
affection. I shall never cease to love her. This may be madness in me;
but so it is. Alas and alas! Paracelsus of old wasted life in trying to
discover its elixir, which after all turned out to be alcohol; and
instead of being made immortal upon earth, he died drunk on the floor
of a tavern. The like happens to many of us. We waste our best years in
distilling the sweetest flowers of life into love-potions, which after
all do not immortalize, butonly intoxicate us. 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 still flatter
yourself, that the lady's heart may change. The great secret of
happiness consists not in enjoying, but in renouncing. But it is hard,
very hard. Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king. I dare say 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 is carried up to him as usual,
and the court physician tastes it, to see that it be not poisoned, and
then the servants bear it out again, saying 'The King does not dine
to-day.' Hope in our souls is King; and we also say, 'The King never
dies.' Even when in reality he lies dead within us, in a kind of solemn
mockery we offer him his accustomed food, but are constrainedto say,
'The King does not dine to-day.' It must be an evil day, indeed, when a
king of Naples has no heart for his dinner! but you yourself are a
proof, that the King never dies. You are feeding your King, although
you say he is dead."

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

"You are right," said Berkley; "there is nothing so good for sorrow as
rapid motion in the open air. I shall go with you; though probably your
conversation will not be very various; nothing but Edward and
Kunigunde."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Go to Berlin, and you will find out. However, jesting apart, I will 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's Providence,
which brought us together, to punish me for my sins."

"O, my friend," interrupted Berkley, "if you see the finger of
Providence so distinctly in every act of your life, you will end by
thinking yourself an Apostle and Envoy Extraordinary. I see nothing so
very uncommon in what has happened to you."

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

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

On the following morning, Flemming and Berkleystarted on their way to
Innsbruck, like Huon of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their way to
Babylon. Berkley's self-assumed duty was to console his companion; a
duty which he performed like an old Spanish Matadora, a woman whose
business was to attend the sick, and put her elbow into the 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 all the
company to sleep by reading to them from a book. Some books have this
power of themselves and need no necromancer. Fearing, gentle reader,
that mine may be of this kind, I have provided these introductory
chapters, from time to time, like stalls or Misereres in a church, with
flowery canopies and poppy-heads over them, where thou mayest sit down
and sleep.

No,--the figure is not a bad one. This book does somewhat resemble a
minster, in the Romanesque style, with pinnacles, and flying
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 of life; a
mysterious light streams through the painted glass of the marigold
windows, staining the cusps and crumpled leaves of the window-shafts,
and the cherubs and holy-water-stoups below. Here and there is an image
of the Virgin Mary; and other images, "in divers vestures, called
weepers, stand in housings made about the tomb"; and, above all, swells
the vast dome of heaven, with its star-mouldings, and the flaming
constellations, like the mosaics in the dome of St. Peter's. Have you
not heard funeral psalms from the chauntry? Have you not heard the
sound of church-bells, as I promised; mysterious sounds from the Past
and Future, as from the belfries outside the cathedral; even such a
mournful, mellow, watery peal of bells, as is heard sometimes at sea,
from cities afar off below the horizon?

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

But perhaps, gentle reader, thou art one of those, who think the days
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 ever written.
Thou art not less a woman, because thou dost not sit aloft in a tower,
with a tassel-gentle on thy wrist! Thou art not less a man, because
thou wearest no hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest not on horseback
after foolish adventures! Nay, nay! Every one has a Romance in his own
heart. All that has blessed or awed the world lies 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 be written,
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 blind old world, as Jacob came
before the patriarch Isaac, clothed in the goodly raiment of his
brother Esau. And the world, like the patriarch, is often deceived;
for, though the voice is Jacob's voice, yet the hands are the hands of
Esau, and the False takes away the birth-right and the blessing from
the True. Hence it is, that the world so often lifts up its voice and
weeps.

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

That is the very point I am now thinking of, as I sit here at my
pleasant chamber window, and enjoy the balmy air of a bright summer
morning, and watch the motions of the golden robin, that sits on its
swinging nest on the outermost, pendulous branch of yonder elm. The
broad meadows and the steel-blue river remind me of the meadows of
Unterseen, and the river Aar; and beyond them rise magnificent
snow-white clouds, piled up like Alps. Thus the shades of Washington
and William Tell seem to walk together on these Elysian Fields; for it
was here, that in days long gone, our great Patriot dwelt; and yonder
clouds so much resemble the snowy Alps, that they remind me
irresistibly of the Swiss. Noble examples of a high purpose and a fixed
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 than the
southern window at which I sit and write, in this old mansion, which is
like an Italian Villa. But O, this lassitude,--thisweariness,--when all
around me is so bright! I have this morning a singular longing for
flowers; a wish to stroll among the roses and carnations, and inhale
their breath, as if it would revive me. I wish I knew the man, who
called flowers "the fugitive poetry of Nature." From this distance,
from these scholastic shades,--from this leafy, blossoming, and
beautiful Cambridge, I stretch 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 ever knocking at
the door of the grave. But I am not old. The Spanish poet might have
included the young also.--No matter! Courage, and forward! The Romance
must be finished; and finished soon.

O thou poor authorling! Reach a little deeper into the human heart!
Touch those strings,--touch those deeper strings, and more boldly, or
the notes will die away like whispers, and no earshall hear them, save
thine own! And, to cheer thy solitary labor, remember, that the secret
studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the
bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of Oblivion. They are out
of sight; but without them no superstructure can stand secure!

And now, Reader, since the sermon is over, and we are still sitting
here in this Miserere, let us read aloud a page from the old parchment
manuscript on the lettern before us; let us sing it through these dusky
aisles, like a Gregorian Chant, and startle the sleeping congregation!

"I have read of the great river Euripus, which ebbeth and floweth seven
times a day, and with such violence, that it carrieth ships upon it
with full sail, directly against the wind. Seven times in an hour
ebbeth and floweth rash opinion, in the torrent of indiscreet and
troublesome apprehensions; carrying critic calumny and squint-eyed
detraction mainly against the wind of wisdom and judgment."

In secula seculorum! Amen!




CHAPTER II. CURFEW BELLS.

Welcome Disappointment! Thy hand is cold and hard, but it is the hand
of a friend! Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice of a
friend! O, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something
sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without
complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success!

The emperor Isaac Angelus made a treaty with Saladin, and tried to
purchase the Holy Sepulchre with gold. Richard Lion-heart scorned such
alliance, and sought to recover it by battle. Thus do weak minds make
treaties with the passions they cannot overcome, and try to purchase
happiness at the expense of principle. But the resolute will of a
strong man scorns such means; and struggles nobly with his foe, to
achieve great deeds. Therefore, whosoever thou art that sufferest, try
not to dissipate thy sorrow by the breath of the world, nor drown its
voice in thoughtless merriment. It is a treacherous peace that is
purchased by indulgence. Rather take this sorrow to thy heart, and make
it a part of thee, and it shall nourish thee till thou art strong
again.

The shadows of the mind are like those of the body. In the morning of
life they all lie behind us; at noon, we trample them under foot; and
in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us. Are
not, then, the sorrows of childhood as dark as those of age? Are not
the morning shadows of life as deep and broad as those of its evening?
Yes; but morning shadows soon fade away, while those of evening reach
forward into the night and mingle with the coming darkness. Man is
begotten in delight and born in pain; and in these are the rapture and
labor of his life fore-shadowed from the beginning. But thelife of man
upon this fair earth is made up for the most part of little pains and
little pleasures. The great wonder-flowers bloom but once in a
lifetime.

A week had already elapsed since the events recorded in the last
chapter. Paul Flemming went his way, a melancholy man, "drinking the
sweet wormwood of his sorrow." He did not rail at Providence and call
it fate, but suffered and was silent. It is a beautiful trait in the
lover's character, that he thinks no evil of the object loved. What he
suffered was no swift storm of feeling, that passes away with a noise,
and leaves the heart clearer; but a dark phantom had risen up in the
clear night, and, like that of Adamastor, hid the stars; and if it ever
vanished away for a season, still the deep sound of the moaning main
would be heard afar, through many a dark and lonely hour. And thus he
journeyed on, wrapped in desponding gloom, and mainly heedless of all
things around him. His mind was distempered. That one face was always
before him; that one voice forever saying;

"You are not the Magician."

Painful, indeed, it is to be misunderstood and undervalued by those we
love. But this, too, in our life, must we learn to bear without a
murmur; for it is a tale often repeated.

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

"This is a strange, fantastic world," said Berkley, after a very long
silence, during which the two travellers had been sitting each in his
corner of the travelling carriage, wrapped in his own reflections. "A
very strange, fantastic world; where each one pursues his own golden
bubble, and laughs at his neighbour for doing the same. I have been
thinking how a moral Linnæus would classify our race. I think he would
divide it, not as Lord Byron did, into two great classes, the bores and
those who are bored, but into three, namely; Happy Men, Lucky Dogs, and
Miserable Wretches. This is more true and philosophical, though perhaps
not quite so comprehensive. He is the Happy Man, who, blessed with
modest ease, a wife and children,--sits enthroned in the hearts of his
family, and knows no other ambition, than that of making those around
him happy. But the Lucky Dog is he, who, free from all domestic cares,
saunters up and down his room, in morning gown and slippers; drums on
the window of a rainy day; and, as he stirs his evening fire, snaps his
fingers at the world, and says, 'I have no wife nor children, good or
bad, to provide for.' I had a friend, who is now no more. He was taken
away in the bloom of life, by a very rapid--widow. He was by birth and
by profession a beau,--born with a quizzing-glass and a cane. Cock of
the walk, he flapped his wings, and crowed among the feathered tribe.
But alas! a fair, white partlet has torn his crest out, and he shall
crow no more. You will generally find him of a morning, smelling round
a beef-cart, with domestic felicity written in every line of his
countenance; and sometimes meet him in a cross-street at noon, hurrying
homeward, with a beef-steak on a wooden skewer, or a fresh fish, with a
piece of tarred twine run through its gills. In the evening he rocks
the cradle, and gets up in the night when the child cries. Like a Goth,
of the Dark Ages, he consults his wife on all mighty matters, and looks
upon her as a being of more than human goodness and wisdom. In short,
the ladies all 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 is
hen-pecked. He is a Happy Man. I have another dear friend, who is a
sexagenary bachelor. He has one of those well-oiled dispositions, which
turn upon the hinges of the world without creaking. The hey-day of life
is over with him; but his old age is sunny and chirping; and a merry
heart still nestles in his tottering frame, like a swallow that builds
in a tumble-down chimney. He is a professed Squire of Dames. The rustle
of a silk gown is music to his ears, and his imagination is
continuallylantern-led by some will-with-a-wisp in the shape of a
lady's stomacher. In his devotion to the fair sex,--the muslin, as he
calls it,--he is the gentle flower of chivalry. It is amusing to see
how quick he strikes into the scent of a lady's handkerchief. When once
fairly in pursuit, there is no such thing as throwing him out. His
heart looks out at his eye; and his inward delight tingles down to the
tail of his coat. He loves to bask in the sunshine of a smile; when he
can breathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves and cambric
handkerchiefs, his soul is in its element; and his supreme delight is
to pass the morning, to use his own quaint language, 'in making dodging
calls, and wiggling round among the ladies!' He is a lucky dog!"

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

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

'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 quote the
songs of that witty and licentious age? Have you no better consolation
to offer me? How many, many times must I tell you, that I bear the lady
no ill-will. I do not blame her for not loving me. I desire her
happiness, even at the sacrifice of my own."

"That is generous in you, and deserves a better fate. But you are so
figurative in all you say, that a stranger would think you had no real
feeling,--and only fancied yourself in love."

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

"Kyrie Eleëson!"

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

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

Their conversation, which had begun so merrily, was here suddenly
interrupted by a rattling peal of thunder, that announced a
near-approaching storm. It was late in the afternoon, and the whole
heaven black with low, trailing clouds. Still blacker the storm came
sailing up majestically from the southwest, with almost unbroken
volleys of distant thunder. The wind seemed to be storming a cloud
redoubt; and marched onward with dust, and the green banners of the
trees flapping in the air, and heavy cannonading, and occasionally an
explosion, like the blowing up of a powder-wagon. Mingled with this was
the sound of thunder-bells from a village not far off. They were all
ringing dolefully to ward off the thunderbolt. At the entrance of the
village stood a large wooden crucifix; around which was a crowd of
priests and peasants, kneeling in the wet grass, by the roadside, with
their hands and eyes lifted toheaven, and praying for rain. Their
prayer was soon answered.

The travellers drove on with the driving wind and rain. They had come
from Landeck, and hoped to reach Innsbruck before midnight. Night
closed in, and Flemming fell asleep with the loud storm overhead, and
at his feet the roaring Inn, a mountain torrent leaping onward as wild
and restless, as when it first sprang from its 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 in his ear distinctly these words;

"They have brought the dead body."

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

"Then it was only a dream," said he to himself; "yet how distinct the
voice was! O, if we had spiritual organs, to see and hear things now
invisible and inaudible to us, we should behold the whole air filled
with the departing souls of that vast multitude which every moment
dies,--should behold them streaming up like thin vapors heaven-ward,
and hear the startling blast of the archangel's trump sounding
incessant through the universe and proclaiming the awful judgment day.
Truly the soul departs not alone on its last journey, but spirits of
its kind attend it, when not ministering angels; and they go in
families to the unknown land! Neither in life nor in death are we
alone."

He slept again at intervals; and at length, though long after midnight,
reached Innsbruck between sleeping and waking; his mind filled with dim
recollections of the unspeakably dismal night-journey;--the climbing of
hills, and plunging into dark ravines;--the momentary rattling of the
wheels over paved streets of towns, and the succeeding hollow rolling
and tramping on the wetearth;--the blackness of the night;--the thunder
and lightning and rain; the roar of waters, leaping through deep chasms
by the road-side, and the wind through the mountain-passes, sounding
loud and long, like the irrepressible laughter of the gods.

The travellers on the morrow lingered not long in Innsbruck. They did
not fail, however, to visit the tomb of Maximilian in the Franciscan
Church of the Holy Cross, and gaze with some admiration upon the
twenty-eight gigantic bronze statues of Godfrey of Bouillon, and King
Arthur and Ernest the Iron-man, and Frederick of the Empty Pockets,
kings and heroes, and others, which stand leaning on their swords
between the columns of the church, as if guarding the tomb of the dead.
These statues reminded Flemming of the bronze giants, which strike the
hours on the belfry of San Basso, in Venice, and of the flail-armed
monsters, that guarded the gateway of Angulaffer's castle in Oberon.
After gazing awhile at these motionless sentinels, they went forth, and
strolled throughthe public 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 the afternoon they drove on towards Salzburg through the magnificent
mountain-passes of Waidering and Unken.




CHAPTER III. SHADOWS ON THE WALL.

On the following morning Flemming awoke in a chamber of the Golden Ship
at Salzburg, just as the clock in the Dome-church opposite was striking
ten. The window-shutters were closed, and the room nearly dark. He was
lying on his back, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his eyes
looking up at the white curtains overhead. He thought them the white
marble canopy of a tomb, and himself the marble statue, lying beneath.
When the clock ceased striking, the eight and twenty gigantic bronze
statues from the Church of Holy Rood in Innsbruck stalked into the
chamber, and arranged themselves along the walls, which spread into
dimly-lighted aisles and arches. On the painted windows he saw
Interlachen, withits Franciscan cloister, and the Square Tower of the
ruins. In a pendent, overhead, stood the German student, as Saint
Vitus; and on a lavatory, or basin of holy-water, below, sat a cherub,
with the form and features of Berkley. Then the organ-pipes began to
blow, and he heard the voices of an invisible choir chanting. And anon
the gilded gates in the bronze screen before the chancel opened, and a
bridal procession passed through. The bride was clothed in the garb of
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 she passed.
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 a carved
stall, in the shape of an owl, flapped its broad wings, and hooted,
"Towhit! to-whoo!" Then the whole scene changed; and he thought himself
a monk's-head on a gutterspout; and it rained dismally; and Berkley was
standing under with an umbrella, laughing!

In other words, Flemming was in a ragingfever, and delirious. He
remained in this state for a week. The first thing he was conscious of
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 away like an
angry, red cloud, and the refreshing summer rain began to fall like dew
upon the parched earth. Still another week; and Flemming was, "sitting
clothed, and in his right mind." Berkley had been reading to him; and
still held the book in his hand, with his fore-finger between the
leaves. It was a volume of Hoffmann's writings.

"How very strange it is," said he, "that you can hardly open the
biography of any German author, but you will find it begin with an
account of his grandfather. It will tell you how the venerable old man
walked up and down the garden among the gay flowers, wrapped in his
morning gown, which is likewise covered with flowers, and perhaps
wearing on his head a little velvet cap. Oryou will find him sitting by
the chimney-corner in the great chair, smoking his ancestral pipe, with
shaggy eyebrows and eyes like birdsnests under the eaves of a house,
and a mouth like a Nuremberg nutcracker's. The future poet climbs upon
the old man's knees. His genius is not recognised yet. He is thought
for the most part a dull boy. His father is an austere man, or perhaps
dead. But the mother is still there, a sickly, saint-like woman, with
knitting-work, and an elder sister, who has already been in love, and
wears rings on her fingers;--

'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 I recollect
right."

"No, not precisely. Instead of the grandfather we have the grandmother,
a stately dame, who has long since shaken hands with the vanities of
life. The mother, separated from her husband, is sick in mind and body,
and flits to and fro, like a shadow. Then there is an affectionate
maiden aunt; and an uncle, a retired judge, the terror of little
boys,--the Giant Despair of this Doubting Castle in Koenigsberg; and
occasionally the benign countenance of a venerable grand-uncle, whom
Lamotte Fouqué called a hero of the olden time in morning gown and
slippers, looks in at the door and smiles. In the upper story of the
same house lived a poor boy with his mother, who was so far crazed as
to believe herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son the Saviour of
the world. Wild fancies, likewise, were to sweep through the brain of
that child. He was to meet Hoffmann elsewhere and be his friend in
after years, though as yet they knew nothing of each other. This was
Werner, who has made some noise in German literature as the author of
many wild Destiny-Dramas."

"Hoffmann died, I believe, in Berlin."

"Yes. He left Koenigsberg at twenty years of age, and passed the next
eight years of his life in the Prussian-Polish Provinces, where he held
some petty office under government; and took to himselfmany bad habits
and a Polish wife. After this he was Music-Director at various German
theatres, and led a wandering, wretched life for ten years. He then
went to Berlin as Clerk of the Exchange, and there remained till his
death, which took place some seven or eight years afterward."

"Did you ever see him?"

"I was in Berlin during his lifetime, and saw him frequently. I shall
never forget the first time. It was at one of the æsthetic Teas, given
by a literary lady Unter den Linden, where the lions were fed with
convenient food, from tea and bread and butter, up to oysters and
Rhine-wine. During the evening my attention was arrested by the
entrance of a strange little figure, with a wild head of brown hair.
His eyes were bright gray; and his thin lips closely pressed together
with an expression of not unpleasing irony. This strangelooking
personage began to bow his way through the crowd, with quick, nervous,
hinge-like motions, much resembling those of a marionette. He had a
hoarse voice, and such a rapid utterance, that although I understood
German well enough for ordinary purposes, I could not understand one
half he said. Ere long he had seated himself at the piano-forte, and
was improvising such wild, sweet fancies, that the music of one's
dreams is not more sweet and wild. Then suddenly some painful thought
seemed to pass over his mind, as if he imagined, that he was there to
amuse the company. He rose from the piano-forte, and seated himself in
another part of the room; where he began to make grimaces, and talk
loud while others were singing. 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 would see him plunge into an obscure and unfrequented
wine-cellar, and there, amid boon companions, with wine and
tobacco-smoke, and quirks and quibbles, and quaint, witty sayings, turn
the dim night into glorious day.' "

"What a strange being!"

"I once saw him at one of his night-carouses. He was sitting in his
glory, at the head of the table; not stupidly drunk, but warmed with
wine, which made him madly eloquent, as the Devil's Elixir did the 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 he found his way
homeward, having, like the souls of the envious in Purgatory, his
eyelids sewed together with iron wire;--though his was from champagne
bottles. At such hours he wrote his wild, fantastic tales. To his
excited fancy everything assumed a spectral look. The shadows of
familiar things about him stalked like ghosts through the haunted
chambers of his soul; and the old portraits on the walls winked at him,
and seemed stepping down from their frames; till, aghast at the
spectral throng about him, he would call his wife 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 course of
life for six years. I am astonished that it did not kill him sooner."

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

"Yes; his forty-sixth birth day found him sitting at home in his
arm-chair, with his friends around him. But the rare old wine,--he
always drank the best,--touched not the sick-man's lips that night. His
wonted humor was gone. Of all his 'jibes, his gambols, his songs, his
flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar, not
one now, to mock his own grinning!--quite chap-fallen.'--The
conversation was of death and the grave. And when one 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!' Five months after this he had
ceased to suffer, because he had ceased to live. He died piecemeal. His
feet and hands, his legs and arms, gradually, and in succession, became
motionless, dead. But his spirit was not dead, nor motionless; and,
through the solitary day or sleepless night, lying in his bed, he
dictated to an amanuensis his last stories. Strange stories, indeed,
were they for a dying man to write! Yet such delight did he take in
dictating them, that he said to his friend Hitzig, that, upon the
whole, he was willing to give up forever the use of his hands, if he
could but preserve the power of writing by dictation. Such was his love
of life,--of what he called the sweet habitude of being!"

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

"Yes, that was Hoffmann. Soon afterwards he died. The closing scene was
striking. He gradually lost all sensation, though his mind remained
vigorous. Feeling no more pain, he said to his physician; 'It will soon
be over now. I feel no more pain.' He thought himself well again; but
the physician knew that he was dying, and said; 'Yes, it will soon be
over!' The next morning he called his wife to his 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 have seldom fallen from the lips of man.
Shortly afterwards the flame of life glared up within him; he said he
was well again; that in the evening he should go on with the story he
was writing; and wished that the last sentence might be read over to
him. Shortly after this they turned his face to the wall, and he died."

"And thus passed to its account a human soul, after much self-inflicted
suffering. Let us tread lightly upon the poet's ashes. For my part, I
confess, that I have not the heart to take him from the general crowd
of erring, sinful men, and judge him harshly. The little I have seen of
the world, and know of the history of mankind, teaches me to look upon
the errors of others in sorrow, not inanger. When I take the history of
one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself
the struggles and temptations it has passed,--the brief pulsations of
joy,--the feverish inquie-tude of hope and fear,--the tears of
regret,--the feebleness of purpose,--the pressure of want,--the
desertion of friends,--the scorn of a world that has little
charity,--the desolation of the soul's sanctuary,--and threatening
voices within,--health gone,--happiness gone,--even hope, that stays
longest with us, gone,--I have little heart for aught else than
thankfulness, that it is not so with me, and would fain leave the
erring soul of my fellow-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 observe calmly how
tobacco, wine, and midnight did their work like fiends upon the
delicate frame of Hoffmann; and no less thoroughly upon his delicate
mind. He who drinks beer, thinks beer; and he who drinks wine, thinks
wine;--and he who drinks midnight, thinks midnight. He was a man of
rare intellect. He was endowed with racy humor and sarcastic wit, and a
glorious imagination. But the fire of his genius burned not peacefully,
and with a steady flame, upon the hearth of his home. It was a glaring
and irregular flame;--for the branches that he fed it with, were not
branches from the Tree of Life,--but from another tree that grew in
Paradise,--and they were wet with the unhealthy dews of night, and more
unhealthy wine; and thus, amid smoke and ashes the fire burned
fitfully, and went out with a glare, which leaves the beholder blind."

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

Berkley smiled; but Flemming continued without noticing the smile,
though he knew what was passing in the mind of his friend;

"The life and writings of this singular being interest me in a high
degree. Oftentimes one may learn more from a man's errors, than from
his virtues. Moreover, from the common sympathies of our nature, souls
that have struggled and suffered are dear to me. Willingly do I
recognise their brotherhood. Scars upon their foreheads do not so
deform them, that they cease to interest. They are always signs of
struggle; though alas! too often, likewise, of defeat. Seasons of
unhealthy, dreamy, vague delight, are followed by seasons ofweariness
and darkness. Where are then the bright fancies, that, amid the great
stillness of the night, arise like stars in the firmament of our souls?
The morning dawns, the light of common day shines in upon us, and the
heavens are without a star! From the lives of such men we learn, that
mere pleasant sensations are not happiness;--that sensual pleasures are
to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, from the palm of the hand; and
that those who bow down upon 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 the usual
defect of critics. Like Shakspeare's samphire-gatherer, they have a
dreadful trade! and, to make the simile complete, they ought to hang
for it!"

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

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

"He was a Lorrain painter of the seventeenth century, celebrated for
his wild and grotesque conceptions. These sketches of Hoffmann are
imitations of his style. They are full of humor, poetry, and brilliant
imagination."

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

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

Thereupon Berkley leaned back in his easychair, and read as follows.




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. It was a true
swarm of bees, leaving the old hive. Gottlieb has lighted fresh candles
for me, and placed a bottle of Burgundy on the piano-forte. I can play
no more, I am perfectly exhausted. My glorious old friend here on the
music-stand is to blame for that. Again he has borne me away through
the air, as Mephistopheles did Faust, and so high, that I took not the
slightest notice of the little men under me, though I dare say they
made noise enough. A rascally, worthless, wasted evening! But now I am
well and merry! However, while I was playing, I took out my pencil, and
on pagesixty-three, under the last system, noted down a couple of good
flourishes in cipher with my right hand, while the left was struggling
away in the torrent of sweet sounds. Upon the blank page at the end I
go on writing. I leave all ciphers and sweet tones, and with true
delight, like a sick man restored to health, who can never stop
relating what he has suffered, I note down here circumstantially the
dire agonies of this evening's tea-party. And not for myself alone, but
likewise for all those who from time to time may amuse and edify
themselves with my copy of John Sebastian Bach's Variations for the
Piano-forte, published by Nägeli in Zürich, 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 the moment I get through this doleful
statement of grievances,) turn over the leaf and read.

"They will at once see the connexion. They know, that the Geheimerath
Rödelein's house is a charming house to visit in, and that he has two
daughters, of whom the whole fashionable world proclaims with
enthusiasm, that they dance like goddesses, speak French like angels,
and play and sing and draw like the Muses. The Geheimerath Rödelein is
a rich man. At his quarterly dinners he brings on the most delicious
wines and richest dishes. All is established on a footing of the
greatest elegance; and whoever at his tea-parties does not amuse
himself heavenly, has no ton, no esprit, and particularly no taste for
the fine arts. It is with an eye to these, that, with the tea, punch,
wine, ice-creams, etc., a little music is always served up, which, like
the other refreshments, is very quietly swallowed by the fashionable
world.

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

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

"'Schönes Fräulein! do not refuse us the gratification of your heavenly
talent! O, sing something! that's a good dear!--impossible,--bad
cold,--the last ball! have not practised anything,--oh, do, do, we beg
of you,' etc.

"Meanwhile Gottlieb has opened the piano-forte, and placed the
well-known music-book on the stand; and from the card-table cries the
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 sing first.

"'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 both begin
together with a duet, is loudly applauded;--the music-book is thumbed
over, and the leaf, carefully folded down, is at length found, and away
we go with Dolce dell' anima, etc.

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

"After the duet, a universal chorus of applause! And now arriettas and
duettinos succeed each other, and right merrily I hammer away at the
thousand-times-repeated accompaniment. During the singing, the
Finanzräthin Eberstein, by coughing and humming, has given to
understand that she also sings. Fräulein Nanette says;

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

"A new tumult arises. She has a bad cold in her head,--she does not
know anything by heart! Gottlieb brings straightway two armfuls of
music-books; and the leaves are turned over again and again. First she
thinks she will sing Der Hölle Rache, etc., then Hebe sich, etc., then
Ach, Ich liebte, etc. In this embarrassment, I propose, Ein Veilchen
auf der Wiese, etc. But she is for the heroic style; she wants to make
a display, and finally selects the aria in Constantia.

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

"The applause was unbounded; and some one observed, that the
Finanzräthin and Mozart had put me quite in a blaze. I smiled with
downcast eyes, very stupidly. I could but acknowledge it. And now all
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 Kratzer sings, you
know, a heavenly bass, as was observed by the gentleman yonder, with
the head of Titus Andronicus, who modestly remarked also, that he
himself was properly only a second-ratetenor; but, though he said it,
who should not say it, was nevertheless member of several academies of
music. Forthwith preparations are made for the first chorus in the
opera of Titus. It went off gloriously. The Canonicus, standing close
behind me, thundered out the bass over my head, as if he were singing
with bass-drums and trumpet obbligato in a cathedral. He struck the
notes gloriously; but in his hurry he got the tempo just about twice
too slow. However, he was true to himself at least in this, that
through the whole piece he dragged along just half a beat behind the
rest. The others showed a most decided penchant 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 accidental rising and falling of the voice, say some quarter
of a note.

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

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

"That was the highest point of the musical exhibition this evening.
'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 most exquisite
voluntaries! Now do play us one; only a short one, I entreat you!'

"I answered very drily, that to-day my fantasies had all gone a
wool-gathering; and, while we are talking about it, a devil, in the
shape of a dandy, with two waistcoats, had smelt out Bach's Variations,
which were lying under my hat in the next room. He thinks they are
merely little variations, such as Nel cor mio non più 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 attack me. So then, 'Listen,
and burst with ennui,' think I to myself,--and begin to work away.

"When I had got to variation number three, several ladies departed,
followed by the gentleman with the Titus-Andronicus head. The
Rödeleins, as their teacher was playing, stood it out, though not
without difficulty, to number twelve. Number fifteen made the man with
two waistcoats take to his heels. Out of most excessive politeness, the
Baron stayed till number thirty, and drank up all the punch, which
Gottlieb placed on the piano-forte for me.

"I should have brought all to a happy conclusion, but, alas! this
number thirty,--the theme,--tore me irresistibly away. Suddenly the
quarto leaves spread out to a gigantic folio, on which a thousand
imitations and developments of the theme stood written, and I could not
choose but play them. The notes became alive, and glimmered and hopped
all round about me,--an electric firestreamed through the tips of my
fingers into the keys,--the spirit, from which it gushed forth, spread
his broad wings over my soul, the whole room was filled with a thick
mist, in which the candles burned dim,--and through which peered forth
now a nose, and anon a pair of eyes, and then suddenly vanished away
again. And thus it came to pass, that I was left alone with my
Sebastian Bach, by Gottlieb attended, as by a familiar spirit. (Your
good health, Sir.)

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

"Well, now I might go home, and put the finishing touch to my sonata
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 my next-door
neighbour's, (the Oberjägermeister,) the young ladies are sitting at
the window, screaming down into the street, for the twentieth time,
with harsh, sharp, piercing voices, 'When thine eye is 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 'linked sweetness long
drawn out,' his neighbour is trying acoustic experiments on the French
horn. The numerous dogs of the neighbourhood are growing unquiet, and
my landlord's cat, inspired by that sweet duet, is making close by my
window (for, of course, my musico-poetic laboratory is an attic,)
certain tender confessions,--upward through the whole chromatic scale,
soft complaining, to the neighbour's puss, with whom he has been in
love since March last! Till this is all fairly over, II think will sit
quietly 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, who
followed any noisy handicraft, from living near literary men. Should
not then musical composers, poor, and hard beset, and who, moreover,
are forced to coin their inspiration into gold, to spin out the thread
of life withal, be allowed to apply this law to themselves, and banish
out of the neighbourhood all ballad-singers and bagpipers? What would a
painter say, while transferring to his canvass a form of ideal beauty,
if you should hold up before him all manner of wild faces and ugly
masks? He might shut his eyes, and in this 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,--now the horn strikes up,'--is
enough to send one's sublimest conceptions to the very devil."




CHAPTER V. SAINT GILGEN.

It was a bright Sunday morning when Flemming and Berkley left behind
them the cloud-capped hills of Salzburg, and journeyed eastward towards
the lakes. The landscape around them was one to attune their souls to
holy musings. Field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the perfume
of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birds singing, and the sound of
village bells, and the moving breeze among the branches,--no laborers
in the fields, but peasants on their way to church, coming across the
green pastures, with roses in their hats,--the beauty and quiet of the
holy day of rest,--all, all in earth and air, breathed upon the soul
like a benediction.

They stopped to change horses at Hof, a handfulof houses on the brow of
a breezy hill, the church and tavern standing opposite to each other,
and nothing between them but the dusty road, and the churchyard, with
its iron crosses, and the fluttering tinsel of the funeral garlands. In
the churchyard and at the tavern-door, were groups of peasants, waiting
for divine service to begin. They were clothed in their holiday
dresses. The men wore breeches and long boots, and frock-coats with
large metal buttons; the women, straw hats, and gay calico gowns, with
short waists and scant folds. They were adorned with a profusion of
great, trumpery ornaments, and reminded Flemming of the Indians in the
frontier villages of America. Near the churchyard-gate was a booth,
filled with flaunting calicos; and opposite sat an old woman behind a
table, which was loaded with ginger-bread. She had a roulette at her
elbow, where the peasants risked a kreutzer for a cake. On other
tables, cases of knives, scythes, reaping-hooks, and other implements
of husbandry were offered for sale.

The travellers continued their journey, without stopping to hear mass.
In the course of the forenoon they came suddenly in sight of the
beautiful Lake of Saint Wolfgang, lying deep beneath them in the
valley. On its shore, under them, sat the white village of Saint
Gilgen, like a swan upon its reedy nest. They seemed to have taken it
unawares, and as it were clapped their hands upon it in its sleep, and
almost expected to see it spread its broad, snow-white wings, and fly
away. The whole scene was one of surpassing beauty.

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

Breakfast was soon ready, and was served up at the head of the stairs,
on an old-fashioned oaken table in the great hall, into which the
chambers opened. Berkley ordered at the same time a tub of cold water,
in which he seated himself, with his coat on, and a bed-quilt thrown
round his knees. Thus he sat for an hour; ate his breakfast, and smoked
a pipe, and laughed a good deal. He then went to bed and slept till
dinner time. Meanwhile Flemming sat in his chamber 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 fragrant flowers.

At length the heat of the noon was over. Day, like a weary pilgrim, had
reached the westerngate of Heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose
the latchets of his sandal-shoon. Flemming and Berkley sallied forth to
ramble by the borders of the lake. Down the cool, green glades and
alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of the forest, over the rising
grounds, in the glimmering fretwork of sunshine and leaf-shadow,--an
exhilarating walk! The cool evening air by the lake was like a bath.
They drank the freshness of the hour in thirsty draughts, and their
breasts heaved rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long
confinement of the sultry summer day. And there, too, lay the lake, so
beautiful and still! Did it not recall, think ye, the lake of Thun?

On their return homeward they passed near the village churchyard.

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

How peaceful is the dwelling-place of those who inhabit the green
hamlets, and populous cities of the dead! They need no antidote for
care,--nor armour against fate. No morning sun shines in at the closed
windows, and awakens them, nor shall until the last great day. At most
a straggling sunbeam creeps in through the crumbling wall of an old
neglected tomb,--a strange visiter, that stays not long. And there they
all sleep, the holy ones, with their arms crossed upon their breasts,
or lying motionless by their sides,--not carved in marble by the hand
of man, but formed in dust, by the hand of God. God's peace be with
them. No one comes to them now, to hold them by the hand, and with
delicate fingers smooth their hair. They heed no more the blandishments
of earthly friendship. They need us not, however much we may need them.
And yet they silently await our coming.

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

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

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

It was in an hour of blessed communion with the souls of the departed,
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 at evening
in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen. A holy calm stole over him. The
fever of his heart was allayed. He had a moment's rest from pain; and
went back to his chamber in peace. Whence came this holy calm, this
long-desired tranquillity? He knew not; yet the place seemed
consecrated. He resolved to linger there, beside the lake, which was a
Pool of Bethesda for him; and let Berkley go on alone to the baths of
Ischel. He would wait for him there in the solitude of Saint Gilgen.
Long after they had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber, and
thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyedthe silence within and
without. Hour after hour, slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his
reverie. At length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one flickering
gleam, and expired with a sob. This aroused him.

He went to the window, and peered out into the dark night. It was very
late. Twice already since midnight had the great pulpit-orator Time,
like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on
his high pulpit, the church belfry, and still went on with his sermon,
thundering downward to the congregation in the churchyard and in the
village. But they heard him not. They were all asleep in their narrow
pews, namely, in their beds and in their graves. Soon afterward the
cock crew; and the cloudy heaven, like the apostle, who denied his
Lord, wept bitterly.




CHAPTER VI. SAINT WOLFGANG.

The morning is lovely beyond expression. The heat of the sun is great;
but a gentle wind cools the air. Birds never sang more loud and clear.
The flowers, too, on the window-sill, and on the table, rose, geranium,
and the delicate crimson cactus, are all so beautiful, that we think
the German poet right, when he calls the flowers "stars in the
firmament of the earth." Out of doors all is quiet. Opposite the window
stands the village schoolhouse. There are two parasite trees, with
their outspread branches nailed against the white walls, like the wings
of culprit kites. There the rods grow. Under them, on a bench at the
door, sit school-girls; and barefoot urchins in breeches are spelling
out their lessons. The clock strikestwelve, 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 house sits a poor woman, knitting in the shade;
and in front of her is an aqueduct pouring its cool, clear water into a
rough wooden trough. A travelling carriage without horses, stands at
the inn-door, and a postilion in red jacket is talking with a
blacksmith, who wears blue woollen stockings and a leather apron.
Beyond is a stable, and still further a cluster of houses and the
village church. They are repairing the belfry and the bulbous steeple.
A little farther, over the roofs of the houses, you can see Saint
Wolfgang's Lake. Water so bright and beautiful hardly flows elsewhere.
Green, and blue, and silver-white run into each other, with almost
imperceptible change, like the streaks on the sides of a mackerel. And
above are the pinnacles 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 a few
mornings after Berkley's departure. The quiet of the place had soothed
him. He had become more calm. His heart complained less loudly in the
holy village silence, as we are wont to lower our voices when those
around us speak in whispers. He began to feel at times an interest in
the lowly things around him. The face of the landscape pleased him, but
more than this the face of the poor woman who sat knitting in the
shade. It was a pale, meek countenance, with more delicacy in its
features than is usual among peasantry. It wore also an expression of
patient suffering. As he was looking at her, a deformed child came out
of the door and hung upon her knees. She caressed him affectionately.
It was her child; in whom she beheld her own fair features distorted
and hardly to be recognised, as one sometimes sees his face reflected
from the bowl of a spoon.

The child's deformity and the mother's tenderness interested the
feelings of Flemming. The landlady told him something of the poor
woman's history. She was the widow of a blacksmith, who had died soon
after their marriage. But she survived to become a mother, just as, in
oaks, immediately after fecundation, the male flower fades and falls,
while the female continues and ripens into perfect fruit. Alas! her
child was deformed. Yet she looked upon him with eyes of maternal
fondness and pity, loving him still more for his deformity. And in her
heart she said, as the Mexicans say to their new-born offspring,
"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 life estate in a tomb in the
churchyard of Saint Gilgen. During the week she labored for other
people, and on Sundays for herself, by going to church and reading the
Bible. On one of the blank leaves she had recorded the day of her
birth, and that of her child's, likewise her marriage and her husband's
death. Thus she lived, poor, patient and resigned. Her heart was a
passion-flower, bearing within it the crown of thorns and the cross of
Christ. Her ideas of Heaven were few and simple. She rejected the
doctrine that it was a place of constant activity, and not of repose,
and believed, that, when she at length reached it, she should work no
more, but sit always in a clean white apron, and sing psalms.

As Flemming sat meditating on these things, he paid new homage in his
heart to the beauty and excellence of the female character. He thought
of the absent and the dead; and said, with tears in his eyes;

"Shall I thank God for the green Summer, and the mild air, and the
flowers, and the stars, and all that makes this world so beautiful, and
not for the good and beautiful beings I have known in it? Has not their
presence been sweeter to me than flowers? Are they not higher and
holier than the stars? Are they not more to me than all things else?"

Thus the morning passed away in musings; andin the afternoon, when
Flemming was preparing to go down to the lake, as his custom was, a
carriage drew up before the door, and, to his great astonishment, out
jumped Berkley. The first thing he did was to give the 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 the Postmaster'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;" said Flemming,
after the first friendly salutations.

"Yes," replied Berkley; "I got tired of Ischel,--very tired. I did not
find the friends there, whom I expected. Now I am going back to
Salzburg, and then to Gastein. There I shall certainly find them. You
must go with me."

Flemming declined the invitation; and proposedto Berkley, that he
should join him in his excursion on the lake.

"You shall hear the grand echo of the Falkenstein," said he, "and
behold the scene of the Bridal Tragedy; and then we will go on as far
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 once more,
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 lake towards a barren
rock by the eastern shore, from which a small white monument shone in
the sun.

"That monument," said one of the boatmen, a stout young lad in leather
breeches, "was built by a butcher, to the glory of Saint Wolfgang, who
saved him from drowning. He was one day riding an ox to market along
the opposite bank; when the animal taking fright, sprang into the
water, and swam over to this place, with the butcher on his back."

"And do you think he could have done this," asked Berkley; "if Saint
Wolfgang had not helped him?"

"Of course not!" answered leather-breeches; and the Englishman laughed.

From this point they rowed along under the shore to a low promontory,
upon which stood another monument, commemorating a more tragical event.

"This is the place I was speaking of," said Flemming, as the boatmen
rested on their oars. "The melancholy and singular event it
commemorates happened more than two centuries ago. There was a bridal
party here upon the ice one winter; and in the midst of the dance the
ice broke, and the whole merry company were drowned together, except
the fiddlers, who were sitting on the shore."

They looked in silence at the monument, and at the blue quiet water,
under which the bones of the dancers lay buried, hand in hand. The
monument is of stone, painted white, with an over-hangingroof to
shelter it from storms. In a niche in front is a small image of the
Saviour, in a sitting posture; and an inscription, upon a marble tablet
below, says that it was placed there by Longinus Walther and his wife
Barbara Juliana von Hainberg; themselves long since peacefully crumbled
to dust, side by side in some churchyard.

"That was breaking the ice with a vengeance!" said Berkley, as they
pushed out into the lake again; and ere long they were floating beneath
the mighty precipice of Falkenstein; a steep wall of rock, crowned with
a chapel and a hermitage, where in days of old lived the holy Saint
Wolfgang. It is now haunted only by an echo, so distinct and loud, that
one might imagine the ghost of the departed saint to be sitting there,
and repeating the voices from below, not word by word, but sentence by
sentence, as if he were passing them up to the recording angel.

"Ho! ho! ho!" shouted Berkley; and the sound seemed to strike the wall
of stone, like the flapping of steel plates; "Ho! ho! ho! How areyou
to-day, Saint Wolfgang! You infernal old rascal! How is the Frau 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 with awful
distinctness in the blue depths overhead, and Flemming felt in his
inmost soul the contrast between the holy heavens, and the mockery of
laughter, and the idle words, which fall back from the sky 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; a magnificent one for a
village;--in front of which was a small court, shut in by
Italian-looking houses, with balconies, and flowers at the windows.
Here a bronze fountain of elaborate workmanship was playing in the
shade. On its summit stood an image of the patron Saint of the village;
and, running round the under lip of the water-basin below, they read
this inscription in old German rhymes;

"I am in the honor of Saint Wolfgang raised. Abbot Wolfgang Habel of
Emensee, he hath made me for the use and delight of poor pilgrim wight.
Neither gold nor wine hath he; at this water shall he merry be. In the
year of the Lord fifteen hundred and fifteen, hath the work completed
been. God be praised!"

As they were deciphering the rude characters of this pious inscription,
a village priest came down a high flight of steps from the parsonage
near the church, and courteously saluted the strangers. After returning
the salutation, the mad Englishman, without preface, asked him how many
natural children were annually born in the parish. The question seemed
to astonish the good father, but he answered it civilly, as he did
several other questions, which Flemming thought rather indiscreet, to
say the least.

"You will excuse our curiosity," said he to the priest, by way of
apology. "We are strangersfrom distant countries. My friend is an
Englishman and I an American."

Berkley, however, was not so easily silenced. After a few moments'
conversation he broke out into most audacious Latin, in which the only
words clearly intelligible were;

"Plurimum reverende, in Christo religiosissime, ac clarissime Domine,
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 answered meekly,

"Non intellexi, Domine!"

But Berkley continued with great volubility to speak of his being a
stranger in the land, and all men being strangers upon earth, and
hoping to meet the good priest hereafter in the kingdom of Heaven. The
priest seemed confounded, and abashed. Through the mist of a strange
pronunciation he could recognise only here and there afamiliar word. He
took out his snuff-box; and tried to quote a passage from Saint Paul;

"Ut dixit Sanctus Paulus; qui bene facit--"

Here his memory failed him, or, as the French say, he was at the end of
his Latin, and, stretching forth his long forefinger, he concluded in
German;

"Yes;--I don't--so clearly remember--what he did say."

The Englishman helped him through with a moral phrase; and then pulling
off his hat, exclaimed very solemnly;

"Vale, domine doctissime et reverendissime!"

And the Dominie, as if pursued by a demon, made a sudden and
precipitate 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 Sir
Nathaniel's; 'Priscian a little scratched; 't will serve.' I think I
have heardbetter. But what a whim! I thought I should have laughed
aloud."

They were still sitting by the bronze fountain when the priest
returned, accompanied by a short man, with large feet, and a long blue
surtout, so greasy, that it reminded one of Polilla's in the Spanish
play, which was lined with slices of pork. His countenance was broad
and placid, but his blue eyes gleamed with a wild, mysterious,
sorrowful expression. Flemming thought the Latin contest was to be
renewed, with more powder and heavier guns. He was mistaken. The
stranger saluted him in German, and said, that, having heard he was
from America, he had come to question him about that distant country,
for which he was on the point of embarking. There was nothing peculiar
in his manner, nor in the questions he asked, nor the remarks he made.
They were the usual questions and remarks about cities and climate, and
sailing the sea. At length Flemming asked him the object of his journey
to America. Thestranger came close up to him, and lowering his voice,
said very solemnly;

"That holy man, Frederick Baraga, missionary among the Indians at
Lacroix, on Lake Superior, has returned to his father-land, Krain; and
I am chosen by Heaven to go forth as Minister Extraordinary of Christ,
to unite all nations and people in one church!"

Flemming almost started at the singular earnestness, with which he
uttered these words; and looked at him attentively, thinking to see the
face of a madman. But the modest, unassuming look of that placid
countenance was unchanged; only in the eyes burned a mysterious light,
as if candles had been lighted in the brain, to magnify the daylight
there.

"It is truly a high vocation," said he in reply. "But are you sure,
that this is no hallucination? Are you certain, that you have been
chosen by Heaven for this great work?"

"I am certain," replied the German, in a tone of great calmness and
sincerity; "and, if Saint Peter and Saint Paul should come down from
Heaven to assure me of it, my faith would be no stronger than it now
is. It has been declared to me by many signs and wonders. I can no
longer doubt, nor hesitate. I have already heard the voice of the
Spirit, speaking to me at night; and I know that I am an apostle; and
chosen for this work."

Such was the calm enthusiasm with which he spoke, that Flemming could
not choose but listen. He felt interested in this strange being. There
was something awe-inspiring in the spirit that possessed him. After a
short pause he continued;

"If you wish to know who I am, I can tell you in few words. I think you
will not find the story without interest."

He then went on to relate the circumstances recorded in the following
chapter.




CHAPTER VII. THE STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS.

"I was born in the city of Stein, in the land of Krain. My pious mother
Gertrude sang me psalms and spiritual songs in childhood; and often,
when I awoke in the night, I saw her still sitting, patiently at her
work by the stove, and heard her singing those hymns of heaven, or
praying in the midnight darkness when her work was done. It was for me
she prayed. Thus, from my earliest childhood, I breathed the breath of
pious aspirations. Afterwards I went to Laybach as a student of
theology; and after the usual course of study, was ordained a priest. I
went forth to the care of souls; my own soul filled with the faith,
that ere long all people would be united in one church. Yet attimes my
heart was heavy, to behold how many nations there are who have not
heard of Christ; and how those, who are called Christians, are divided
into numberless sects, and how among these are many who are Christians
in name only. I determined to devote myself to the great work of the
one church universal; and for this purpose, to give myself wholly up to
the study of the Evangelists and the Fathers. I retired to the
Benedictine cloister of Saint Paul in the valley of Lavant. The
father-confessor in the nunnery of Laak, where I then lived,
strengthened me in this resolve. I had long walked with this angel of
God in a human form, and his parting benediction sank deep into my
soul. The Prince-Abbot Berthold, of blessed memory, was then head of
the Benedictine convent. He received me kindly, and led me to the
library; where I gazed with secret rapture on the vast folios of the
Christian Fathers, from which, as from an arsenal, I was to draw the
weapons of holy warfare. In the study of these, the year of my
noviciate passed. I becamea Franciscan friar; and took the name of
Brother Bernardus. Yet my course of life remained unchanged. I seldom
left the cloister; but sat in my cell, and pored over those tomes of
holy wisdom. About this time the aged confessor in Laak departed this
life. His death was made known to me in a dream. It must have been
after midnight, when I thought that I came into the church, which was
brilliantly lighted up. The dead body of the venerable saint was
brought in, attended by a great crowd. It seemed to me, that I must go
up into the pulpit and pronounce his funeral oration; and, as I
ascended the stairs, the words of my text came into my mind; 'Blessed
in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.' My funeral sermon
ended in a strain of exultation; and I awoke with 'Amen!' upon my lips.
A few days afterwards, I heard that on that night the old man died.
After this event I became restless and melancholy. I strove in vain to
drive from me my gloomy thoughts. I could no longer study. I was no
longer contented in the cloister. I even thought of leaving it.

"One night I had gone to bed early, according to my custom, and had
fallen asleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a bright and wonderful light,
which shone all about me, and filled me with heavenly rapture. Shortly
after I heard a voice, which pronounced distinctly these words, in the
Sclavonian tongue; 'Remain in the cloister!' It was the voice of my
departed mother. I was fully awake; yet saw nothing but the bright
light, which disappeared, when the words had been spoken. Still it was
broad daylight in my chamber. I thought I had slept beyond my usual
hour. I looked at my watch. It was just one o'clock after midnight.
Suddenly the daylight vanished, and it was dark. In the morning I
arose, as if new-born, through the wonderful light, and the words of my
mother's voice. It was no dream. I knew it was the will of God that I
should stay; and I could again give myself up to quiet study. I read
the whole Bible through once more in theoriginal text; and went on with
the Fathers, in chronological order. Often, after the apparition of the
light, I awoke at the same hour; and though I heard no voice and saw no
light, 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 the
Thanksgiving sermon of Harvest-home. During the week the Prince-Abbot
Berthold gave up the ghost; and my sermon became at once a
Thanks-giving and Funeral Sermon. Perhaps it may not be unworthy of
notice, that I was thus called to pronounce the burial discourse over
the body of the last reigning, spiritual Prince Abbot in Germany. He
was a man of God, and worthy of this honor.

"One year after this event, I was appointed Professor of Biblical
Hermeneutics in Klagenfurt, and left the Abbey forever. In Klagenfurt I
remained ten years, dwelling in the same house, and eating at the same
table, with seventeen other professors. Their conversation naturally
suggestednew topics of study, and brought to my notice books, which I
had never before seen. One day I heard at table, that Maurus
Cappellari, a monk of Camaldoli, had been elected Pope, under the name
of Gregory Sixteenth. He was spoken of as a very learned man, who had
written many books. At this time I was a firm believer in the Pope's
infallibility; and when I heard these books mentioned, there arose in
me an irresistible longing to read them. I inquired for them; but they
were nowhere to be had. At length I heard, that his most important
work, The Triumph of the Holy See, and of the Church, had been
translated into German and published in Augsburg. Ere long the precious
volume was in my hands. I began to read it with the profoundest awe.
The farther I read, the more 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 through with the closest attention. Now at length my eyes
were opened. I saw before me a monk, who had been educated in an
Italian cloister; who, indeed, had read much, and yet only what was
calculated to strengthen him in the prejudices of his childhood; and
who had entirely neglected those studies upon which a bishop should
most rely, in order to work out the salvation of man. I perceived at
the same time, that this was the strongest instrument for battering
down the walls, which separate Christian from Christian. I saw, though
as yet dimly, the way in which the union of Christians in the one true
church was to be accomplished. I knew not whether to be most astonished
at my own blindness, that, in all my previous studies, I had not
perceived, what the reading of this single book made manifest to me; or
at the blindness of the Pope, who had undertaken to justify such
follies, without perceiving that at the same moment he was himself
lying in fatal error. But since I have learned more thoroughly the ways
of the Lord, I am now no more astonished at this, but pray only to
Divine providence, who so mysteriously prepares all people to be united
in one true church. I no longer believed in the Pope's infallibility;
nay, I believed even, that, to the great injury of humanity, he lay in
fatal error. I felt, moreover, that now the time had fully come, when I
should publicly show myself, and found in America a parish and a
school, and become the spiritual guide of men, and the schoolmaster of
children.

"It was then, and on that account, that I wrote in the Latin tongue my
great work on Biblical Hermeneutics. But in Germany it cannot be
published. The Austrian censor of the press cannot find time to read
it, though I think, that if I have spent so many laborious days and
sleepless nights in writing it, this man ought likewise to find time
enough not only to read it, but to examine all the grounds of my
reasoning, and point out to me any errors, if he can find any.
Notwithstanding, the Spirit gave me no repose, but urged me ever
mightily on to the perfection of my great work.

"One morning I sat writing, under peculiar influences of the Spirit,
upon the Confusion of Tongues, the Division of the People, and the
importance ofthe study of Comparative Philology, in reference to their
union in one church. So wrapped was I in the thought, that I came late
into my lecture-room; and after lecture returned 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, that the student Johannes Schminke had come
to him in the greatest haste, and besought him to go out and see the
wonderful star; but, being incredulous about it, he made no haste, and,
when they came into the street, the star had disappeared. When I heard
the star spoken of, my soul was filled with rapture; and a voice within
me seemed to say, 'The great time is approaching; labor unweariedly in
thy work.' I sought out the student; and like Herod, inquired
diligently what time the star appeared. He informed me, that, just as
the clock was striking eight, in the morning, he went out of his house
to go to the 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
the importance of Comparative Philology in bringing about the union of
all nations. I felt, that my hour had come. Strangely moved, I walked
up and down my chamber. The evening twilight came on. I lighted my
lamp, and drew the green curtains before the windows, and sat down to
read. But hardly had I taken the book into my hand, when the Spirit
began to move me, and urge me then to make my last decision and
resolve. I made a secret vow, that I would undertake the voyage to
America. Suddenly my troubled thoughts were still. An unwonted rapture
filled my heart. I sat and read till the supper bell rang. They were
speaking at table of a red glaring meteor, which had just been seen in
the air, southeast from Klagenfurt; and had suddenly disappeared with a
dull, hollow sound. It was the very moment at which I had taken my
final resolution to leave my native land. Every great purpose and event
of my life, seemed heralded and attended by divine messengers; the
voices of thedead; the bright morning star, shining in the clear
sunshine; and the red meteor in the evening twilight.

"I now began seriously to prepare for my departure. The chamber I
occupied, had once been the library of a Franciscan convent. Only a
thick wall separated it from the church. In this wall was a niche, with
heavy folding-doors, which had served the Franciscans as a repository
for prohibited books. Here also I kept my papers, and my great work on
Biblical Hermeneutics. The inside of the doors was covered with
horrible caricatures of Luther, Melancthon, Calvin, and other great
men. I used often to look at them with the deepest melancholy, when I
thought that these great men likewise had labored upon earth, and
fought with Satan in the church. But they were persecuted, denounced,
condemned to die. So perhaps will it be with me. I thought of this
often; and armed myself against the fear of death. I was in constant
apprehension, lest the police should search my chamber during my
absence, and, by examining my papers, discover my doctrine and designs.
But the Spirit said to me; 'Be of good cheer; I will so blind the eyes
of thy enemies, that it shall not once 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 dearest friend,
Gregory Kuscher, in Hallstadt. He seemed filled with the Spirit of God,
and has wonderfully strengthened me in my purpose. All the hosts of
heaven looked on, and were glad. The old man kissed me at parting; and
I ascended the mountain as if angels bore me up in their arms. Near the
summit, lay a newly fallen avalanche, over which, as yet, no footsteps
had passed. This was my last temptation. 'Ha!' cried I aloud, 'Satan
has prepared a snare for me; but I will conquer him with godly
weapons.' I sprang over the treacherous snow, with greater faith than
St. Peter walked the waters of the Lake of Galilee; and came down the
valley, while the mountain peaks yetshone in the setting sun. God
smiles upon me. I go forth, full of hopeful courage. On Christmas next,
I shall excommunicate the Pope."

Saying these words, he slowly and solemnly took his leave, like one
conscious of the great events which await him, and withdrew with the
other priest into the church. Flemming could not smile as Berkley did;
for in the solitary, singular enthusiast, who had just left them, he
saw only another melancholy victim to solitude and over-labor of the
brain; and felt how painful a thing it is, thus to become unconsciously
the alms-man of other men's sympathies, a kind of blind beggar for the
charity of a good wish or a prayer.

The sun was now setting. Silently they floated back to Saint Gilgen,
amid the cool evening shadows. The village clock struck nine as 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 bless you.
Remember my partingwords. Never mind trifles. In this world a man 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 his left
eyebrow, after doing the deed, as the ancient Egyptians used to do!"

"Aha! now you are sweeping cobwebs from the sky! Good night! Good
night!"

A sorrowful event happened in the neighbourhood that night. The widow's
child died suddenly. "Woe is me!"--thus mourns the childless mother in
one of the funeral songs of Greenland; "Woe is me, that I should gaze
upon thy place and find it vacant! In vain for thee thy mother dries
the sea-drenched garments!" Not in these words, but in thoughts like
these, did the poor mother bewail the death of her child, thinking
mostly of the vacant place, and the daily cares and solicitudes of
maternal love. Flemming saw a light in her chamber, and shadows moving
toand fro, as he stood by the window, gazing into the starry, silent
sky. But he little thought of the awful domestic tragedy, 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 ringing together.
From all the neighbouring villages, came the solemn, joyful sounds,
floating through the sunny air, mellow and faint and low,--all mingling
into one harmonious chime, like the sound of some distant organ in
heaven. Anon they ceased; and the woods, and the clouds, and the whole
village, and the very air itself seemed to pray, so silent was it
everywhere.

Two venerable old men,--high priests and patriarchs were they in the
land,--went up the pulpit stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up Mount Hor,
in the sight of all the congregation,--for the pulpit stairs were in
front, and very high.

Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon he heard that day,--no, not
even if he should live to be as old as he who preached it. The text
was, "I know that my Redeemer liveth." It was meant to console the
pious, poor widow, who sat right below him at the foot of the pulpit
stairs, all in black, and her heart breaking. He said nothing of the
terrors of death, nor of the gloom of the narrow house, but, looking
beyond these things, as mere circumstances to which the imagination
mainly gives importance, he told his hearers of the innocence of
childhood upon earth, and the holiness of childhood in heaven, and how
the beautiful Lord Jesus was once a little child, and now in heaven the
spirits of little children walked with him, and gathered flowers in the
fields of Paradise. Good old man! In behalf of humanity, I thank thee
for these benignant words! And, still more than I, the bereaved mother
thanked thee, 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 the churchyard.
There was no one there, save a little boy, who was fishing with a pin
hook in a grave half full of water. But a few moments afterward,
through the arched gateway under the belfry, came a funeral procession.
At its head walked a priest in white surplice, chanting. Peasants, old
and young, followed him, with burning tapers in their hands. A young
girl carried in her arms a dead child, wrapped in its little winding
sheet. The grave was close under the wall, by the church door. A vase
of holy water stood beside it. The sexton took the child from the
girl's arms, and put it into a coffin; and, as he placed it in the
grave, the girl held over it a cross, wreathed with roses, and the
priest and peasants sang a funeral hymn. When this was over, the priest
sprinkled the grave and the 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 earth into it, and sprinkle it with holy water.

A few moments afterwards, the voice of the priest was heard saying mass
in the church, and Flemming saw the toothless old sexton treading the
fresh earth into the grave of the little child, with his clouted shoes.
He approached him, and asked the age of the deceased. The sexton leaned
a moment on his spade, and shrugging his shoulders replied;

"Only an hour or two. It was born in the night, and died this morning
early?"

"A brief existence," said Flemming. "The child seems to have been born
only to be buried, and have its name recorded on a wooden tombstone."

The sexton went on with his work, and made no reply. Flemming still
lingered among the graves, gazing with wonder at the strange devices,
by which man has rendered death horrible and the grave loathsome.

In the Temple of Juno at Elis, Sleep and his twin-brother Death were
represented as children reposing in the arms of Night. On various
funeral monuments of the ancients the Genius of Death issculptured as a
beautiful youth, leaning on an inverted torch, in the attitude of
repose, his wings folded and his feet crossed. In such peaceful and
attractive forms, did the imagination of ancient poets and sculptors
represent death. And these were men in whose souls 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 great departed, into the silent
Land," should have been transformed into a monstrous and terrific
thing! Such is the spectral rider on the white horse;--such the ghastly
skeleton with scythe and hour-glass;--the Reaper, whose name is Death!

One of the most popular themes of poetry and painting in the Middle
Ages, and continuing down even into modern times, was the Dance of
Death. In almost all languages is it written,--the apparition of the
grim spectre, putting a sudden stop to all business, and leading men
away into the "remarkable retirement" of the grave. Itis written in an
ancient Spanish Poem, and painted on a wooden bridge in Switzerland.
The designs of Holbein are well known. The most striking among them is
that, where, from a group of children sitting round a cottage hearth,
Death has taken one by the hand, and is leading it out of the door.
Quietly and unresisting goes the little child, and in its countenance
no grief, but wonder only; while the other children are weeping and
stretching forth their hands in vain towards their departing brother. A
beautiful design 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, whose door
stood open, seemed to invite Flemming to enter and enjoy the grateful
coolness. He went in. There was no one there. The walls were covered
with paintings and sculpture of the rudest kind, and with a few funeral
tablets. There was nothing there to move the heart to devotion; but in
that hour the heart of Flemming was weak,--weak as a child's. He bowed
hisstubborn knees, and wept. And oh! how many disappointed hopes, how
many bitter recollections, how much of wounded pride, and unrequited
love, were in those tears, through which he read on a marble tablet in
the chapel wall opposite, 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 the shadowy Future,
without fear, and with a manly heart."

It seemed to him, as if the unknown tenant of that grave had opened his
lips of dust, and spoken to him the words of consolation, which his
soul needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. In a moment the
anguish of his thoughts was still. The stone was rolled away from the
door of his heart; death was no longer there, but an angel clothed in
white. He stood up, and his eyes were no more bleared with tears; and,
looking into the bright, morning heaven, he said;

"I will be strong!"

Men sometimes go down into tombs, with painfullongings to behold once
more the faces of their departed friends; and as they gaze upon them,
lying there so peacefully with the semblance, that they wore on earth,
the sweet breath of heaven touches them, and the features crumble and
fall together, and are but dust. So did his soul then descend for the
last time into the great tomb of the Past, with painful longings to
behold once more the dear faces of those he had loved; and the sweet
breath of heaven touched them, and they would not stay, but crumbled
away and perished as he gazed. They, too, were dust. And thus,
far-sounding, he heard the great gate of the Past 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 him likewise was it forbidden to
look back.

In the life of every man, there are sudden transitions of feeling,
which seem almost miraculous. At once, as if some magician had touched
the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind
falls, and serenity succeedsthe storm. The causes which produce these
sudden changes may have been long at work within us, but the changes
themselves are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient cause.
It was so with Flemming; and from that hour forth he resolved, that he
would no longer veer with every shifting wind of circumstance; no
longer be a child's plaything in the hands of Fate, which we ourselves
do make or mar. He resolved henceforward not to lean on others; but to
walk self-confident and self-possessed; no longer to waste his years in
vain regrets, nor wait the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet
desires; but to live in the Present wisely, alike forgetful of the
Past, and careless of what the mysterious Future might bring. And from
that moment he was calm, and strong; he was reconciled with himself!
His thoughts turned to his distant home beyond the sea. An
indescribable, sweet feeling rose within him.

"Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps," said he; "and be a man
among men, and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth bemine 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 and intricate
process of experience? Alas! it is not till Time, with reckless hand,
has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life, to light the
fires of passion with, from day to day, that Man begins to see, that
the leaves which remain are few in number, and to remember, faintly at
first, and then more clearly, that, upon the earlier pages of that
book, was written a story of happy innocence, which he would fain read
over again. Then come listless irresolution, and the inevitable
inaction of despair; or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves
that still remain, a more noble history, than the child's story, with
which the book began."




CHAPTER IX. THE LAST PANG.

"Farewell to thee, Saint Gilgen!" said Flemming, as he turned on the
brow of the hill, to take his last look at the lake and the village
below, and felt that this was one of the few spots on the wide earth to
which he could say farewell with regret. "Thy majestic hills have
impressed themselves upon my soul, as a seal upon wax. The quiet beauty
of thy lake shall be to me forever an image of peace and purity and
stillness, and that inscription in thy little churchyard, a sentence of
wisdom for my after life."

Before the setting of the same sun, which then shone on that fair
landscape, he was far on his way towards Munich. He had left far behind
him the mountains of the Tyrol; and beheld themfor the last time in the
soft evening twilight, their bases green with forest trees, and here
and there, a sharp rocky spire, and a rounded summit capped with snow.
There they lay, their backs, like the backs of camels; a mighty
caravan, reposing at evening in its march across the desert.

From Munich he passed through Augsburg and Ulm, on his way to
Stuttgard. At the entrances of towns and villages, he saw large
crucifixes; and on the fronts of many houses, coarse paintings and
images of saints. In Gunzburg three priests in black were slowly
passing down the street, and women fell on their knees to receive their
blessing. There were many beggars, too, in the streets; and an old man
who was making hay in a field by the road-side, when he saw the
carriage approaching, threw down his rake, and came tumbling over the
ditch, with his hat held out in both hands, uttering the most dismal
wail. The next day, the bright yellow jackets of the postilions, and
the two great tassels of their bugle-horns, dangling down their backs,
like two cauliflowers, told him he was in Würtemberg; and, late in the
evening, he stopped at a hotel in Stuttgard; and from his
chamber-window, saw, in the bright moonlight, the old Gothic cathedral,
with its narrow, lancet windows and jutting buttresses, right in front
of him. Ere long he had forgotten all his cares and sorrows in sleep,
and with them his hopes, and wishes, and good resolves.

He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber, the next morning,
when the great bell of the cathedral opposite began to ring, and
reminded him that it was Sunday. Ere long the organ answered from
within, and from its golden lips breathed forth a psalm. The
congregation began to assemble, and Flemming went up with them to the
house of the Lord. In the body of the church he found the pews all
filled or locked; they seemed to belong to families. He went up into
the gallery, and looked over the psalm-book of a peasant, while the
congregation sang the sublime old hymn of Martin Luther,

"Our God, he is a tower of strength,

A trusty shield and weapon."

During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black, with a white
surplice thrown loosely about him, came pacing along one of the aisles,
from beneath the organ-loft and ascended the pulpit. After the 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 congregation
remained standing. For a while there was a breathless silence in the
church, which to Flemming was more solemnly impressive than any audible
prayer. The clergyman then arose, and began his sermon. His theme was
the Reformation; and he attempted to prove how much easier it was to
enter the kingdom of Heaven through the gateways of the Reformed
Evangelical Dutch church, than by the aisles and penitential
stair-cases of Saint Peter's. He then gave a history of the
Reformation; and, when Flemming thought he was near the end, he heard
him say, that he should divide his discourse into four heads. This
reminded him of the sturdy old Puritan, Cotton Mather, who after
preaching an hour, would coolly turn the hour-glass on the pulpit, and
say; "Now, my beloved hearers, let us take another glass." He stole out
into the silent, deserted street, and went to visit the veteran
sculptor Dannecker. He found him in his parlour, sitting alone, with
his psalm-book, and the reminiscences of a life of eighty years. As
Flemming entered, he arose from the sofa, and tottered towards him; a
venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed in a loose white jacket,
with a face like Franklin's, his white 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 in America, and
never shall go there. I am now too old. I have been in Paris and in
Rome. But that was long ago. I am now eight and seventy years old."

Here he took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit down by his side,
on the sofa. And Flemmingfelt a mysterious awe creep over him, on
touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid the
gathering shade of years, and listened to life's curfew-bell, telling,
with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour had come, 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 are cold;
colder than yours. They were warmer once. I am now an old man."

"Yet these are the hands," answered Flemming, "that sculptured the
beauteous Ariadne and the Panther. The soul never grows old."

"Nor does Nature," said the old man, pleased with this allusion to his
great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window. "This
pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I can even
distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. My hearing is also
unimpaired. For all which, I thank God."

Then, directing Flemming's attention to a fine engraving, which hung on
the opposite wall of the room, he continued;

"That is an engraving of Canova's Religion. I love to sit here and look
at it, for hours together. It is beautiful. He made the statue for his
native town, where they had no church, until he built them one. He
placed the statue in it. This engraving he sent me as a present. Ah, he
was a dear, good man. The name of his native town I have forgotten. My
memory fails me. I cannot remember names."

Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning devotions,
Flemming did not remain long, but took his leave with regret. There was
something impressive in the scene he had witnessed;--this beautiful old
age of the artist; sitting by the open window, in the bright summer
morning,--the labor of life accomplished, the horizon reached, where
heaven and earth meet,--thinking it was angel's music, when he heard
the church-bells ring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his
chamber, he thought within himself, whether he likewise might not
accomplish something, which should live after him;--might not bring
something permanent 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
no longer go to church, but must sit at home and read the bible in
large print. His heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled with
regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of life; regret, that
as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had felt and dreamed only. Thus
the warm days in spring bring forth passion-flowers and forget-menots.
It is only after mid-summer, when the days grow shorter and hotter,
that fruit begins to appear. Then, the heat of the day brings forward
the harvest, and after the harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a
gray frost. Much meditating upon these things, Paul Flemming reached
his hotel. At that moment a person clad in green came down the
church-steps, and crossed the street. It was the German student, of
Interlachen. Flemming started as if a green snake had suddenly crossed
his path. He took refuge in his chamber.

That night as he was sitting alone in his chamber, having made his
preparation to depart the following morning, his attention was arrested
by the sound of a female voice in the next room. A thin partition, with
a door, separated it from his own. He had not before observed that the
room was occupied. But, in the stillness of the night, the tones of
that voice struck his ear. He listened. It was a lady, reading the
prayers of the English Church. The tones were familiar; and awakened at
once a thousand painfully sweet recollections. It was the voice of Mary
Ashburton! His heart could not be deceived; and all its wounds began to
bleed afresh, like those of a murdered man, when the murderer
approaches. His first impulse was of affection only, boundless,
irrepressible, delirious, as of old in the green valley of Interlachen.
He waited for the voice to cease; that he might go to her, and behold
her face once more. And then his pride rose up within him, and rebuked
this weakness. He remembered his firm resolve; and blushed to find
himself so feeble. And the voice ceased; and yet he did not go. Pride
had so far gained the mastery over affection. He lay down upon his bed,
like a child as he was. All about him was silence, and the silence was
holy, for she was near; so near that he could almost hear the beating
of her heart. He knew now for the first time how weak he was, and how
strong his passion for that woman. His heart was like the altar of the
Israelites of old; and, though drenched with tears, as with rain, it
was kindled at once by the holy fire from heaven!

Towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted with the strong excitement;
and, in that hour when, sleep being "nigh unto the soul," visions are
deemed prophetic, he dreamed. O blessed visionof the morning, stay!
thou wert so fair! He stood again on the green sunny meadow, beneath
the ruined towers; and she was by his side, with her pale, speaking
countenance and holy eyes; and he kissed her fair forehead; and she
turned her face towards him beaming with affection and said, "I confess
it now; you are the Magician!" and pressed him in a meek embrace, that
he, "might rather feel than see the swelling of her heart." And then
she faded away from his arms, and her face became transfigured, and her
voice like the voice of an angel in heaven;--and he awoke, and was
alone!

It was broad daylight; and he heard the postilion, and the stamping of
horses' hoofs on the pavement at the door. At the same moment his
servant came in, with coffee, and told him all was ready. He did not
dare to stay. But, throwing himself into the carriage, he cast one look
towards the window of the Dark Ladie, and a moment afterwards had left
her forever! He had drunk thelast drop of the bitter cup, and now laid
the golden goblet gently down, knowing that he should behold it no
more!

No more! O how majestically mournful are those words! They sound like
the roar of the wind through a forest of pines!