/" 
 
 PAULINE FORE MOFFITT 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITT OF CALIFORNIA 
 GENERAL LIBRARY, BERKELEY 
 
HYPERION 
 
 AND KAVANAGH 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCXCVIII 
 
Copyright, 1839, 1845, 1849, 1857, 1866, 1869, and 1872, 
 By ILENRY WADSWORTU LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Copyright, 1885, 
 By ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Copyright, 1886, 
 By UOUGIITON, MIFFLTN AND COMPANXi 
 
 All refits reserved. 
 
 Tlie TUverside Press, Cambridge, Masc, U. S. A. 
 Electrotypea and Printed by 11. 0. Uough'.on & Company. 
 
 Add to Lib. 
 GIFT 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 HYPERION : A ROMANCE. pagb 
 
 Introductory Note ....••• 7 
 
 BOOK L 
 Chapter. 
 
 I. The Hero 13 
 
 II. The Christ of Andernach 16 
 
 III. HOJIUNCULUS 25 
 
 IV. The Landlady's Daughter . . . .30 
 V. Jean Paul, the Only-One .... 34 
 
 VI. Heidelberg and the Baron . . . .42 
 
 "S1I. Lives of Scholars 49 
 
 VIII. Literary Fasie 59 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 I. Spring 71 
 
 II. A Colloquy 74 
 
 in. Owl-Towers 78 
 
 IV. A Beer-Scandal 85 
 
 V. The White Lady's Slipper and the Passion- 
 flower 93 
 
 VI. Glimpses into Cloud-Land . . „ . 97 
 VII. Mill- Wheels and other Wheels . . .111 
 
 VIII. Goethe 120 
 
 IX. The Daylight of the Dwarfs, ant> the Fall- 
 ing Star 127 
 
 X. The Parting 137 
 
 439 
 
6 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK m, 
 
 I. SrjniF.R-TnrE 144 
 
 II. Foot-Tkavellinq 148 
 
 III. Interlachen 1.j5 
 
 IV. The Evening and the Morning Star . . 103 
 
 V. A Rainy Day 108 
 
 VI. After Dinner, ant) after the Manner of the 
 
 Best Critics ' 181 
 
 VII. Take Care! 101 
 
 VIII. The Fountain of OsLmoN .... 1% 
 
 IX. A Talk on the Staxrs 205 
 
 BOOK rv. 
 
 I. A Miserere 212 
 
 II. Curfew Bells 217 
 
 III. Shadows on the Wall 220 
 
 IV. Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler . . 230 
 V. Saint Gilgen 245 
 
 VI. Saint Wolfgang 251 
 
 VII. The Story of Brother Bernardus . . 202 
 
 VIII. Footprints of Angels 271 
 
 IX. The Last Pang 278 
 
 KAVANAGH: A TALE. 
 
 Introductory Note 287 
 
 Kavanagh 291 
 
HYPERION 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 Hyperion as a book was begun in September, 
 1838, pursued vigorously during the fall, worked 
 at more slowly througli the winter, and finally put 
 into the printer's hands in June, 1839. It was 
 finished by the end of July, and published the sec- 
 ond week in August. The material, however, out 
 of which the book was made took shape earlier. 
 The basis of it was the experience of Mr. Long- 
 fellow in Europe in 1835 and 1836. ' He left New 
 York in the spring of 1835, accompanied by his 
 wife and two friends ; spent the summer in Eng- 
 land and Northern Eui-ope, but went to Rotterdam 
 in the fall. There his wife died at the end of 
 November. He travelled thence alone to Heidel- 
 berg, where he passed the winter, and in the fol- 
 lowing summer was in the Tyrol and Switzerland, 
 returning to America in October, 1836. His re- 
 cently published Life enables us to trace his jour- 
 ney step by step, and the route from Rotterdam 
 to Heidelberg is precisely that of Paul Flemming, 
 while the studies of his hero in Heidelberg, his 
 friendships and his excursions in the coming sum- 
 mer, correspond substantially with Mr. Longfellow's 
 own coui'se, as indicated in his diary and letters. 
 
8 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Mr. Samuel Longfellow points out the identity of 
 characters in the book with certain persons whom 
 the author fell in with, and the whole tale is a re- 
 scrijjt, only slightly disguised, of the poet's spiritual 
 as well as external experience. He himself clearly 
 indicated the relation which he held to his work 
 in a letter to Mr. George Washington Greene, in 
 which he says : — ■ 
 
 " I have ^v^itten a Romance during this past year. 
 The feelings of the book are true ; the events of the 
 story mostly fictitious. The heroine, of course, bears a 
 resemblance to the lady, without being an exact por- 
 trait. There is no betrayal of confidence, no real scene 
 described. Hyperion is the name of the book, not of 
 the hero. It merely indicates that here is the life of one 
 who in his feelings and purposes is a ' son of Heaven and 
 Earth,' and who, though obscured by clouds, yet ' moves 
 on high.' Further than this the name has nothing to 
 do with the book, and in fact is mentioned only once in 
 the course of it. I expect to be mightily abused. Peo- 
 ple will say that I am the hero of my own romance, and 
 compare myself to the sun, to Hyperion Apollo. This 
 is not so. I wish only to embody certain feeUngs which 
 are mine, not to magnify myself." 
 
 In writing Hyperion Mr. Longfellow easily 
 WTOught into the fabric material which he had 
 previously used in other forms. In the summer 
 before he began the active preparation of the book, 
 he delivered before his classes at Cambridge a 
 course of lectures upon the Lives of Literary Men, 
 and from these he took the chapters on Jean Paid, 
 on the Lives of Scholars, and on Literary Fame in 
 the first Book; the sketch of an artist's life in 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 9 
 
 Rome and the picture of the Middle Ages, given 
 in the third Book ; and the chapter on Hoffmann 
 and his writings, in the fourth Book. From Tlie 
 Blank Book of a Country Schoolmaster, also, 
 which he contributed to The Knickerbocker in 
 1834 and 1835, he drew some passages. 
 
 His diary indicates the eagerness with which he 
 set about the book, the impatience with which he 
 bore interruptions, and the severity of the criticism 
 to which he subjected his work. He had at first 
 intended to name his hero Hyperion, then he gave 
 him the name of St. Clair, and finally abandoned 
 that for Paul Flemming. The occasional notes in 
 his diary intimate the hold which the book had 
 upon his mind : — 
 
 " October 18, 1838. Wrote a chapter in Hyperion. 
 Thus slowly goes on the work. Well, or ill, I must 
 work right on, and wait for no happier moments. 
 
 *' October 23. Worked at Hyperion again. Wrote 
 chapter six of Book IV., — a touch at philosojihical 
 dreatnery. But I have so many interruptions ! No 
 matter, — onward ! If it be but one chajiter a week, 
 it would complete the book within a year. That 's too 
 long. 
 
 " November 5. A rainy day, and now a rainy night, 
 — for a chapter in Hyperion ! Let me see what I can 
 do at a dash ! Come out of thy drawer, thou thin, 
 marbled portfoUo ! Open thy lips, and speak of Heidel- 
 berg and the Baron ! And out of this flourish came 
 nothing but revision of my work and meditation. And 
 as I sat and meditated deep into the night, I resolved 
 to suppress one entire book ; namely, St. Clair's Day- 
 Book. 
 
 " November 8. A rainy day. Passed the greater part 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 of it at work on Hyperion, retouching and writing. 
 Wrote a new chapter one to Book 111. ; namely, the 
 short chapter on Spring. 
 
 '' December 10. Company till noon. . . . After they 
 had gone, sat down to Hyperion. Went without my 
 dinner and wrote till dark ; the Baron and Heidelberg ; 
 and the arrangement of the last chapter of Book I. 
 The fii'st volume is now ready for the press. 
 
 " December 18. Contrived to write a short chapter 
 in Hyperion, chapter eight, Book IV. Hope to get into 
 train again soon, and go on gallantly as before. So much 
 for breaks. 
 
 " April 5, 1839. Confined to my chamber with a bad 
 cold and feverish unrest. Worked at Hyperion like 
 a hero. 
 
 " April 6. An exact counterpart of yesterday ; and 
 I at work upon my Romance, — changing and arranging 
 and ^vriting out various portions. Wrote the last chap- 
 ter, though others remain to be written." 
 
 He Avi'ote to his father, under date of June 16, 
 1839 : — 
 
 " I have begun to print Hyperion, and have three men 
 at work upon it, setting type. I hope to have it out in 
 about a month ; and shall, unless Colnian delays. As 
 to the money part of the business, he is to pay me three 
 hundred and seventy-five dollars, by his notes, on the 
 day of publication ; said notes payable in three and six 
 months. ... At all events, I get the book very hand- 
 somely printed and widely circulated ; and this is a 
 great point. As to its success, I am very sanguine. I 
 look upon the work of my hands with a very complacent 
 smile ; and it will take a great deal of persuasion to 
 convince me that the book is not good. This is my can- 
 did opinion." 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 11 
 
 After the book had been out a few weeks ho 
 wrote again to his father : — 
 
 " Hyperion attracts great attention, and excites very 
 strong and opposite feelings. Some praise, and others 
 condemn in no measured terras ; and the book sells with 
 a rapidity far beyond my expectations. I hear that a 
 new edition will soon be called for ; which, if so, will 
 be a triumph, considering the nature of the book. Peo- 
 ple seem to be much puzzled about it, and some are 
 quite angry because they cannot see through it as easily 
 as their a h c. But I have the approbation of those 
 whose ajjprobation I most desire, and of course do not 
 much care how others abuse. What delights me is that 
 it calls forth very stronff and decided opinions. I am 
 free for once from the laudatur et alget.'" 
 
 " See what ill-luck with Hyperion " [he wrote to Mr. 
 Greene, January 2, 1840]. " The publisher fails ; half 
 the edition (that is, twelve hundi-ed coiDies) is seized by 
 creditors and locked up ; and the book has been out of 
 the market for four months. No matter. I had the 
 glorious satisfaction of writing it. ... I called it Hype- 
 rion, because it moves on high, among clouds and stars, 
 and expresses the various aspirations of the soul of man. i 
 It is all modelled on this idea, style and all. It con- 
 tains my cherished thoughts for three years. Pardon 
 my saymg so much. In offset, I will send you the ' hor- 
 rible dispraise' I spoke of, though the papers that ut- 
 tered it have since nearly come rouud, and have even 
 praised some parts of it. How victorious is sUence ! " 
 
 The publisher who failed was Samuel Colman, of 
 New York. The book came out in two volumes in 
 boards, with pale olive-colored paper sides. The 
 author's name was not printed on the title-page, 
 but the book was announced as by the author of 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 Outrc-Mer. Mr. Longfellow took the opportunity 
 afforded by subsequent editions to revise the text, 
 but the structure of the work remains unchanged. 
 The motto, which in the first edition was placed on 
 the title-page, is a translation from an inscription 
 which he read upon a funeral tablet in the church- 
 yard of St. Gilgen in the Tyrol, as described 
 in Book IV., chapter viii. It is curious that 
 ten years later, in 1849, when he had completed 
 Kavanagh^ he meditated a continuation of Ilype- 
 >'io», intending in it to bring his hero to America. 
 
 These two works were not the only contribu- 
 tions which Mr. Longfellow made to fiction in 
 prose, but they were the only ones which he cared 
 to preserve. He mentions in a letter to Mr. 
 Greene that he has published a tale in The Token 
 for 1832, and another in the same annual for 1833. 
 The former of these was entitled The Indian 
 Summer ; the latter was The Bald Eagle, and 
 may have been the accomplishment of a design, 
 mentioned in his note-book in 1829, of a sketch 
 based on the reception of Lafayette in a country 
 village. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely im- 
 prove the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, with- 
 out fear, and with a manly heart. 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE HEKO. 
 
 In John Lyly's " Enclymion," 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 
 
14 HYPERION 
 
 nisflit. The soul withdraws into itself. Then 
 stars arise, and the night is holy. 
 
 Paid Flemming- had experienced this, though 
 still young. The friend of his youth was dead. 
 The hough 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, turbident world around him. He 
 did not willingly give way to grief. He struggled 
 to be cheerful, — to be strong. But he could no 
 lonjrer 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 ! between him 
 and his sorrow there coidd 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 beau- 
 tiful 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, 
 
THE HERO 15 
 
 and had risen before daybreak. He opened the 
 window of the balcony to hear the_rushing of the 
 Khine. It was a damp December morning ; and 
 elonds 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 daylight 
 and starlight, the island and cloister of Nonnen- 
 werth 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 moun- 
 tains, back to the Wolkenburg, — the Castle of 
 Clouds. 
 
 But Flemmins: thought not of the scene before 
 him. Sorrow unspeakable was ujjon 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 the 
 rushing stream came a boat, with its white wings 
 spread, and darted like a swallow through the nar- 
 row pass of God's-Help. The boatmen were sing- 
 ing, — but not the song of Roland the Brave, 
 
16 HYPERION 
 
 which was heard of old by the weeping Hildegimd, 
 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 look- 
 ing 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 mourn- 
 ful 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 he beheld 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 I 
 
 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 red- 
 dish vapors ; and soft and silver-white outspread 
 the broad river, without a ripple upon its surface, 
 
THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH 17 
 
 or visible motion of the ever-moving current. A 
 little vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at an- 
 chor, keel to keel with another that lay beneath it, 
 its own apparition, — and all was silent, and calm, 
 and beautiful. 
 
 The road was for the most part solitary ; for 
 there are but few travellers upon the Rhine in 
 winter. Peasant-women were at work in the vine- 
 yards, climbing up the slippery hillsides, like beasts 
 of burden, with large baskets upon their backs. 
 And once during the morning a band of appren- 
 tices, with knapsacks, passed by, singing, " The 
 Rhine ! the Rhine ! a blessing on the Rhine ! " 
 
 Oh, 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 on- 
 ward through vineyards in a triumphal march, like 
 Bacchus crowned and drunken. 
 
 But I wiU 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 
 language 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 mine flows not at all. 
 Flow, then, into this smoke-colored goblet, thou 
 blood of the Rhine ! out of thy prison-house, — 
 
18 HYPERION 
 
 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 along 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 Carov^, 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 yore, 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 ar- 
 rested 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 
 
THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH 19 
 
 if in the death agony ; and drops of blood were 
 falling down his cheeks, and from his hands and 
 ^eet and side. The face was haggard and ghastly 
 beyond expression, and wore a look of unutterable 
 bodily anguish. The rude sculptor had given it 
 this, but his art could go no further. The sub- 
 limity 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 inn-keeper'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 wo- 
 man. " 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 death 
 of 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 
 
20 HYPERION 
 
 occupy her mind. She was thinking, no doubt, 
 of her blessed man, as German widows call their 
 dead husbands. But Fleniining 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 Ander- 
 nach 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 tarts 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 Chris- 
 tian 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 morn- 
 ing, and sold tarts down by the Rheinki-ahn. Now 
 one dark, windy night, when all the good Chris- 
 tians in Andernach were asleep in the feathers, 
 Frau Martha, who lay 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 pound- 
 ing 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 
 roimd her in the dark chamber, till the poor wo- 
 man was frightened out of her wits, and ran to 
 
THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH 21 
 
 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 some- 
 body 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 passed down the 
 street. But she coidd 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 
 hogsheads ; and that a man with a lantern and a 
 ladder had been seen riding out of town at mid- 
 night on a donkey ; and that the same night the 
 old windmill, at Kloster St. Thomas, had been 
 mended, 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 these stories over again ; and the old ferry- 
 man 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, be- 
 
22 HYPERION 
 
 cause 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 coidd 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 calked, and tight, and painted 
 red, and he could not for his blessed life tell who 
 did it, imless it were the man with the lantern. 
 Dear soul ! how strange it was ! 
 
 " And so it went on for some time ; and when- 
 ever the man with the lantern had been seen walk- 
 ing 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 anybody 
 came near him, he blew out his light, turned down 
 another street, and suddenly disappeared, nobody 
 could tell how. And some said it was Riibezahl ; 
 and some, PeLz-Nickel ; and some, St. Anthony -on- 
 the-Heath. 
 
 " Now one stormy night, a poor, sinful creature 
 was wandering about the streets, with her babe in 
 
THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH 23 
 
 her arms, and she was hungry, and cold, and no 
 soul in Andernacli 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 to- 
 gether in one grave. And nobody would have be- 
 lieved her story, if a woman, who lived at the cor- 
 ner, 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 nail itself to the cross. Since 
 that night it has never moved again. Ach ! Herr 
 Je!" 
 
 Such was the legend of the Christ of Ander- 
 nach, as the old woman in spectacles told it to 
 Flemming. It made a painful impression on his 
 
24 HYPERION 
 
 sick and morbid soul ; and he felt now for the first 
 time how great is the power of popular super* 
 stition. 
 
 The post-chaise being already at the door, Flem- 
 mine: was soon on the road to Coblentz, a town 
 which stands upon the llhine, at the mouth of the 
 Mosel, ojjposite Ehrenbreitstein. It is by no 
 means a long drive from Anderuach 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 Ander- 
 nach. 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 
 Miinster : — 
 
 " Jesmariosp ! my friend ! How is the Man in 
 the Kaufhaus ? " 
 
 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 ex2)lanation was, that on the bel- 
 fry 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 
 
HOMUNCULUS 25 
 
 country round about as " The Man in the Kauf- 
 haus ; " 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 Kaufhaus? " Thus the 
 giant has a great part to 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 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 con- 
 tinued 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 
 its hollow eyes, and beckoning to him with its 
 gigantic finger, as if to say, " Ceme up hither, and 
 
26 HYPERION 
 
 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 descend- 
 ing upon earth. And that ancient ruin speaks to 
 liim 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 dis- 
 tant 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 en- 
 deavors, like manhood, it makes itself a way 
 through these difficult mountain-passes. And at 
 length, in its old age, it falters, 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 de- 
 sires of the human soul. He sought after the im- 
 possible. He sought after the Elixir of Life, — 
 the Philosopher's Stone. The wealth that should 
 
HOMUNCULUS 27 
 
 have fed the poor was melted in his crucibles. 
 Within these walls the Eagle of the clouds sucked 
 the blood of the Eed Lion, and received the spir- 
 itual 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 all to gold, 
 by an alchemy 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, 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 Stol- 
 zenfels 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 
 
28 HYPERION 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Flemmiug had already lived through the olive 
 age. 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 de- 
 scribed 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 re- 
 sembled Harold the Fair-Hair of Norway, who is 
 described, in the old Icelandic Death-Song of Reg- 
 ner Hairy-Breeches, as " the young chief so proud 
 of his flowing locks ; he who spent his mornings 
 among the young maidens ; he who loved to con- 
 verse 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 
 
HOMUNCULUS 29 
 
 up in the same sheaf with the sweet blue flower. 
 Hien 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 the 
 transparent 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 
 jjrecious stones, and pearls ; and, half in despair, 
 half in hope, he grasped downward after them 
 again, and drew back his hand, filled only with 
 sea-weed, 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. 
 
 In all things he acted more from impulse than 
 from fixed princij)le, 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 greensward of poetry, and the 
 good princijjles which would have taken root had 
 he given them time, there lay a strong and healthy 
 soil of common sense, ■ — freshened by living springs 
 of feeling, and enriched by many faded hoj)es, that 
 had fallen upon it like dead leaves. 
 
80 HYPERION 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE landlady's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Allez, Fuchs ! allez, lustig ! " cried the impa- 
 tient 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 he had lost in dreams on the mountain. 
 This is far oftener the case than most peojjle 
 imagine. One half of the world must 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 Broth- 
 ers of the old tradition, stiU gazing at each other 
 face to face ; and beneath them, in the valley, 
 stands a cloister, — meet 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 roai-ing wide." She was a beautiful girl 
 of sixteen ; with black hair, and dark, lovely eyeSj 
 
THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER 31 
 
 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 both the Old and the 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 land- 
 lady'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 I do you know 
 the story^f the Liebenstein ? " 
 
 " The story of the Liebenstein," she answered, 
 " I knew by heart when I was a little child." 
 
 And here her large, dark, passionate eyes looked 
 into riemming'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 un- 
 known 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 writ- 
 ten 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 dropping 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 
 
32 HYPERION 
 
 St. Gregory says, in his Dialogues, that, having 
 greedily eaten a lettuce in a garden without mak- 
 ing the sign of the cross, she found herself soon 
 after possessed with a devil. 
 
 The probability, however, is that she was look- 
 ing at the ruined castles only, and not to heaven, 
 for she soon began her story and told Flemmiug 
 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 Geral- 
 dine, an orphan, under their father's care ; and 
 how the elder brother went away in despair, and 
 the younger was betrothed to the Lady Geral- 
 dine ; and how they were as happy as Aschen- 
 puttel and the Prince. And then the holy St. 
 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. Erelong 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 I — and then 
 she went into a convent and became a holy^Tran. 
 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 
 
THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER 33 
 
 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 com- 
 bat. 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 
 all dressed 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 Capuchin monastery. Lis- 
 beth 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 with him. But Flemming pat- 
 ted her cheek, and shook his head. He went up 
 the valley alone. 
 
34 HYPERION 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE. 
 
 It was already night when Flemming crossed 
 the 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 within him to behold the bold out- 
 line of the neighboring 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 by the rising sun. A 
 soft, thin vapor floated in the air. In the sun- 
 beams 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. 
 
 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'hSte of the Rhein- 
 ischen Hof, in Mayence, where Flemming dined 
 that day. At the head of the table sat a gentle- 
 man with a smooth, broad forehead and large, in- 
 telligent eyes. He was from Baireuth in Fran- 
 conia ; 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 
 
JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE 35 
 
 the pale lady was lost to Flemming, who sat op- 
 posite to her, and could look right into her large, 
 melancholy eyes. But what he heard so much in- 
 terested liim, — indeed, the very name of the be- 
 loved Jean Paul would have been enough for this, 
 — that he ventm*ed to join in the conversation, and 
 asked the German if he had known the poet per-= 
 sonally. 
 
 "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 mas- 
 sive 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-carpen- 
 ter than for a poet. Is he a favorite author of 
 yours ? " Flemming answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " But a foreigner must find it exceedingly diffi- 
 cult 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 be- 
 
36 HYPERION 
 
 tween the minds of writer and reader, the bounds 
 and barriers of a foreign tongue are soon over- 
 leaped. If you once understand an author's char- 
 acter, the comprehension of his writings becomes 
 easy." 
 
 " Very true," replied the German ; " and the 
 character of Eichter is too marked to be easily 
 misunderstood. Its prominent traits are tender- 
 ness 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 inex- 
 haustible human love. Every sound of human joy 
 and of human sorrow finds a deep-resounding echo 
 in his bosom. In every man, he loves his human- 
 ity 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 Immor- 
 tality ; 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 Ms 
 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 
 
JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE 37 
 
 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 as 
 fruit ; the little stars sparlded like dew, and Al- 
 bano 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 Fran- 
 conian, " 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^jpossessing 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 j^ears." 
 
 " And what do you Germans consider the promi- 
 nent characteristics of his genius? " 
 
 " Most undoubtedly, his wild imagination and V 
 his playfulness. He throws over all things a | 
 strange and magpie colorino^. You are startled at , 
 the boldness and beauty of his figures and illus- 
 trations, which are scattered everywhere with a 
 reckless prodigality ; multitudinous, like the blos- 
 soms of early summer, and as fragrant and beauti- 
 ful. With a thousand extravasances are minsjled 
 
38 HYPERION 
 
 ten thousancl 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 illus- 
 trations from every by-corner of science, art, and 
 nature, — a comet among the bright stars of Ger- 
 man 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 land- 
 scape, — 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 a 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 
 I 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 ai-e like mummies em- 
 balmed in spices, and wrapped about with curious 
 envelopments ; but within these the thoughts them- 
 selves are kings. At times glad, bcautifiil images, 
 airy forms, move by you, graceful, harmonious; 
 
JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE 39 
 
 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 Lauben- 
 heimer wine seemed each to have contributed some- 
 thing, 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 my- 
 thology, he now holds forth the seven 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," re- 
 joined the German. " It is his nature, — it is 
 Jean Paul. And the figures and ornaments of his 
 style, wild, fantastic, and ofttimes 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 
 roof and walls fall in. And through these gar- 
 goyles, these wild faces, these images of beasts and 
 men carved upon spouts and gutters, flow out, like 
 gathei^ed 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 everything there 
 
40 HYPERION 
 
 is strength, a rough good-nature, all sunshine over- 
 head, and underneath the heavy moaning of the 
 sea. Well may he be called ' Jeau Paul, the 
 Only-One.' " 
 
 AVith 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 the 
 old and ruined cloisters of St. Willigis. Through 
 the low Gothic arches the sunshine streamed upon 
 the pavement of tombstones, whose images and in- 
 scriptions are mostly effaced by the footsteps of 
 many generations. There stands the tomb of Frau- 
 enlob, 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 Bartholo- 
 mew Rainbow ? " 
 
 He meant this for an aside ; but the turkey-cock 
 picked it up, and answered : — 
 
JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE 41 
 
 " I do not know. He did not belong to this 
 parish." 
 
 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 Mauheim gate, and 
 drove down the long Hauptstrasse so slowly, that 
 it seemed to him endless. The shops were lighted 
 on each side of the street, and he saw faces at the 
 windows here and there, and figures passing in the 
 lamplight, visible for a moment, and then swal- 
 lowed 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 cen- 
 turies before he came, and woidd go on for centu- 
 ries 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 Cai-ls-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 iron-grated 
 gate, and the postilion blown his horn, to announce 
 
42 HYPERION 
 
 the arrival of a traveller, than the pjaron was seen 
 among the servants at the door ; and, a few mo- 
 ments 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 a 
 pledge and seal of the German's friendship. They 
 held each other long by the hand, and looked into 
 each other's face, and saw themselves in each 
 other's eyes, both literally and figuratively ; lit- 
 erally, 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. 
 
 Hiffh and hoar on the forehead of the Jetten- 
 biihl stands the Castle of Heidelberg. Behind it 
 rise the oak-crested hills of the Geissberg and the 
 Kaiserstulil ; and in front, from the wide terrace 
 of masonry, you can almost throw a stone upon the 
 roofs of the toMTi, so close do they lie beneath. 
 Above this terrace rises the broad front of the 
 chapel of Saint Udalrich. On the left stands the 
 
HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON 43 
 
 slender octagon tower of the horologe ; and on 
 the right, a huge round tower, battered and shat- 
 tered by the mace of war, shores up with its broad 
 shoulders the beautiful palace and garden-terrace 
 of Elizabeth, wife of the Count Palatine Freder- 
 ick. In the rear are older palaces and towers, 
 forming a vast, irregular quadrangle ; — Rodolph's 
 ancient castle, with its Gothic gloriette and fantas- 
 tic gables ; the Giant's Tower, guarding the draw- 
 bridge over the moat ; the Rent Tower, with the 
 linden-trees growing on its summit ; and the mag- 
 nificent 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 courtyard. The diverse ar- 
 chitecture of different ages strikes the eye, and 
 curious sculptures. In niches on the wall of Saint 
 Udalrich's chapel stand rows of knights in armor, 
 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 me- 
 dallions and family arms ; the Globe of the Em- 
 pire and the Golden Fleece, or the Eagle of the 
 Cjesars, resting on the escutcheons of Bavaria and 
 the Palatinate. Over the windows and doorways 
 and chimney-jjieces are sculptures and mouldings 
 of exquisite workmansliip ; and the eye is bewil- 
 dered by the profusion of caryatides, and ara- 
 besques, and rosettes, and fan-like flutings, and 
 garlands of fruits and flowers and acorns, and bul- 
 locks' heads with draperies of foliage, and muzzles 
 
44 HYPERION 
 
 of lions, holding rings in their teeth. The cun- 
 ning luuul 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 Alhanibra 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 Oden- 
 wald. So close and many are the hills which east- 
 ward 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 
 j)latform or strip of level land, between the Neckar 
 and the. mountains, right under the castle, stands 
 the town of Heidelberg ; as the old song says, " a 
 pleasant town, when it has done raining." 
 
 Something of this did Paul Flemming behold, 
 when he rose the next morninc: and looked from 
 bis 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 
 on the hills the dim vapors were rolling across the 
 windows of the ruined castle, like the fiery smoke 
 
HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON 45 
 
 o£ a fierce conflagration. It seemed to him an 
 image of the rising of the sun of Truth on a be- 
 nighted 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-room 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 hmnming his favorite song 
 from Goethe : — 
 
 The water rushed, the water swelled, 
 A fisher sat thereby. 
 
 Memming 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 plajang upon six instruments at 
 once ; having a helmet with bells on his head, a 
 Pan's-reed in his cravat, a violin 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 univer- 
 sal genius. He pursued all things with eagerness, 
 but for a short time only : music, poetry, painting, 
 pleasure, even the study of the Pandects. His 
 feelings were keenly alive to the enjoyment of life. 
 His great defect was, that he was too much in love i 
 
 with human nature. But by the power of imagina- 
 tion, in him, the bearded goat was changed to a 
 
46 HYPERION 
 
 bright Capricornus ; no longer an animal on earth, 
 but a constellation in heaven. An easy and indo- 
 lent disposition made him gentle and childlike in 
 his manners, and, in short, the beauty of his char- 
 acter, 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 indescriba- 
 bly gentle and winning, and he spoke the Ger- 
 man language with the soft, musical accent of his 
 native province of Kurland. 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 friend of Flemming. 
 
 " And what do you think of Heidelberg and the 
 old castle ? " 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 througli the mist. 
 They tell me there is nothing finer in its way than 
 this magnificent ruin, and I have 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 there nowadays?" 
 
 " Nobody," answered the Baron, " but the man 
 who shows the Heidelberg Tun, and 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 
 
HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON 47 
 
 of prey disturb it with their piercing cries, and at 
 night, screech owls, and other fallow deer. 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 le Debon- 
 naire," said the Baron, with a smile ; " a mouldy 
 tradition of a credulous age. His brother Fred- 
 erick 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. 
 From political motives, he was equally hateful to 
 certain petty German tyrants, who, in order to ef- 
 fect 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 
 
48 HYPERION 
 
 Mary, and the father confessor of the Elector, In 
 the costume of Satan, made their appearance in 
 the Elector's bedchamber at midnight, and fright- 
 ened 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 Gemmin- 
 gen, 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 bedcham- 
 ber, than the brave Gemmingen drew his sword, 
 and said quaintly, ' Die, wretch ! ' and so he died. 
 The I'est 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 the Frenchman's book, 
 worked up with a kind of i-ed-morocco and burnt- 
 cork sublimity, and great melodramatic 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 vAih. 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 graybeard 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. AVe 
 Bhall have snow in spring ; and the blossoms will 
 
LIVES OF SCHOLARS 49 
 
 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 SCH0LAE8. 
 
 The forebodings of the Baron proved true. In 
 the afternoon the weather changed. The western 
 wind began to blow, and 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 set- 
 ting 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, 
 
50 HYPERION 
 
 who stood at the window, looking out into the 
 tempest and the gathering darkness. " The silent 
 falling of snow is to nie 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 think- 
 ing of the sea ; how the waves run and toss their 
 arms about, — and the wind plays on those great 
 sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships. 
 Winter is here in earnest ! 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 yon- 
 der 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 
 tlie frost-spirit has been at work all night building 
 Gothic cathedrals on our windows, just as the Devil 
 built the Cathedral of Cologne. So draw the cur- 
 tains, 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 Gottingen, 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 
 
LIVES OF SCHOLARS 61 
 
 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 Porphyry's Commentaries . 
 Trvdy, I do not much wonder that Erigena Scotus 
 should have been put to death by his 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 se- 
 clusion. 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 forev^er. 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 in- 
 dividual 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, 
 Shakespeai'C, Spenser, and Milton only, and how 
 much of her glory would you blot out with them ! 
 
52 HYPERION 
 
 Take from Italy such names as Dante, Petrarch, 
 Boccaccio, Michel Angelo, and liaphael, and how 
 much would 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 of Germany, without 
 her Martin Luther, her Goethe, and her 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, embla- 
 zon with bright colors the armorial bearings of 
 their country ? Yes, and far more than this ; for 
 in all ages and in 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 hardly 
 thought of acknowledging all this. Therein it has 
 shown itself somewhat ungrateful. Else, whence 
 the great reproach, the general scorn, the loud de- 
 rision, 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. Perhaj^s it is not 
 too much to say, that, but for these monks, not 
 
LIVES OF SCHOLARS 53 
 
 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^-souoht and unknown 
 somewhat. I think the name of Martin Luther, 
 the monk of Wittenberg, alone sufficient to redeem 
 all monkhood from the reproach of laziness. If 
 this will not, perhaps the vast folios of Thomas 
 Aquinas wiU ; 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, laugh- 
 ing ; " a most touching appeal in behalf of suffer- 
 ing 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 con- 
 tact with those of their fellow-men. They read 
 little. They think much. They are mere dream- 
 ers. 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 
 around them. But they know it not, and imagine 
 
54 HYPERION 
 
 they arc brincjing 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 improve- 
 ments : ' 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 Wai- 
 blingen, who grew to such a size, that she could 
 not get down the narrow staircase, 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 de- 
 scribed as a creature that can strike fii-e 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 is just as people are always represented 
 in English comedy," said the Baron. " The poi> 
 trait is overcharged, — caricatured." 
 
LIVES OF SCHOLARS 55 
 
 " And yet," continued Flemming, " no longer 
 ago than yesterday, in the preface of a work by 
 a 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 the- 
 atres, no Strasburg 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 delightfid as a walk in the Prater of 
 Vienna. I fill my pipe very quietly, take out my 
 inkstand 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 metamorjjhosis of man- 
 .uscript 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 gen- 
 erally arrayed in a morning gown, though, I am 
 sorry to say, not a calamanco one, with great flow- 
 ers), — this melancholy pleasure has 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 print- 
 ing. In all probability, I shall die with a proof- 
 sheet in my hand." 
 
 " This," said Flemming, closing the book, " is no 
 
56 HYPERION 
 
 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 
 hal)its of seclusion, and in a kind of undress, slip- 
 shod 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 recognizes humanity in all its 
 forms and conditions. I am a student and always, 
 when I sit alone at night, I recognize the divin- 
 ity of the student, as she reveals herself to me in 
 the flame 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 heart- 
 less ! — Heartless ! Beware of that word ! The 
 good Jean Paul says very wisely that ' Life in 
 every shape should be precious to us, for the same 
 reason that the Turks carefully collect every scrap 
 of paper that come§ 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 pri- 
 vate sufferings of authors by profession. How 
 
LIVES OF SCHOLARS 67 
 
 many have languished in poverty, how many died 
 broken-hearted, how many gone mad with over- 
 excitement and disapi^ointed hopes ! How in- 
 structive 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 ; Collins mad, and howling like a 
 dog, through the aisles of Chichester Cathedral, at 
 the sound of church music ! and Goldsmith, strut- 
 ting 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 Arbor Court." 
 
 " A life of sorrow and privation, a hard life in- \ 
 deed, do these poor devil authors have of it," 
 replied the Baron ; " and then at last must get 
 them to the workhouse, or creep away into some 
 hospital to die." 
 
 " After all," said Flemming, with a sigh, " pov- 
 erty is not a ci'ime." 
 
 " But something worse," interrupted the Baron ; 
 " as Dufresny said, when he married his laundress, 
 because he could not pay her bill. He was the 
 author, as you know, of the opera of Lot, at whose 
 representation the great pun was made ; — I say 
 
58 HYPERION 
 
 the great pun, as we say the great Tun of Heidel« 
 berg. As one of the performers was singing the 
 line, ' L'amoiir a vaincu Loih^ (vingt culottes') 
 a voice from the pit cried out, ' Quil en donne 
 une a Vauteur ! ' " 
 
 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 wdll find that many 
 ( of them spring from false and exaggerated ideas 
 1 of poetry and the poetic character ; and from dis- 
 » dain of common sense, upon which all character 
 I worth having is founded. This comes from keep- 
 ing 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 w^U 
 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 gen- 
 erous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise 
 and smite its oppressor. Thus has many a mon- 
 arch 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 pleas- 
 ure. And then they idealize everything ; 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 w411 about 
 principle, impulse is more attractive, even when it 
 
LITERARY FAME 69 
 
 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 do the world and society corrupt the 
 scholar ! " exclaimed Flemming. 
 
 Here the Baron rang, and ordered a bottle of 
 Prince Metternieh. He then very slowly filled 
 his pipe, and began to smoke. Flemming was 
 lost iu 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 char- 
 acters, 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 in- 
 discreet 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 erelong be resolved into dust again, and their 
 graves tell no tales of them, so must their names 
 likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cher- 
 ished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no 
 longer an individual being among men, but be 
 
60 
 
 HYPERION 
 
 resolved and incorporated into tlie 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 Caesar, 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 pop- 
 ular adages and wise proverbs, which are now re- 
 solved into the common mass of thought ; their 
 authors forgotten, and having no more an individ- 
 ual being among men. 
 
 It is better, therefore, that men should soon 
 make up their minds to be forgotten, and look 
 about them, or w^ithin them, for some higher mo- 
 tive, 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, per- 
 haps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the 
 indomitable will of man can achieve much, — at 
 times, even this victory over himself ; being per- 
 suaded 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, 
 
LITERARY FAME 61 
 
 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 arrive, when the world, or any consid- 
 erable 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 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 pennons ! 
 
 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 dis- 
 comfort, 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 gi-ave, and slept the sleep of death, — and 
 the world talks of them, while they sleep ! 
 
 It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings 
 
62 HYPERION 
 
 had but sanctified them ; as if the death-angel, in 
 passing, had touched thfem 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 ^lipse 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 Hymet- 
 tus, 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 soid, as from a golden pitcher, 
 
 Filled with the wine 
 Of the vine 
 Benign, 
 That flames so red in Sansovine. 
 
 He calls the Montepulciano the king of aU 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 extraor- 
 dinary. The best are Max Schenkendorf's Song 
 of the Rhine, and the Song of Rhine-Wine, by 
 
LITERARY FAME 63 
 
 Claudius, a poet who never drank Rhenish with- 
 out 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 German poet 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. Jolm Raven, of John's Col- 
 lege : " 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." 
 
 " 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 soli- 
 tude, or in society? in the green stillness of the 
 country, where he can hear the heart of Nature 
 beat, or in the dark, gi'ay town, where he can hear 
 and feel the throbbino; heart of man ? I will make 
 
64 HYPERION 
 
 answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray town. 
 Oh, they do greatly err who thinlc that tTie stars are 
 all the poetry which cities have ; and therefore that 
 the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan soli- 
 tudes, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful, 
 no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when trans- 
 figured by the miraculous power of poetry ; ham- 
 lets and harvest - fields, and nut-brown waters, 
 flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, 
 with all the sights and sounds of riu'al life. But 
 after all, what are these but the decorations and 
 painted sceneiy 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 street? tumultuous, bearing along 
 so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of human- 
 ity ; — the many homes and households, each a 
 little world in itself, revolving rovmd its fireside, 
 as a central sun ; all forms of human joy and suffer- 
 ing, brought into that narrow compass ; — and to 
 be in this, and be a part of this ; acting, think- 
 ing, rejoicing, sorrowing, with Ijis 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 jcholar, if you would have it 
 large and liberal, should come in contact with 
 other minds. It is better that his armor should 
 be somewhat bruised by rude encounters, even, 
 than hang forever rusting on the wall. Nor will 
 his themes be few or trivial, because apparently 
 
LITERARY FAME 65 
 
 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 Sarine in Switzerland, and 
 Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, 
 with chain bridges. These are the sreat themes 
 of human thought ; not green grass, and flowers, 
 and moonlight. Besides, the mere external forms 
 of Nature we make our own, and carry with us 
 everywhere, by the power of memory." 
 
 "I fear, however," interrupted Flemming, "that 
 in towns the soul of man grows proud. He needs 
 at times to be sent forth, like the Assyrian mon- 
 arch, into green fields, ' a wondrous 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 dedi- 
 cated 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 treach- 
 ery of occasion, by the thronging passions of great 
 cities, have become soiled and sinful. They re- 
 semble those convents on the river Rhine, which 
 have been changed to taverns ; from whose cham- 
 bers the pious inmates have long departed, and in 
 whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers have ef' 
 
66 HYPERION 
 
 faced 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 voca- 
 tion. Other artists give themselves up wholly to 
 the study of their art. It becomes with them al- 
 most 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 ; for he 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 Trans- 
 figuration. He must neither forget nor under- 
 value 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 recognizes 
 within him." 
 
 " But, at any rate, a town life is most eventful," 
 continued the Baron. " The men who make, or 
 take, the lives of poets and scholars, always com- 
 plain that these lives are bai'ren 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 
 
LITERARY FAME 67 
 
 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 by inci- 
 dents 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 ap- 
 parently 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 Wallen- 
 Btein, 
 
 Oiir life was but a battle and a mareli ; 
 
 And, like tbe wind's blast, never resting, homeless, 
 
 We stormed across the war-eonvxdsed earth. 
 
 Many such examples has history recorded, — 
 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 
 Bailing right against the wind. Others have been 
 
68 HYPERION 
 
 pujBFed out by the first adverse wind that blew ; 
 disgraced and sorrowful, because they could not 
 please others. Had they been men, they woidd 
 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 disap- 
 pointments, and quarrels and calamities, present a 
 melancholy picture of man's strength and weakness. 
 On that very accoimt the scholar can make them 
 profitable for encouragement, consolation, warn- 
 ing." 
 
 " 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, 
 
LITERARY FAME 69 
 
 With no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less 
 bertainty, does a great mind bear up against public 
 opiuion, and push back its hurrying stream. 
 Therefore should every man wait, — should bide 
 his time. Not in listless idleness, not in useless 
 pastime, not in querulous dejection, but in con- 
 stant, steady, cheerful endeavors, 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, so be it the deed and book were well done? 
 It is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome am- 
 bition 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 anx- 
 ious for the effect of what we do and say ; to be al- 
 ways 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 ' fantasy and trick of fame ; ' and 
 they go to their graves with purposes unaccom- 
 plished 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 yoii can 
 do well ; and doing well whatever you do, — with- 
 out a thought of fame. If it come at all, it will 
 
70 HYPERION 
 
 come because it is deserved, not because it is 
 sought after. And, moreover, there will be no' 
 misgiviugs, 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 worked his way diligently through the ancient 
 poetic lore of Germany, from Frankish Legends 
 of Saint George, and Saxon Rhyme-Chronicles, 
 and Nibelungen-Lieds, and Helden-Buchs, and 
 Songs of the Minnesingers and Meistersingers, and 
 Ships of Fools, and Reynard the Foxes, and Death- 
 Dances, and Lamentations of Damned Soids, into 
 the bright, sunny land of harvests, where, amid 
 the golden grain and the blue corn-flowers, walk 
 the modern bards, and sing. 
 
BOOK THE SECOND 
 
 Sometliing the heart must have to cherish, 
 Must love, and jo>, 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 Ehodian 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 ! 
 
 Oh, 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 re- 
 turning stork in Spring : — 
 
 Stork ! Stork ! poor Stork ! 
 Why is thy foot so bloody ? 
 A Turkish boy hath torn it ; 
 Hungarian boy will heal it, 
 Witli fiddle, fife, and drum. 
 
 But what child has a heart to sing in this capri- 
 cious clime of ours, where Spring comes sailing in 
 from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and 
 
72 HYPERION 
 
 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 whii-riug 
 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 east- 
 ern 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. Then 
 comes the sudden rain-storm ; and the birds fly to 
 and fro, and shriek. Where do they hide them- 
 selves in such storms ? at what firesides dry their 
 feathery cloaks ? At the fireside of the great, hos- 
 pitable 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 musi= 
 cians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighboring 
 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 
 
SPRING 73 
 
 the opening of the scene. 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 de- 
 light 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 blos- 
 soms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like 
 snow-flakes, and erelong our next-door neighbors 
 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 buttercups under each other's 
 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 school-boy 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 over- 
 head bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radi- 
 ant with innumerable stars, like the inverted bell 
 of 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 pleas- 
 ant sound of the dropping rain. 
 
 It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg. 
 
71 HYPERION 
 
 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 de- 
 gree poor and pious." 
 
 " Bravo ! " exclaimed the Baron. " That is the 
 best criticism I have heard upon the book. For 
 my part, I dislike it as much as Goethe did. It 
 was once very popidar, and lay about in every 
 parlor and bedroom. This annoyed the old gen- 
 tleman 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 Immor- 
 tality; but wished to cherish his belief in quiet- 
 ness. 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 
 cateehizings 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 there any 
 of those who had believed in it here, — for, if 
 he did, they would flock around him on all sides, 
 
A COLLOQUY T5 
 
 exclaiming, ' Were we not in the right ? Did we 
 not tell you so ? Has it not all turned out just as 
 we said?'" 
 
 " How shocked the good old ladies must have 
 been ! " said Flemming. 
 
 " No doubt their nerves suffered a little ; but 
 the young women loved him all the better for be- 
 ing witty and wicked, and thought, if they could 
 only marry him, how they would reform him." 
 
 " Bettina Brentano, for instance." 
 
 " Oh, no ! That happened long afterwards. 
 Goethe was then an old man of sixty. She had 
 never seen him, and knew him only by his writ- 
 ings : a romantic girl of seventeen." 
 
 " And yet much in love with the sexagenarian. 
 And surely, a more wild, fantastic 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. 
 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 ? " 
 
76 HYPERION 
 
 " Yes ; and he and her brother, Clemens Bren- 
 tano, puljli.shed that wondrous book, the Boy's 
 AVonder-IIorn." 
 
 " The Boy's "Wonder-Horn ! " said Flcmming, 
 after a short pause, for the name seemed to have 
 thro^^^l 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 pas- 
 sion for ballads ! " 
 
 "And who has not?" said the Baron, with a 
 smile. " 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." 
 
 " AVhy do you say Summer-time, and not Sum- 
 mer ? " incpiired Flemming. " The expression re- 
 minds me of your old Minnesingers ; — of Hein- 
 rich von Ofterdingen, and Walther 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 seemed to have lived 
 poetry, as well as sung it ; like the birds who make 
 their marriage-beds in the voluptuous trees." 
 
 " Is that from Shakespeare ? " 
 
 " 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 streams of your German 
 Helicon, shrunk to small rivulets, go bubbling and 
 
A COLLOQUY 77 
 
 gurgling over the pebbly names of Zwinger, Wiir- 
 gendriissel, Buclienlin, Ilellfire, Old Stoll, Young 
 StoU, Strong Bopp, Dang Brotscheim, Batt Spie- 
 gel, Peter Pfort, and Martin Gumpel. And then 
 the Corporation of the Twelve Wise Masters, with 
 their stumpfe-reime and klingende-reime, and their 
 Hans Tindeisen's rosemary - weise, and Joseph 
 Schmierer's flowery -paradise -weise, and Frauen- 
 lob's yellow-weise, and blue-weise, and frog-weise, 
 and looking-glass- weise ! " 
 
 " Oh, 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 behind the Alsatian 
 hills. Let us go up to the castle and look for the 
 ghost in Prince Ruprecht's tower. Oh, 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. Oh, well has it 
 been said, that there is no grief like the grief which 
 does not speak ! 
 
78 HYPERION 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OAVL-TOWERS. 
 
 " There sits the old Frau Himmelauen, perched 
 up ill 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 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 everjiihing 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 women al- 
 ready 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 women 
 sit with their feet out of the window, and have no 
 pocket-handkerchiefs." 
 
OWL-TOWERS 79 
 
 « Excellent ! " 
 
 They crossed the market-place, and went up be- 
 neath the grand terrace into the court-yard of the 
 castle. 
 
 " Let us go and sit under the great linden-trees, 
 that grow on the summit of the Rent Tower," said 
 riemming. " From that point as from a watch- 
 tower, we can look down into the garden, and see 
 the crowd below us." 
 
 " And amuse ourselves, as old Frau Himmelauen 
 does at her window in the Hauptstrasse," added 
 the Baron. 
 
 The keejDer'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 tower- 
 ing 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 Pan- 
 dects ? 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-look- 
 
80 HYPERION 
 
 in«- person, who passed with long strides under the 
 archway in the fosse, right beneath them, and dis- 
 appeared among the bushes. lie was ill-dressed, 
 his hair flying in the wind, his movements hurried 
 and nervous, and the expression of his broad coun- 
 tenance wild, strange, and earnest. 
 
 " AVho can that be ? " asked Flemming. " He 
 strides away indignantly, like one of Ossian's 
 ghosts ! " 
 
 " A great philosopher, whose name I have for- 
 gotten. 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 liim the spirit- 
 world is still open. He believes in the transmigra- 
 tion of souls ; and I dare say is now following the 
 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 him- 
 self in poetry." 
 
 " He is a poet, then, as well as a philoso- 
 pher?" 
 
OWL-TOWERS 81 
 
 " Yes ; but a poet who never writes. 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 great poet 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 fountain that was playing among the gay flow- 
 ers in the garden. The eldest of the three was 
 a woman in that season of life when the early au- 
 tumn 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 coun- 
 tenance beautiful, though deadly white ; and her 
 meek eyes like the flower of the nightshade, 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 a la Kosciusho. In other respects a 
 perfect hero of romance. 
 
 " Unless mine eyes deceive me," said the Baron, 
 " there is the Fran von Ilmenau, with her pale 
 daughter Emma, and that eternal Polish count. 
 He is always hovering about them, playing the un- 
 happy exile, merely to excite that poor girl's sym- 
 
82 HYPERION 
 
 pathies ; and as wTetclied as genius and wantonness 
 can make him." 
 
 " Why, he is already married, you know," re- 
 plied Flemming. " And his wife is young and 
 beautifid." 
 
 " That does not pi'event Mm from being in love 
 with some one else. That question was decided in 
 the Courts of Love in the Middle Ages. Accord- 
 ingly he has sent his fair \nie 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 dis- 
 ease, before she seems threatened with a worse 
 one ; namely, a hopeless passion. However, jjeople 
 do not die of love nowadays." 
 
 " 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 fair 
 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, IMont Blanc, and the Cathedral of Stras- 
 burg 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." 
 
OWL-TOWERS 83 
 
 " Or, as the Danes would translate it, the Shoe- 
 maker of Jerusalem. That would be a still more 
 fantastic title for his fantastic book. You know I 
 am no jrreat admirer of the modern French school 
 of writers. The tales of Paul de Kock seem to me / 
 like obscene stories told at dinner-tables. It has 
 been truly said of him that he is not only pojm- 
 laire, but jJopulacier; and rather harshly 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 na- \ 1/ 
 tional literature, the point you must start from is 
 national character. That lets you into many a 
 secret. The most prominent trait in the French 
 character is love of amusement and excitement ; 
 and " — 
 
 " I should say, rather, the fear of ennui," inter- 
 rupted Flemming. " Some one 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 the approach of 
 some plundering knight or lawless baron, forsak- 
 ing 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 Kent Tower, 
 
84 HYPERION 
 
 till ^adually the crowd disappeared from the 
 garden, and the objects around them grew indis- 
 tinct, 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 mournfid pleasure in gazing at that 
 tree," said Flemming, as they rose to depart. " It 
 stands there so straight and tall, with iron bands 
 around its noble trunk and limbs, in silent maj- 
 esty, or whispering only in its native tongue, and 
 freighting the homeward wind with sighs ! It re- 
 minds 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, dis- 
 dainfully silent, or breathing only in melancholy 
 accents a prayer for his native forest, a longing to 
 be free." 
 
 " Majmificent ! " cried the Baron. "I alwavs 
 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 elephants' ears — have a sin- 
 gular 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." 
 
A BEER-SCANDAL 85 
 
 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 
 recognized 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-Com- 
 merce 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 stianger. It is of no conse- 
 quence what you and I do, as the king's fool 
 Angeli said to the poet Bautra, urging him to put 
 on his hat at the royal dinner-table." 
 
 William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his Au- 
 tobiography, that, when he was committed to the 
 guard-room in Whitehall, he thought himself in 
 hell ; for " some were sleeping, others swearing, 
 others smoking tobacco, and in the cliimney of 
 the room there were two bushels of broken to- 
 bacco-pipes, and almost half a load of ashes." 
 
86 HYPERION 
 
 What he would have thought, If he had peeped 
 into this Heidelberg Studunten-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 burned 
 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 dis- 
 cussing the great Laws of the Broad-Stone and 
 the Gutter. They had a great deal to say, like- 
 wise, 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 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 Bai'on and 
 his friend, striking upon the. table with a mighty 
 broad-sword, 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 new- 
 
A BEER-SCANDAL 87 
 
 eoraers, 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 crosswise 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 ? 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery hill ! 
 What comes there from the hill ? 
 
 It is a postilion ! 
 It is a postilion ! 
 It is a leathery postilion ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Postilion ! 
 It is a postilion ! 
 
 What brings the postilion ? 
 What brings the postilion ? 
 What brings the leathery postilion ? 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Postilion ! 
 What brings the postilion ? 
 
 He bringeth ns a Fox ! 
 He bringeth us a Fox ! 
 He bringeth us a leathery Fox ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery Fox ! 
 He bringeth us a Fox ! 
 
88 HYPERION 
 
 Your servant, Masters mine ! 
 Yoiir servant, Masters mine 1 
 Your servant, much-honored Masters minet 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Much-honored Masters mine ! 
 Your servant, Masters mine ! 
 
 How does the Herr Papa ? 
 How does the Herr Papa ? 
 How does the leathery Herr Papa ? 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Herr Papa ! 
 How does the Herr Papa ? 
 
 He reads in Cicero 1 
 He reads in Cicero ! 
 He reads in leathery Cicero ! 
 
 Sa! Sal 
 
 Cicero ! 
 He reads in Cicero ! 
 
 How does the Frau Mamma ? 
 How does the Frau Mamma ? 
 How does tlie leathery Frau Mamma ? 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Frau Mamma! 
 How does the Frau Mamma ? 
 
 She makes the Papa tea ! 
 She makes the Papa tea ! 
 She makes the Papa leathery tea I 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery tea ! 
 She makes the Papa tea ! 
 
 How does the Mamsell Soeur ? 
 How does tlie Mamsell Sceur ? 
 How does the leatliery Mamsell Soeur ? 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Mamsell Sceur ! 
 How does the Mamsell Scexir ? 
 
A BEER-SCANDAL ^9 
 
 She knits the Papa socks ! 
 She knits the Papa socks ! 
 She knits the Papa leathery socks ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery socks! 
 She knits the Papa socks ! 
 
 How does the Herr Rector ? 
 How does the Herr Rector ? 
 How does the leathery Herr Rector ? 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Herr Rector ! 
 How does the Herr Rector ? 
 
 He calls the scholar, Boy ! 
 He calls the scholar, Boy ! 
 He caUs the scholar, leathery Boy ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery Boy ! 
 He calls the scholar. Boy ! 
 
 And smokes the Fox tobacco ! 
 And smokes the Fox tobacco ! 
 And smokes the leathery Fox tobacco ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Fox tobacco ! 
 And smokes the Fox tobacco ! 
 
 A little, Masters mine ! 
 A little, Masters mine ! 
 A little, much-honored Masters minel 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery pipe ! 
 Then let him fill a pipe ! 
 
90 HYPERION 
 
 O Lord ! it makes me sick ! 
 O Lord ! it makes me sick ! 
 O Lord ! it makes rae leathery sick ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery sick ! 
 O Lord ! it makes me sick ! 
 
 Then let him throw it o£E ! 
 Then let him throw it off ! 
 Then let him throw it leathery off I 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Leathery off ! 
 Then let him throw it off ! 
 
 Now I ag-ain am well ! 
 Now I again am well ! 
 Now I agam am leathery well! 
 
 Sii! Sa! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Sa! Sa! 
 
 Fox a Btirsch ! 
 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 term at the University, 
 and then at a given signal were set on fire, and the 
 Branders rode round the table on chairs amid 
 roars of laughter. When this ceremony was com- 
 pleted, the President rose and in a solemn voice 
 pronounced a long discourse, in which old coUege 
 jokes were mingled with much parental advice to 
 young men on entering life, and the whole was 
 
A BEER-SCANDAL 91 
 
 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 I 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 nowise inclined. 
 
 " Thou art challenged ! " replied the pale stu- 
 dent, 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 Bass- 
 gliiser, filled to the brim with foaming beer. 
 Three were placed before each duellist. 
 
 " Take your weapons ! " cried one of the sec- 
 onds, 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 
 
92 HYPERION 
 
 a beer-barrel. The other two glasses followed in 
 quick succession, lianlly a loug breath drawn be- 
 tween. 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 full out, and 
 then, placing it quietly on the table, looked his 
 antagonist in the face, and said : — 
 
 " Hit ! " 
 
 Then, with the greatest coolness, looking under 
 the table, he 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 
 do^^^l 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 straight 
 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 dowTiward. Regard- 
 less of every one, erect, and with a martial stride, 
 he marched directly along the centre of the table, 
 crushing glasses and overthrowing bottles at every 
 step. The students shrank back at his approach ; 
 till at length one more intoxicated, or more cou- 
 rageous, 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 Ivleist. He was rcnownlng it. In the midst 
 of the uproar could be distinguished the offensive 
 words : — 
 
THE WHITE LADY'S SLIPPER 93 
 
 " Arrogant ! Absurd ! Im^sertinent ! Dummer 
 Juuge ! " 
 
 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 oft' with only a 
 gash through his upper lip and another through 
 his right eyelid from a dexterous Suabian Schliiger. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE WHITE lady's SLIPPER AND THE PASSION- 
 FLOWER. 
 
 That nisfht Emma of Ilmenau went to her cham- 
 ber with a heavy heart, and her dusky eyes were 
 troubled with tears. She was one of those gen- 
 tle 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 even- 
 ing 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 ap- 
 proached, 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 Strasburg, who had grown 
 old in the family. In her youth, she had been 
 poor, — and virtuous, because she had never been 
 
94 HYPERION 
 
 tempted ; and now that she had grown old, and 
 seen no inunediate reward for her virtue, as is 
 usual with weak minds, she despaired of Provi- 
 dence, 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. 
 
 "• AMiy 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 sorae 
 one, — love him once and for ever ; — devote my- 
 self to him alone, — live for him, — die for him, 
 
 — exist alone in him I But, alas ! in all this wide 
 world there is none to love me as I would be loved, 
 
 — none w hom I may love as I am capable of lov- 
 ing. How empty, how desolate, seems the world 
 about me ! Why has Heaven given me these af- 
 fections, 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 it- 
 self, — no answer to our impatient questionings ! 
 
 " Bless me, child, what ails you ? " exclaimed 
 Madeleine, perceiving that Emma paid no atten- 
 tion to her idle gossip. "When I was of your 
 age"- 
 
 " Do not talk to me now, good Madeleina 
 Leave me, I wish to be alone." 
 
THE WHITE LADY'S SLIPPER 95 
 
 " Well, here is something," contiuuetl the maid, 
 taking- a billet from her bosom, " which I hope will 
 enliven you. When I was of your age " — 
 
 " Hush I hush ! " said P^mma, taking the billet 
 from 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, 
 quick as thought, a crimson blush gleamed on 
 her cheek, and her hands trembled. Tenderness, 
 pity, love, offended pride, the weakness and dig- 
 nity of woman, were all mingled in her look, chang- 
 ing and passing over her fine countenance like 
 cloud-shadows. She sunk back in her chair, cover- 
 ing 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 ! Oh, 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 broken 
 by 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 
 beautiful lines which Goethe wrote on the wall of a 
 summer-house at Ilmenau : — 
 
96 HYPERION 
 
 O'er all the liill-tops is quiet now ! 
 In all the woodlands hearest thou 
 
 Hardly a sound ! 
 The little birds are asleep in the trees ; 
 Wait ! wait ! and soon, like these, 
 
 Sieepest thou ! 
 
 Emma knew the voice, and started. She rushed 
 to the window to close it. It was a beantifid night, 
 and the stars were shining peacefully over the 
 mountain of All-Saints. The sound of the Neckar 
 was soft and low ; 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 outlines of the hills, the castle, the 
 arches of the bridge, and the spires and roofs of 
 the tow^n, 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 shoidd never raise it again. " Oh 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 ; woidd that from thine 
 might spring up heart's-ease, — some plant, at 
 
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND 97 
 
 least, to destroy the serpents in tliy bosom ! Be- 
 lieve me, upon the margin of celestial streams alone 
 those simples grow which cure the heart-ache ! 
 
 And this the silent stars beheld, looking down 
 from heaven, and told it not again. This like- 
 wise the Fran Himmelauen 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 cor- 
 poreal evidence, can be perceived and compre- 
 hended only by the discursive energies of reason. 
 Hence the ambiguous nature of matter can be 
 comprehended only by adulterated opinion. Mat- 
 ter 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 octahedron 
 was destined to be the figure of air, and the icosa- 
 hedron of water. The right-angled isosceles tri- 
 angle produces from itself a square, and the square 
 generates from itself the cube, which is the figure 
 peculiar to earth. But the figure of a beauti- 
 ful and perfect sphere was imparted to the most 
 beautiful and perfect world, that it might be indi- 
 gent of nothing, but contain all things, embracing 
 
98 HYPERION 
 
 and comprehenclini^ tlicm in itself, and thus might 
 be ext'cllent and admirable, similar to and in con- 
 cord with itself, ever moving musically and melo- 
 diously. If I use a novel language, excuse me. 
 As Apuleius says, pardon must be granted to nov- 
 elty of words, when it serves to illustrate the ob- 
 scurity 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 neighborhood. Such, like- 
 wise, 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. 
 Ilis 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 de- 
 spairing. He loved solitude, and silence, and can- 
 dle-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 
 
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND 99 
 
 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, 
 wliich, to the best of his listener's memory, seemed 
 gleaned here and there from Fichte's Destiny of 
 Man, and Schubert's History of the SoiU. 
 
 " Life is one and universal, its forms many and 
 individual. Throughout this beautiful and won- 
 derful creation there is never-ceasing motion, with- 
 out 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 endeavor 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 in its 
 God-likeness is the human soul. The vast cat he- 
 dral 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 cathe- 
 dral comes the human soul, seeking its Ci'eator ; 
 and the universal silence is changed to sound, and 
 
100 HYPERION 
 
 the sound is harmonious, and has a meaning, and 
 is comprehended and felt. It was an ancient say- 
 ing 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 jjasture 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 awake in Nature, and the 
 soul of man can see and comprehend them, an ex- 
 pectation and a longing for a future revelation of 
 God's majesty. They awake, also, when, in the 
 fulness of life, field and forest rest at noon, and 
 through the stillness are 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 
 
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND 101 
 
 night Orion puts on his shining armor, to walk 
 forth into the fields of heaven. But in the soul of 
 man alone is this longing changed to certainty, and 
 fulfilled. For, lo ! the light 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 
 storm-wind 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 steadfast. 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 Perish- 
 able, 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 dis- 
 course at times, to answer and inquire ; but the 
 Professor went on, warming and glowing more and 
 more." 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 
 
102 HYPERION 
 
 part of Goethe's Faust, there is a grand and strik- 
 ing scene, where in the classical A\'al|)urgis Night, 
 on the Pharsalian Plains, the mocking Mephis- 
 topheles sits down between the solemn antique 
 Sphinxes, and boldly questions them, and reads 
 their riddles. The red light of innumerable watch- 
 fires glares round about, and shines upon the terri- 
 ble face of the arch-scoffer ; while on either side, 
 severe, majestic, solemnly serene, we behold the 
 gigantic forms of the children of Chimaera, half 
 buried in the sand, their mild eyes gazing fixedly, 
 as if they heard through the midnight the swift- 
 rushing wings of the Stymphalides, striving to out- 
 strip the speed of xVlcides' arrows ! Angry Griffins 
 are near them, and not far are Sirens, singing 
 their wondrous songs from the rocking branches 
 of the willow-trees I 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 forwat-d stead- 
 fasti}^ 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 aw^ake to its peculiar being, than it strug- 
 gles to behold and compreheud the Spirit of Life. 
 In the first dim twilight of its existence, it beholds 
 
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND 103 
 
 this spirit, is pervaded by its energies, — is quick 
 and creative like the spirit itself, and yet slumbers 
 away into death after having seen it. But the 
 image it has seen remains ; in the eternal procrea- 
 tion, 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 imag:e 
 more perfect in the brightening twilight of the 
 da%\Ti, 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 sluni- 
 berer 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 be- 
 hold 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 it- 
 self new properties, and is not the same to-day as 
 yesterday, so likewise the soul lays aside its idi- 
 osyncrasies, and is changed by acquiring new j)ow- 
 ers, 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 for evermore." 
 
 " I mean what I say," continued the Professor ; 
 
104 HYPERION 
 
 " and can find no more appropriate language 
 to express my meaning than that whieli I have 
 used. But, as I said before, pardon nmst 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 ab- 
 straction, which seem to me analogous to death. 
 The soul gradually loses its consciousness of what 
 is passing around it, and takes no longer cogni- 
 zance of objects which are near. It seems for the 
 moment to have dissolved its connection 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 like- 
 wise is death ; save that, when we die, the soul 
 returns no more to the dwelling it has left." 
 
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND 105 
 
 " You seem to take it for granted," interrupted 
 Flemming, " that, iu 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 ob- 
 serve 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 mysterious mean- 
 ingf. 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 har- 
 mony of things, becomes an inward benediction, 
 and lifts the soul mightily upward. Still more so, 
 when a man regards himself as a necessary mem- 
 ber 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 gTow. I can undertake the sub' 
 
106 IIYPKIUOiV 
 
 lime task which they once undertook, the task of 
 making our common brotherhood wiser and hap- 
 pier. I can build forward,. where tliey wereiorced 
 to leave off, and bring nearer to perfection the 
 groat edifice which they left uncomj)leted. And at 
 length I, too, must leave it, and go hence. Oh, 
 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 period is 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 de- 
 stroy 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 recognize it, I likewise am eternal ! Tell 
 me, my friend, have you no faith in this ? " 
 
 ''' I have," answei'ed Elemming, 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 scepticism of the age. This is one form in 
 which the philosophic sjjirit of the age presents it- 
 self. Let me tell you that another form which it 
 
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND 107 
 
 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 philos- 
 ophy. 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 mys- 
 terious sound, which to them is the voice of the 
 Soul of the World. All nature has become spiritu- 
 alized and transfigured ; and, wrapped 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 over- 
 head dispute with their reflection in the water, 
 which is the reality and which the image. I will- 
 ingly confess that such day-dreams as these appeal 
 strongly to my imagination. Visitants and attend- 
 ants are they of those lofty souls which, soaring 
 ever higher and higher, build themselves nests under 
 the very eaves of the stars, forgetful that they can- 
 not live on air, but must descend to earth for food. 
 Yet I recognize them as day-dreams only ; as shad- 
 ows, not substantial things. What I mainly dis- 
 like 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, 
 
108 HYPERION 
 
 and torn from its shady den and its bristling in- 
 trencLnients of uneontli terminology, and dragged 
 forth into the open light of day, to be seen by the 
 natural eye and tried by merely human understand- 
 ing, 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 re- 
 minded of Dryden in the Battle of the Books ; 
 there is a helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigan- 
 tic, and within it, at the farthest corner, is a head 
 no bigger than a walnut.' — Can you believe that 
 these words ever came from the pen of Thomas 
 Carlyle ? He has himself taken up the uncouth 
 terminology, of late, and many pure, sim])le 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 
 recognize 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 mon- 
 arch 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 rea- 
 son with thunder-storms ? Better sit quiet, and 
 see them pass over like a pageant, cloudy, superb, 
 and vast." 
 
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND 109 
 
 The Professor smiled self-complacently, but said 
 not a word. Flemining" 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 residt. 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, summer 
 and 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 is Time ? " 
 
 The high and animated tone of voice in which 
 the Professor uttered these words aroused the 
 Baron from his sleep ; and, not distinctly com- 
 prehending what was s«iid, but thinking the Pro- 
 fessor asked what time it was, he innocently ex- 
 claimed : — 
 
 " I should think it must be near midnight ! " 
 
110 HYPERION 
 
 This somewhat disconcerted the Professor, who 
 took his leave soon afterward. Wheu he was 
 gone, the Baron said : — 
 
 " Excuse me for treating your guest so cava- 
 lierly. His jihilosopliy 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 ; I brought the 
 sun up out of the sea ; with me began the change- 
 ful 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 Philister-like, 
 contracting thoughts ? I, however, emancipated as 
 my mind assures me I am, gladly pursue my in- 
 ward light, advance boldly in a transport peculiarly 
 my own, the bright before me, and the dark be- 
 hind ! ' — Do you not see a resemblance ? Oh, they 
 might be modest enough to confess that one strag- 
 gling ray of light may, by some accident, reach 
 the blind eyes of even us poor, benighted hea- 
 then ! " 
 
 " Alas ! how little veneration we have I " said 
 Flemming. " I could not help closing the discus- 
 sion 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 split 
 
MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS 111 
 
 open, from which sj)rang 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 aston- 
 ished 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 tliink 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 Tran- 
 scendentalists call a God-intoxicated man ; and I 
 advise him, as Santeul 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 
 ursrincf 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 pleas- 
 ant days at Ems, and visit the other watermg- 
 places of Nassau. It will drive away the melau- 
 
112 HYPERION 
 
 choly day-dreams that haunt you. Perhaps some 
 future bride is even now waiting for you, with dim 
 presentiments and undefined longings, at the Ser- 
 pent's Bath." 
 
 " Or some widow of Ems, with a cork leg ! " 
 said Flemming, smiling ; and then added, in a tone 
 of 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, pur- 
 suing their way slowly along the lovely Bei'gstrasse, 
 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 Ilandschuhsheimer, 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 mys- 
 terious 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 dis- 
 
MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS 113 
 
 mounted to walk up the hill leading to the town. 
 " You may drive to the mill in the valley of Birk- 
 enau." 
 
 The postilion seized one of his fat horses by 
 the tail, and swung himself up to his seat again. 
 They rattled over the paved streets of Weinheimp 
 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 a castle 
 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, shvit in by 
 high hills ; shaded by alder-trees and tall pop- 
 lars, 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 laug'h. 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 
 
114 HYPERION 
 
 an alehouse and rural inn ; so that the associations 
 it suggests are not of labor only, but also of pleas- 
 ure. It stands in the narrow defile, with its pic- 
 turesque thatched roof ; thither throng the peas- 
 ants, 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 rush- 
 ing 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 w^as 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 feel 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 telling 
 you 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 
 
MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS 115 
 
 songs, it requires a poet to feel and iinclerstand 
 it. Sing them in the valley and woodland shad- 
 ows, 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 Miiller 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 im- 
 pulses of the soul of man find an expression. 
 He calls 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. 
 
116 HYPERION 
 
 *' Is this the way I was going ? 
 Whither, O brooklet ? say ! 
 Thou hast, with thy soft nuinuur, 
 Murmured my senses away. 
 
 " Wliat do I say of a murmur ? 
 That can no murmur be ; 
 'T is the water-nymphs tliat 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 Flem- 
 miug", " and the dull prose commentary and expla- 
 nation 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 sup- 
 per. Did you observe what a loud, sharp voice 
 she has ? " 
 
 " People always have who live in mills and near 
 waterfalls." 
 
 On the following morning, they emerged unwil- 
 lingly 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 I what 
 
MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS 117 
 
 thrilling, pathetic chimes ! what wild, joyous rev- 
 elry of passion ! what a delirium of sense ! what 
 an expression of agony and woe ! — all the feel- 
 ings of suffering and rejoicing humanity sympa- 
 thized with and finding a voice in those tones. 
 riemming and the Baron listened with ever in 
 creasing 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 sweet voice 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 in- 
 struments, of flutes and drums and trumpets, this 
 universal shout and whirlwind of the vexed air, 
 you can so clearly distinguish the melancholy vi- 
 bration 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 min- 
 gling 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 feel- 
 ings, 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 fan- 
 ning' the air with gauze-like wings. Noiseless as a 
 feather or a snow-flake falls, did her feet touch the 
 
118 HYPERION 
 
 earth. She seemed to float in 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 ai)plause followed each wonderful 
 stej), each volu})tuous movement ; and, with a 
 jflushed cheek and burning eye, and bosom pant- 
 ing 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 ! AVhat grace ! what at- 
 titudes I How much sold in every motion ! how 
 much expression in every gesture ! I assure you, 
 it pi'oduces 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 whole 
 magic show with such feelings as ISlichal, 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, ' 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 De^nl's grindstone, whereon he sharp- 
 ens his sword ; antl finally, — a ballet is the pomji 
 
MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS 119 
 
 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 min- 
 isters 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 ilupres- 
 sive. Everything wears a dream-like aspect. The 
 empty boxes and stalls, the silence, the smok}' twi- 
 light, 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 mir- 
 ror, and reminds me of some of Hoffmann's wild 
 tales. It is a practical moral lesson, a commen- 
 tary on the play, and makes the show complete." 
 
 It was truly as he said, only tenfold more deso- 
 late, 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 fel* 
 
120 HYPERION 
 
 low, 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-liouse : — 
 
 " I shall run her six nights at Munich, and then 
 take her on to Vienna." 
 
 Flemming thovight he was speaking of some fa 
 vorite horse. He was speaking of his beautiful 
 wife, the ballet-dancer. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 GOETHE. 
 
 What most interested our travellers in the an- 
 cient 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 Main, 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 iVIayor on Pipers-Dooms= 
 day representing a kind of middle personage be- 
 tween Alcinous and Laertes. Thus, O Genius \ 
 are thy footi)rints hallowed, and the star shines 
 torever over the place of thy nativity. 
 
GOETHE 
 
 121 
 
 " Your English critics may rail as they list," 
 Baid the Baron, while he and Flemming were re- 
 turning from a stroll in the leafy gardens out- 
 side the moat ; " but, after all, Goethe was a mag- 
 nificent old fellow. Only think of his life; his 
 youth of passion, alternately aspiring and despond- 
 ing, 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 o-ood illustration of what the world calls his 
 indiffei-entism." 
 
 « And do you know I rather like this indifPerent- 
 ism ? 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 indis- 
 creet 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 Kepresentative 
 of Poetry upon Earth ! The Many-sided Master- 
 Miud of Germany! His enemies rush into the 
 
122 HYPERION 
 
 other extreme, and Imrl at him the fierce names of 
 Old Humbug ! aud Old Heathen ! which hit like 
 pistol-bullets." 
 
 " I confess he was no saint." 
 
 " No ; his philosophy is the old ethnic philoso- 
 phy. You will find it all in a convenient and 
 concentrated portable form in Horace's beautiful 
 Ode to Thaliarcus. What I most object to in the 
 old gentleman is his sensuality." 
 
 " Oh, 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 strange 
 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 bronze lamps 
 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 the most enduring ; 
 and Goethe belonged rather to the former. Have 
 you read Menzel's attack upon him ? " 
 
GOETHE 123 
 
 " It is truly ferocious. The Silesian hews into 
 him lustily. I hope you do not take sides with 
 him." 
 
 " By no means. lie 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 kind of German Boswell. 
 Goethe knew he was drawing his portrait, and sat 
 for it accordingly. He works very hard to make 
 a Saint Peter out of an old Jupiter, as the Catho- 
 lics did at Rome." 
 
 " Well, call him Old Humbug, or Old Heathen, 
 or what you please ; I maintain that, with all his 
 errors and shortcomings, he was a glorious speci- 
 men 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 soothsayings seem nothing 
 more than the worldly wisdom of Poor Richard, 
 versified." 
 
 " What most offends me is, that now every Ger- 
 man 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 Manfi^edi, at 
 Benevento. But, of aU that has been said or sung, 
 what most pleases me is Heine's Apologetic, if 1 
 
124 HYPERION 
 
 may so call it ; in -svhicli he says, that ' the minor 
 poets, who flourished under the imperial reign 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 war- 
 ring 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 per- 
 mitted to play their witchery there ; and gladly, 
 with consecrated axe, w^ould 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 a 
 Liberty Tree, 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 very reason 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.' Do you not think 
 that beautiful? " 
 
 " Yes, very beautiful. And I am glad to see 
 that you can find something to admire in my fa- 
 vorite author, notwithstanding his frailties ; or, to 
 
GOETHE 125 
 
 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 I " exclaimed 
 Flemming. 
 
 " Where ? " cried the Baron, as if for the mo- 
 ment 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 cra- 
 vat crossed in front. What a magnificent head ! 
 and what a posture ! He stands like a tower of 
 Strength. 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, 
 wdth his square shoulders braced back, and his 
 hands behind him ! He looks as if he were stand- 
 ing 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 Gottingen Musen-Almanach in a select 
 society at Weimar, when a young man came in, 
 dressed in a short, gi-een shooting-jacket, booted 
 and spurred, and having a pair of brilliant, black, 
 Italian eyes. He, in turn, offered to read; but 
 
126 HYPERION 
 
 finding, probably, the poetry of the Musen-Ahna- 
 nach of that year rather too insipid for him. he 
 soon began to improvise the wihlest and most fan- 
 tastic poems imaginable, and in all possible forms 
 and measures, j^retending all the while 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 in the air ; and, as it sank down again 
 and was motionless, the spirit of the old man de- 
 parted." 
 
 " 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 stej) in here. I wish to buy 
 that cast." 
 
THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS 127 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS, AND THE FALL- 
 ING STAR. 
 
 After lingering a day or two in Frankfort, the 
 two friends struck across through Hochheim to the 
 Rhine, and up among the hills of the Eheingau to 
 Schlangenbad, where they tarried only to bathe and 
 to dine, and then pursued their way to Langen- 
 schwalbach. 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 waters 
 of 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 everything 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 ter- 
 race or platform on which the church stands, and 
 which in ancient times was the church-yard, or, 
 as the Germans more devoutly say, God's-acre ; 
 where generations are scattered like seeds, and 
 
128 uypERiON 
 
 that which is sown in corruption shall be raised 
 hereafter in iucorruptioii. Ou 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. 
 He gave 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 armor, 
 standing in a niche under the pulpit. 
 
 " Who is this ? " said Flemming to the old sex- 
 ton ; " who is this, that stands here so solemnly in 
 marble, and seems to be keeping guard over the 
 dead men below ? " 
 
THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS 129 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 Flcmming made no reply, for he was thinking of 
 the days, when, from that old pulpit, some bold re- 
 former thundered down the first tidings of a new 
 doctrine, and the roof echoed with the grand old 
 hymn 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 preach- 
 ing ? Do you think the fishes, that heard the 
 sermon of St. Anthony, were any better than those 
 who did not ? I commend to your favorable notice 
 the fish-sermon of this saint, as recorded by Abra- 
 ham a Sancta Clara. You will find it in your 
 favorite Wonder-Horn." 
 
 Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach, and 
 the evening at the AlMe-Saal was quite solitary, 
 for as yet no company had arrived to fill its cham- 
 bers, 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 
 
130 HYPERION 
 
 from the summit of a hill directly 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 
 JSIicromegas, 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 travellers drove 
 through the one long street composed entirely of 
 hotels and lodging-houses. Sick people looked out 
 of the windows as they passed. Others were walk- 
 ing leisurely up and down, beneath the few decap- 
 itated 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 Baion 
 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 philosophy in small things and great. In the 
 evening, they went to an £esthetic 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 
 
THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS 131 
 
 mania is to make a figure in the fashionable world ; 
 and to this end she married a rich banker of Frank- 
 fort, 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 iienurious, and half the time bedridden. 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 aesthetic teas ? " asked 
 Flemming. 
 
 " I was just going to tell you," continued the 
 Baron. " The gay lady has no taste for long even- 
 ings 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 tea- 
 party, without his knowing anything 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 sacri- 
 fice they have had strength enough to commence, 
 are betrayed into a life of duplicity and false- 
 hood." 
 
 They had now reached the house, and were 
 ushered into a room gayly lighted and filled with 
 
132 IIYPKRION 
 
 ffucsts. The hostess came forward to receive 
 them, dressctl in white, and sailing down the room 
 like a swan. When the customary salutations had 
 passed and Flemming had been duly presented, 
 tiie 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 tliese 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 pri- 
 vate 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 col- 
 lar, bosom, and wristbands. 
 
 "Pray, Mr. Flemming, what do you think of 
 that Rembrandt ? " said he, pointing to a picture 
 on the wall. " Exquisite picture I The gi-andeur 
 of sentiment and splendor of chiaroscuro are of 
 
THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS 133 
 
 the first order. Just observe the liquidity of the 
 water, and the silveriness of the clouds ! Great 
 power ! There is a bravura of handling in that 
 picture, Sir, which it requires the eye of a con- 
 noisseur 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 hun-ied up to Flemming, 
 whom he had known in Ileidelbers:. He was 
 eager to let every one know that he spoke Eng- 
 lish, and in his haste began by making a mis- 
 take. 
 
 " Good-by ! Good-by ! 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 ! 1 wish I had been the Fornarina," 
 sighed the impassioned, romantic lady. 
 
134 HYPERION 
 
 " Then, my dear madam," replied the Baron, " I 
 wish 1 had been liaphael." 
 
 And so likewise said to himself a very tall man 
 witli 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 spin- 
 ning, 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 
 riemming's countenance. 
 
 " Oh, 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 j'ou 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 Bibllotheque de Ro- 
 mans Choisis I " 
 
 And meri'ily 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-waltzes 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 waltx 
 
THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS 135 
 
 set the wheels of his faney going. And thus tlie 
 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 inter- 
 rupted. 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 can- 
 dlestick without a light. A sheet was wound round 
 his head, like a tux'bau ; 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. The im- 
 pression 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. Erelong, 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 
 
136 HYPERION 
 
 enacted in Heidelberg. Just as the sun set, two 
 fVmale figures walked along- the romantic wood- 
 land pathway leading to the Angel's Meadow, a 
 little green opening on the brow of one of the high 
 hills which see themselves in the Neekar and hear 
 the solemn bells of Kloster-Neuburg. The even- 
 ing 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 shrink- 
 ing 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 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 its waters 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 ! 
 
THE PARTING 137 
 
 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 gen- 
 tle sounds attended which are the meek compan- 
 ions of the night. 
 
 Flemming and the Baron had passed the after- 
 noon 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 
 for ever. The Baron was going to Berlin, to join 
 his sister ; and Flemming, driven forward by the 
 restless spirit within him, longed once more for a 
 change of scene, and was to start for the Tyrol and 
 Switzerland. Alas ! he never said to the passing 
 hour, " Stay, for thou art fair ! " but reached for- 
 ward into the dark future, with unsatisfied long- 
 ings and aimless desires that were never still. 
 
 As the day was closing, they sat down on the 
 terrace of Elizabeth'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 shad- 
 
138 HYPERION 
 
 ows. But at length tlie shadows came, — trans- 
 parent and faint outlines, that deepened into form. 
 In the valley below only the river gleamed, lilce 
 steel, and here and there the lamps were lighted 
 in the town. Solemnly stood the leafy linden- 
 trees in the garden near them, their trunks in dark- 
 ness and their summits bi'onzed 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 majes- 
 tic countenance looked forth into the silent night, 
 as the countenance of a seer who reads the stars. 
 At intervals, the Avind 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 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 con- 
 versing about the magnificent old ruin, and the 
 ages in which it had been built, and the vicissi- 
 tudes of time and war, that had battered down its 
 walls, and left it " tenantless, save to the cranny- 
 ing wind." 
 
 " How sorrowful and sublime is the face of that 
 statue yonder ! " said Flemmiug. " It reminds 
 
THE PARTING 139 
 
 me of the old Danisli hero Beowiilf ; 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 dwell- 
 ings, 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 wait- 
 ing 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 regi-ets for the past, and in- 
 definite, 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 enjoj^ments now with 
 w'hat they were ten years ago, the comparison is 
 vastly in favor of the present. Much of the fever 
 and f^'etfuluess of life is over. The world and I 
 look each other more calmly in the face. My mind 
 
140 HYPERION 
 
 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," an- 
 swered the Baron, laughing. " But you deceive 
 yourself. I never knew a more restless, feverish 
 spirit 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 cahn. 
 1 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 pur- 
 suits no longer charm me. The quiet face of Na- 
 ture seems to mock me." 
 
 " There certainly are seasons," replied the Baron, 
 " when Nature seems not to sympathize with 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 n^y pa- 
 tience. About that, too, she cares so little that, 
 
THE PARTING 141 
 
 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 
 Etlen. 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 our 
 own 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 town more." 
 
 " Yes," interrupted the Baron ; " and presently 
 you will love the town 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 con- 
 tented with his own insignificant person, very self- 
 Bomplacent, to be continually occupied with himself 
 and his own thoughts. To say the least, a town 
 Ufe makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's 
 
142 HYPERION 
 
 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 castle 
 clock 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 Plandschuhsheimer, 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, — fathomless, black, impenetrable. 
 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 swim- 
 ming in the moonlight, 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. 
 
 AVhen 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 t}ie most unpleasant people 
 Aud places, one keeps looking at the steeple I 
 
THE PARTING 143 
 
 and how much more so when the place and peo- 
 ple 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 vis- 
 ions, and sweet faces looked under his closed eye- 
 lids, 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. Be- 
 sides 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 THE THIRD 
 
 Take away the lights, too ; 
 
 The moon lends me too much to find my fears, 
 
 And those devotions I am now to pay 
 
 Are wTitten in my lieart, not in thy book ; 
 
 And I sliall read them there without a taper. 
 
 Beaduont and Flstcheb< 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 SIBIMER-TIME. 
 
 They were right — those old German Min- 
 nesingers — 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 lonsr streak of sunshine streams in through a 
 crevice. AYe 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 \nth leaves, aiKl the gardens 
 full of blossoms, red and white. The whole at- 
 mosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine. 
 The birds sing. The cock struts about, and crowa 
 loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. Yellow but- 
 tercups 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, 
 
SUMMER-TIME 145 
 
 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 of tener 
 lilacs. Ye denizens of the crowded city, how 
 pleasant to you is the change from the sultry 
 streets to the open field, fragrant with clover-blos- 
 soms ! how pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, 
 dashed with brine from the meadows ! how pleas- 
 ant, above all, the flowers, — the manifold, beauti- 
 ful 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 neighboring sea. The village 
 clock strikes : and I feel that I am not alone. 
 
146 HYPERION 
 
 How different is it in tlie city ! It is late, and 
 the crowd is gone. You step out upon the bal- 
 cony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, dewy 
 Night, as i£ you folded her garments about you. 
 Beneath lies the public walk with trees, like a 
 fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent darkness 
 the spirit plunges and floats away, with some be- 
 loved spirit clasped in its embrace. The lamps 
 are still burning up and down the long street. 
 People go by, with grotesque shadows, now fore- 
 shortened, and now lengthening away into the 
 darkness and vanishing, while a new one springs 
 up behind the walker, and seems to pass him, 
 revolving like the sail of a windmill. The iron 
 gates of the park shut with a jangling clang. 
 There are footsteps and loud voices; — a tumidt, 
 — a drunken brawl, — an alarm of fire ; — then si- 
 lence 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 openings of streets, — 
 angular, like blocks of white marble. 
 
 Under such a green, triumphal arch, O Reader, 
 with the odor of flowers about thee, and tlie song 
 of birds, shalt thoii pass onward into the enchanted 
 land, as through the Ivory Gate of dreams ! And 
 as a prelude and majestic march, one sweet human 
 voice, coming from the bosom of the Alps, sings 
 this sublime ode, which the Alpine echoes repeat 
 afar. 
 
S UMMER- TIME 147 
 
 Come, golden Evening ! in the west 
 
 Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, 
 And let the triple rainbow rest 
 
 O'er aU the mountain-tops. 'T is done ; — ■ 
 The tempest ceases ; bold and bright, 
 
 The rainbow shoots from hill to hUl ; 
 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. 
 Wliile hid in solitude sublime, 
 
 Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb, 
 And hear the passing foot of Time 
 
 Step through the silent gloom. 
 
 Al l 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 mom, 
 
 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 chUl suspense, 
 They seem so exquisitely frail, 
 
 Lest they should vanish hence. 
 
148 HYPERION 
 
 I breathe again, I freely breathe ; 
 
 Thee, Lenian's Lake, once more I tracey 
 Like Dian's crescent far beneath, 
 
 As beautiful as Dian's face : 
 Pride of the land that g-ave 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 mountaiiLs as before, 
 Wliere all the strange mutations wronght 
 
 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 tlie future with such, 
 strong desire ? The present is thine, — and the 
 past ; — and the future shall be ! Oh 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 ! Oh 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 
 
 * James Montgomery. 
 
FOOT- TRA YELLING 149 
 
 the solemn-sounding main, into the ocean of Eter- 
 nity ! 
 
 Such were the thoughts that passed through the 
 soul of Flemming, as he lay in utter solitude and 
 silence on the rounded svmimit of one of the moun- 
 tains of the Furca Pass, and gazed, with tears in 
 his eyes, and ardent longing in his heart, into the 
 blue, swimming heaven overhead, and at the gla- 
 ciers and snowy mountain-peaks around him. High- 
 est and whitest of all stood the peak of the Jung- 
 frau, which seemed near him, though it rose afar 
 off from the bosom of the Lauterbrunner Thai. 
 There it stood, holy and high and pure, the bride 
 of heaven, veiled and clothed in white, and lifting 
 the thoughts of the beholder heavenward. Oh, 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, 
 
150 HYPERION 
 
 like those mountain-peaks, and breathed an icy 
 breath upon hijn. Oh, let not the soul that suffers 
 dare to look Nature in the face, where she sits ma- 
 jestically aloft in the solitude of the mountains ! 
 for her face is hard and stern, and turns 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, look- 
 ing at us with tearful eyes, and a face of jiity and 
 love ! 
 
 But yesterday Flemming had come up the val- 
 ley of the Saint Gothard Pass, through Amsteg, 
 where the Kerstelenbach comes dashing down the 
 Maderaner Thai, 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-capt summits, unheard amid the 
 roar of the great torrent below, come streams of 
 snow-white 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 ra- 
 vines above ; 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 mighty 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 
 
FOOT-TRA VEILING 151 
 
 fearful chasm, and through a mountain gallery 
 into the broad, green, silent meadow of Ander- 
 math. 
 
 Even the sunny morning which followed this 
 gloomy day had not chased the desolate impres- 
 sion from the soul of Flemming. His excite- 
 ment increased as he lost himself more and more 
 among the mountains ; and now, as he lay alone 
 on the summit of the sunny hiU, with only gla- 
 ciers and snowy peaks about him, his soul, as I 
 have said, was wild with a fierce and painful de- 
 light. 
 
 A human voice broke his reverie. He looked, 
 and beheld, at a short distance from him, the ath- 
 letic form of a mountain herdsman, who was ap- 
 proaching 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 of a stranger, and longed to hear a hu- 
 man voice, though it might speak in an unknown 
 tongue. He answered Flemming's salutation in a 
 rude mountain dialect, and in reply to his ques- 
 tions said : — 
 
 " I, with two others, have charge of two hun- 
 dred head of cattle on these mountains. Through 
 the 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 
 
152 HYPERION 
 
 way down the mountain, as one distraught. He 
 stopped only to pluck one bright blue flower, which 
 bloomed alone in the vast desert, and looked up at 
 him, as if to say, " Oh, take me with you ! leave 
 me not here companionless ! " 
 
 Erelong he reached the magnificent glacier of 
 the Rhone — a frozen cataract, more than two thou- 
 sand feet in height, and many miles broad at its 
 base. It fills the whole valley between two moun- 
 tains, 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 the 
 sun. 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, cen- 
 turies 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 step- 
 ping-stones in the beds of numberless shallow 
 brooks, descended to the Grimsel Hospital, where 
 
FOOT-TRA YELLING 153 
 
 he passed the night, and thought it the most lone 
 and desolate spot that man ever slept in. 
 
 On the morrow he rose witli the day ; and the 
 rising sun found him already standing on the rus- 
 tic bridge 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 half- 
 way down, the double cascade mingles into one. 
 Thus he pursued his way down the Hasli Thai into 
 the Bernese Oberland, — restless, impatient, he 
 knew not why, — stopping seldom, and never long, 
 — and then rushing forward again, like the rush- 
 ing 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 ro- 
 mantic valley, and, like a heavy yoke, chafes the 
 neck of the Aar, he believed the ancient tradition, 
 whicli 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 Kesti, looking down upon Meyringen. 
 
154 HYPERION 
 
 And now all around him were the singing of birds, 
 and grateful sliadows 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 or- 
 naments of foam, and not unlike the towers of a 
 Gothic church inverted. There, in one white sheet 
 of foam, the Keichenbach pours down into its deep 
 beaker, into which the sun never shines. Face to 
 face it beholds the Alpbach falling from the op- 
 posite 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 with 
 them in their freedom and delight. Yet he was 
 weary with the day's journey, and entered the vil- 
 lage of ISIeyringen, embowered in cherry-trees, 
 wdiich were then laden with fruit, more like a w^ay- 
 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, si ! and Sig- 
 nor, no 1 " 
 
 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 
 
INTERLACHEN 155 
 
 cascade of the Giessbach, hearing the peasants 
 sing the lianz des Vaches. He slept that night at 
 the other extremity of the lake, in a large house, 
 which, like Saint Peter's at Jopi)a, stood by the 
 water's side. The next day he wasted in writing 
 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 quaint 
 towers of thine ancient cloister rise above the,ir 
 summits ; the quaint 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 Lauterbrun- 
 nen, where the cloud-hooded Monk and the pale 
 Virgin stand like Saint Francis and his Bride of 
 Snow ; and around thee are fields, and orchards, 
 and hamlets green, from which the church-bells 
 answer each other at evening. The evening sun 
 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 ! 
 
156 HYPERION 
 
 Bell ! thon soundest merrily, 
 When the bridal party 
 
 To the church doth hie I 
 Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 
 When, on Sabbath morning, 
 
 Fields deserted lie ! 
 
 Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
 Tellest thou at evening', 
 
 Bedtime draweth nigh ! 
 " Bell ! thou soundest miournfully, 
 
 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 ! 
 Wlien the heart is sinking. 
 Thou alone canst raise it. 
 
 Trembling in the storm ! 
 
 Paul riemming 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 gen- 
 tleman would walk in, he would find a chamber 
 for him in the neighborhood. 
 
 On the sofa sat a gentleman, reading ; a stout 
 gentleman of perhaps forty-five, round, ruddy, and 
 
INTERLA CHEN 157 
 
 with a head which, being a little bald on the top, 
 looked not unlike a crow's nest with one ejTjr in it. 
 A good-humored face turned from the book as 
 Flemming entered, and a good-humored voice ex- 
 claimed : — 
 
 " Ha ! Mr. Flemming ! Is it yon, or your ap- 
 parition ? 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 Flem- 
 ming returned the shake as heartily, recognizing 
 in this ruddy personage a former travelling-com- 
 panion, 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 ed- 
 ucation ; but this level groundwork his strange 
 and whimsical fancy used as a dancing-floor 
 whereon to exhibit her eccentric tricks. His rul- 
 ing 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, 
 
158 HYPERION 
 
 just as you were goinj^ up the Riglii. I hope you 
 were gratified with a hue suurise ou the mountain- 
 top." 
 
 " No, I was not ! " replied ]Mr. Berkk-y. " It is 
 all a humbug ! a confounded humbug ! They 
 made such a noise about their sunrise, that I de- 
 termined 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, roman- 
 tic 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 liighi, 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 women 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 Kighi is a great humbug ! " 
 
 " Where have you been since ? " 
 
 " At Ziirich 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 Ziiricli ! 
 '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. 
 
INTERLACHEN 159 
 
 " Not In the least bitter," said Mr. Berkley. 
 " It is all true. Go to the Raven and see. But 
 this Interlaehen ! this Interlachen ! It is the love- 
 liest spot on the face of the earth," he continued, 
 stretching out both arms, as if to embrace the 
 object of 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 Lauterbrun- 
 nen 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 land- 
 scape, and spake not. At length people came in, 
 and laid aside their shawls and hats, and exchanged 
 a word or two with Berkley. To Flemming they 
 were all unknown. The conversation turned upon 
 the various excursions of the day. Some had been 
 at the Siaubbach, others at the Grindelwald, others 
 at the lake of Thun ; and nobody before had ever 
 experienced half the rapture which they had expe- 
 rienced that day. And thus they sat in the ' twi- 
 
160 HYPERION 
 
 light, 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, en- 
 tered 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 soid, that it moved the 
 soul of Flennning, like a whisper from heaven. 
 
 Oh, how wonderful is the human voice ! It is in- 
 deed 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 upon his 
 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 the voice 
 from the burning bush. The soul of man is audi- 
 ble, not visible. A sound alone betrays the flow- 
 ing 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. ]5ut in the midst of his reverie and 
 
INTERLA CHEN 161 
 
 saint-palnting, the landlord came in, and told him 
 he had found a room, 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 room is not what I coidd 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 win- 
 dow." 
 
 " Oh, she is the daughter of an English officer, 
 who died not long ago at Naples. She is passing 
 the summer here with her mother." 
 
 "What is her name?" 
 
 " Ashburton." 
 
 " Is she beautiful ? " 
 
 " Not beautiful, 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 
 
162 HYPERION 
 
 close beneath the quaint towers, which Flemming 
 liad already seen, rising with their cone-shaped 
 roofs above the trees, like tall tapers, with extin- 
 guishers 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 nar- 
 row windows, with leaden lattices and small panes, 
 h)oked southward towards the valley of Lauter- 
 brunnen and the mountains. In one corner was a 
 large square bed, with a tester and checked cur- 
 tains. In another, a huge stove of painted tiles, 
 reaching almost to the ceiling. An old sofa, a 
 few high-backed, anti(]ue chairs, and a table, com- 
 pleted 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 yon to the care of the 
 Virgin and all the Saints. If the ghost of any old 
 monk comes back after his prayer-book, my com- 
 pliments 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 
 
THE EVENING AND MORNING STAR 163 
 
 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 ap- 
 peared 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 Salis- 
 bury at her castle-gate, he thought he had never 
 seen before so noble nor so fair a lady ; he was 
 stricken thereupon 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 sum- 
 mer 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 in 
 the lap of womanhood. They did her wrong who 
 said she was not beautiful ; and yet 
 
164 HYPERION 
 
 She was not fair, 
 Nor beautiful ; — those words express her not. 
 But, oh, her looks had something excellent, 
 That wants a name ! 
 
 Her face had a wonderful fascination in it. It 
 was such a cahn, quiet face, with the light of the 
 rising soul shining so peacefidly through it. At 
 times it wore an expression of seriousness, — o£ 
 sorrow even ; and then seemed to make the very 
 air bright with what the Italian poets so beauti- 
 fully call the laminggiar delV angelico riso^ — the 
 lig-htning of the angelic smile. 
 
 And, oh, 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 light, — are luminous, but not sparkling. 
 Such eyes the Greek poets give to the Immor- 
 tals. 
 
 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 Home, lighted only from above. 
 And earthly passions in the form of gods were na 
 
THE EVENING AND MORNING STAR 165 
 
 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 neces- 
 sity love her, and, having once loved her, could 
 love no other woman forevermore. 
 
 No wonder, then, that Flemming felt his heart 
 drawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she 
 passed him, sitting alone under the great walniit- 
 trees near the cloister, and thinking of heaven, not 
 of her. She, too, was alone. Her cheek was no 
 longer pale ; but glowing and bright, with the in- 
 spiration 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 niofht he had heard a voice to which his 
 soul responded ; and he might have gone on his 
 way and taken no further 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 grew 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 the 
 landscape and the summer morning, as if they pos- 
 sessed the wonder-working power. 
 
 *'A pleasant morning-dream to you," said a 
 
106 HYPERION 
 
 friendly voice ; and at the same moment some 
 one laid his hand upon Flemniing's slioulder. It 
 was Berkley. He had approached unseen and un- 
 heard. 
 
 " I see by the smile on your countenance," he 
 continued, " that it is no day-incubus." 
 
 "You are right," replied Flcmming. "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. 
 Why give 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 sad- 
 dest of us, there arc bright days like this, when 
 we feel as if we could take the great world in our 
 arms. 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 sor- 
 rows which the world knows not, and oftentimes 
 we call a man cold, when he is only sad." 
 
 " And who says we do not ? " interrupted Berk- 
 ley. " 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 Grindei 
 wald ! " 
 
THE EVENING AND MORNING STAR 167 
 
 "To-day, then, you do not breakfast like Di- 
 ogenes, 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 occur- 
 rence. Flemming watched the entrance of every 
 guest ; but she came not, — the guest he most de- 
 sired 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 lose, I assure you. The car- 
 riage is at the door." 
 
 They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen, and 
 turned eastward among the mountains of Grindel- 
 wald. 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 his- 
 tory. It gave him another revelation of the beauty 
 and excellence of woman's character and intellect ; 
 not wholly new to him, yet now renewed and forti- 
 fied. It was from the lips of Mary Ashburton that 
 the revelation came. Her form arose, like a trem- 
 ulous evening-star, in the firmament of his soul. 
 He conversed with her, and with her alone ; and 
 
168 HYPERION 
 
 knew not when to go. All others were to him as 
 if they were not there. lie 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 trem- 
 ulous star was born. 
 
 Berkley took no active part in the conversation, 
 but did what was much more to the purpose, — that 
 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 his head, 
 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 moun- 
 tain-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 169 
 
 A rainy clay in Switzerland puts a sudden stop 
 to many diversions. The coachman may drive to 
 the inn, and then hack to the stable ; but no far- 
 ther. The sun-burnt 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 day gives 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 dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 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 parlor. 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 pre- 
 sume ; only this Giessbach from the clouds." 
 
 " Nothing more, I suppose. So we must be 
 content to stay in-doors, and listen to the sound 
 of the eaves-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 de- 
 lighted to see that you can draw a straight line. 
 
170 HYPERION 
 
 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 uncom- 
 monly picturesque, and may pass for a new in- 
 vention." 
 
 The lady continued to sketch, and Flemming 
 
 to gaze at her beautiful face ; often repeating to 
 
 himself those lines in Mario w's Faust : — 
 
 Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air, 
 Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars ! 
 
 He certainly would have betrayed himseK to 
 the maternal eye of Mrs. Ashburton, had she not 
 been wholly absorbed in the follies of a fashion- 
 able novel. Erelong, 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 landscape 
 sleeps there by the lake, after the battle ! Did 
 you ever read the ballad of Veit Weber, the shoe. 
 
A RAINY DAY 171 
 
 maker, on tLis subject ? He says, the routed Bur- 
 gundians jumped into tlie 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 in- 
 spired me with awe. It is not the face of a man, 
 but of a god I " 
 
 " 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 image of the seer ! Such were the sightless 
 eyes of the blind old man of Chios. They seem 
 to look with mournful solemnity into the myste- 
 rious future, and the marble lips to repeat that 
 prophetic passage in the Hymn to Apollo : ' Let 
 
172 HYPERION 
 
 me also hope to be remembered in ages to come. 
 And wlien any one, born of the tribes of men, 
 comes hither, a weary traveller, and inquioes, 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 repro- 
 duces them in marble or on canvas." 
 
 " And what is the image in your fancy ? Is it 
 like this ? " 
 
 " No, not entirely. I have drawn my impres- 
 sions 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 this," said 
 riemming. " And I perceive from your words, as 
 well as from this book, that you have a true feel- 
 ing 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." 
 
A RAINY DAY 173 
 
 " But does it not often offend you to hear peoj^le 
 speaking- of Art and Nature as opposite and dis- 
 cordant 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 starlight, 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 con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 " This, however, is but a similitude ; and Art 
 and Nature are more nearly allied than by simili- 
 tudes only. Art is the revelation of man ; and not 
 merely that, but likewise the revelation of Nature, 
 speaking through man. Art preexists in Nature, 
 and Nature is reproduced in Art. As vapors from 
 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." 
 
174 HYPERION 
 
 Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm. Flemming spake 
 witli such evident interest in the svibject that Miss 
 Ashburton did not fail to manifest some interest 
 in what he said ; and encouraged by this, he pro- 
 ceeded : — 
 
 " 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, 
 
 " Aud the clear region where 't was bom 
 Roimd in itself encloses. 
 
 Taking this view of Art, I think we understand 
 more easily the skill of the artist, and the differ- 
 ence between 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 shad- 
 ows of himself ; shadows in marble, colors, stone, 
 words. He feels and recognizes 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 im- 
 ages 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 Philoso- 
 phers 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 
 embody the indefinite, and render perfect, — is his 
 
A RAINY DAY 175 
 
 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 
 ^as been denied to others." 
 
 " I should have known you were just from Ger- 
 many," said the lady, with a smile, " even if you 
 had not told me so. You are an enthvisiast for the 
 Germans. For my part, I cannot endure their 
 harsh language." 
 
 " You would like it better, if you knew it bet- 
 ter," 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 Frauleins so tender and true ! " 
 
 " I always think of men with pipes and beer, and 
 women with knitting- work." 
 
 " Oh, 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 
 one of your English critics says, ' of groceries, of 
 brown papers filled with greasy cakes and slices of 
 bacon, and of f ryings in f rouzy back-parlors ; ' and 
 this shuts you out from a glorious world of poetry, 
 romance, and dreams ! " 
 
 Mary Ashburtou smiled, and Flemming con- 
 tinued to turn over the leaves of the sketch-book, 
 with au occasional criticism and witticism. At 
 
176 HYPERION 
 
 length he came to a leaf which was written in 
 pencil. Peojile of a lively imagination are gen- 
 erally curious, and always so when a little in love. 
 
 " Here is a pencil-sketch," said he, with an en- 
 treating 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 Kome, 
 as it presented itself to my imagination ; and this 
 is the result. Perhaps it may awaken some pleas- 
 ant recollection in your mind." 
 
 riemming waited no longer, but read with the 
 eyes of a lover, not of a critic, the following de- 
 scription, which inspired him with a new enthusi- 
 asm for Art, and for Mary Ashburton. 
 
 " I often reflect with delight upon the young ar- 
 tist'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 time out of mind. 
 Their names are written all over the walls ; per- 
 haps some further record of them is left in a 
 rough sketch upon the window-shutter, with an in- 
 scription and a date. These things consecrate the 
 place, in his imagination. Even these names, 
 though unknown to him, are not without associa- 
 tions in his mind. 
 
 " In that warm latitude he rises with the day. 
 The night-vapors are already rolling away over the 
 
A RAINY DAY 177 
 
 Campagna seaward. As he looks from liis window, 
 above and beyond their white folds he recognizes 
 the tremulous blue sea at Ostia. The rising sun 
 salutes Soracte, — his own beloved mountain ; 
 though no longer worshipped there, as of old. Be- 
 fore him, the antique house of Claude Lorraine 
 easts its long brown shadow down into the heart of 
 modern Kome. 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 j)asses the day ; 
 but oftenest in St. Peter's and the Vatican. Up 
 the vast marble staircase, through the Corridor 
 Chiaramonti, through vestibules, galleries, cham- 
 bers, he passes as in a dream. All are filled with 
 busts and statues, or painted in daring frescos. 
 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 Antiuni, in such a majestic 
 attitude, with such a no])le countenance, life-like, 
 god-like ! 
 
 " Or perhaps he passes intg the chambers of the 
 painters, but goes no farther 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 
 
178 HYPERION 
 
 great artist completed it, and then laid his pencil 
 away forever, leaving this last benediction to the 
 worlil. It is the Transfiguration of Clirist, by 
 Kaphael. 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 
 canvas 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 
 d3'ing hand, and his eyes closed to open on a more 
 glorious transfiguration, and at length the dead 
 Kaphael lay in his own studio, before this wonder- 
 ful painting, more glorious than any conqueror 
 under the banners and armorial hatchments of his 
 funeral I 
 
 " 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 Csesars he looks down into the Forum, or 
 tow^ards the Coliseuiji ; 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 
 
A RAINY DAY 179 
 
 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 ? AVhat wonder, 
 if, with a feverish heart and quick hand, he strive 
 to reproduce those dreams in marble or on can- 
 vas ? " 
 
 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 
 her 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 armor 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 of hoar 
 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. 
 
180 HYPERION 
 
 " Likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those 
 ages have something- of this i)o\ver 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 un- 
 awares. 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. 
 AVith what strange denizens he peopled it ! Adam 
 and Eve standing under a tree, with apples in 
 their hands ; — the patriarch Abraham, with a tree 
 growing out of his body, and his descendants sitting 
 like owls upon its branches ; — ladies with flowing 
 locks of gold ; knights in armor, with most fantas- 
 tic, 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 naive, so childlike, all in such simple atti- 
 tudes, with such great eyes, and holding up such 
 long, lank fingers ! — These things are characteris- 
 tic of the Middle Ages, and persuade me of the 
 truth of history." 
 
 At this moment Berkley entered, with a Swiss 
 cottage, which he had 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 bought 
 as a present for himself. This was the first time 
 that Elemming had been sorry to see the good* 
 
AFTER DINNER 181 
 
 natiired man, whose presence now interrupted the 
 delightful conversation he was carrying on under 
 four eyes with Mary Ashburton. He really thought 
 him tedious, 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 Ashbur- 
 ton ; and at dinner one can say so much, without 
 being overheard. 
 
 CHAPTER \T:. 
 
 AFTER Dnra^ER, AND AFTER THE MANNER OF THE 
 BEST CRITICS. 
 
 When the learned Thomas Diafoirus wooed the 
 fair Angelique, 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 contin- 
 ually drawing from his pocket or his memory some 
 scrap of song or story ; and inviting some fair An- 
 gelique, either with her father's permission or with- 
 out, to attend the dissection of an author upon 
 whom he was to lecture. He soon gave proofs of 
 this to Mary Ashburton. 
 
 " What books have we here for afternoon read- 
 
182 HYPERION 
 
 ing?" said Flemniing', taking a volume from the 
 table, when they had returned from the dining- 
 room. " Oh, it is Uhland's Poems. Have you 
 read anything of his? He and Tieck are gener- 
 ally considered 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. 
 Do you repeat the German after me, and I will 
 translate to you. Pjingsten ioa)\ das Fest der 
 Freude ! " 
 
 " I should never persuade my unwilling lips to 
 pronounce such sounds. So I beg you not to per- 
 plex me with your German, but read me the ballad 
 in English." 
 
 " Well, then, listen. I will improvise a transla- 
 tion 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 luxiuiant 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 
 Hode at last a sable knight. 
 
AFTER DINNER 183 
 
 * Sir Knig'lit. ! your name and scutcheon ? say.' 
 ' Should 1 speak it liere, 
 
 Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 
 I am a prince of mighty sway ! ' 
 
 " When he rode into the lists, 
 
 The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 
 
 And the castle 'gau to rock. 
 
 At the first blow, 
 
 Fell the youth from saddle-bow, — 
 
 Hardly rises from the shock. 
 
 *' Pipe and viol call the dances, 
 
 Torchlight through the high halls glances, 
 
 Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
 
 With manner bland 
 
 Doth ask the maiden's hand, 
 
 Dotli 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 fell from her the fair 
 Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 
 
 " To the sumptuous banquet came 
 Every knight and every dame. 
 'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 
 With mournfid 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 ^vill make you whole ! ' 
 The children drank, 
 
 Gave many a courteous thank : 
 ' Oh, that draught was very cool ! ' 
 
 " Each the father's breast embraces, 
 Son and daughter ; and their faces 
 Colorless grow utterly. 
 
184 HYPERION 
 
 Wliiehever way 
 
 Looks the fear-striick 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 I ' 
 Spake the grim guest, 
 From his hollow, cavernous breast: 
 ' Roses in the spring I gather! ' " 
 
 " That is indeed a striking ballad ! " said Miss 
 Asliburton, " 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 tells its own story, and 
 needs no explanation. Here is something in a dif- 
 ferent 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.' 
 
 " ' WiHl have I seen that castle, 
 That castle by the sea, 
 
AFTER DINNER 185 
 
 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 mine 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 imagina- 
 tion. All his readers should be poets themselves, 
 or they will hardly comprehend him. I confess, I 
 hardly 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 
 when beholding a perfect reflection of an old tower 
 iu the sea. We look at it as if it were not a mere 
 
IbQ HYPERION 
 
 shadow in the water ; and yet the real tower rises 
 far above, and seems to float in the crimson even- 
 ing clouds. Is that the meaning ? " 
 
 " I should think it was. To me it is all a beau- 
 tiful cloud landscape, which I comprehend and feel, 
 and yet should find some difficulty perhaps in ex- 
 plaining." 
 
 " 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 
 uj) to the light of reason, lose their beauty, all at 
 once ; as glowworms, which glimmer with such a 
 spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when 
 brought in where the candles are 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 ver}^ literal, equals the 
 original in beauty. Observe how finely it com- 
 mences. 
 
 " Many a year is in its prave 
 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 witli all the liie of youth. 
 
AFTER DINNER 187 
 
 " One on earth in silence wrought, 
 And his grave in silence sought ; 
 But the younger, brightei- 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, boatman, thrice thy fee ; 
 Take, — I give it willingly ; 
 For, invisible to thee, 
 Spirits twain have crossed with me ! " 
 
 " Oil, tliat is beautiful, — beautiful exceedingly ! 
 Who translated it ? " 
 
 " I do not know. I wish I could find out. It 
 is certainly admii-ably well done ; though in the 
 measure of the original there is something like the 
 rocking motion of a boat, which is not i^reserved 
 in the translation." 
 
 " And is Uldand always so soothing and spir- 
 itual?" ^ - 
 
 "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 intro- 
 duces a striking 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. But there is nothing morbid 
 
188 HYPERION 
 
 in Uhland's mind. lie is always fresh and in- 
 vigorating, like a breezy morning. In this he 
 differs entirely from such writers as Salis and Mat- 
 thisson." 
 
 " 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 a 
 grave. To read their poems is like wandering 
 through a village churchyard on a summer even- 
 ing, reading the inscriptions uj)on the grave-stones, 
 and recalling sweet images of the departed ; while 
 above you, 
 
 *' Hark ! in the holy g^ove of palms 
 Where the stream of life runs free, 
 Echoes, iu the angels' psalms, 
 Sister spirit ! haU 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 mag- 
 nificent ruin it is ? " 
 
 "That is the scene of Matthisson's poem, an(J 
 
AFTER DINNER 189 
 
 seems to have filled the melancholy bard with 
 more than wonted inspiration." 
 
 " I should very much like to see the poem, — 1 
 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 ^v^eeks lie thicker on the strand. 
 Wlio leads us with a gentle hand 
 Thither, oh, thither, 
 Into the Silent Land ? 
 
 " Into the Silent Land ! 
 To you, ye houndless regions 
 Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 
 Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and band ! 
 Who in Life's battle firm doth stand 
 Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 
 " 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 won- 
 dered that Berkley could say she was not beau- 
 tiful. 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 
 
190 HYPERION 
 
 to liira 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. Oh, there is nothing 
 holier, in this life of ours, than the first conscious- 
 ness of love, — the first fluttering of its silken 
 wings ; the first rising sound and breath of wind 
 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 
 w'ith 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 dis- 
 tant mountains, and seemed to say : — 
 
 " Peace ! peace ! Why dost thou question GodV 
 providence ? " 
 
TAKE CARE! 191 
 
 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 seren- 
 ity the snowy mountains rise beyond. Fairer than 
 the Rock of Balmarusa, yon 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 night- 
 rain. Every dew-drop and rain-drop 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 morn- 
 ing ! " exclaimed he, looking at Mary Ashburton. 
 
 She thought he meant the mountain, and as- 
 sented. 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 ? " 
 
 " Oh 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 
 
192 HYPERION 
 
 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 glaciers 
 stood 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 Ai-ve 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 Apoc- 
 alypse : ' I saw a great white throne, and hun that 
 sat thereon, before whose face the heavens and the 
 earth fled away, and found no place ! ' — I cannot 
 believe that upon this earth there is a more mag- 
 nificent 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 
 
TAKE CARE! 193 
 
 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 Lauter- 
 brunnen, nor the bright day passed there. I know 
 that my gentle reader is blessed with the divine 
 gift of a jDoetic fancy ; and can see already how 
 the mountains rise, and the torrents fall, and the 
 beautiful valley lies between ; and how, along the 
 dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and 
 travellers come and go in charabancs, like Punch 
 and Judy in a show-box. He knows already how 
 romantic ladies sketch romantic scenes ; and how 
 cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees ; and 
 how time flies, when we are in love, and the be- 
 loved one near. One little incident I must, how- 
 ever, 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 mechanic, 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 
 
194 HYPERION 
 
 with a courteous salutation ; and, after the manner 
 of travelling apprentices, 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 gener- 
 ous. Flemming gave him a piece of gold ; and, 
 after a short conversation, he seated himself at a 
 little distance on the grass, and began to play and 
 sing. Wonderful and many were the soft accords 
 and plaintive sounds tliat came from that little 
 instrument, touched by the clever hand. Every 
 feeling of the human heart seemed to find an ex- 
 pression there, and awaken a kindred feeling in 
 the hearts of those who heard him. He sang 
 strange German songs, so full of longing, and of 
 pleasing sadness, and hope, and fear, and passion- 
 ate 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 : — 
 
 Oh, 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 Flem- 
 ming's face, sang, with a pleasant smile and still in 
 German, this little song : — 
 
TAKE CARE! 195 
 
 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, tri- 
 nmpliant 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 Bias ; waved his 
 
196 HYPERION 
 
 hand in the air, and walked quickly down the val» 
 ley, singing, " Ad^ ! Ad(3 ! Add ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 
 
 The power of magic in the Middle Ages created 
 monsters who followed the unhappy magician every- 
 where. The power of love in all ages creates an- 
 gels, 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 suc- 
 ceeded each other, with pleasant interchange of 
 light and darkness ; but to him the passing of time 
 was only as a dream. When he arose in the morn- 
 ing, he thought only of her, and wondered if she 
 were yet awake ; and when he lay dowTi 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 re- 
 ality 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 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION 197 
 
 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, beseech- 
 ing that he might not love in vain ! And when- 
 ever, in silence and alone, he looked into the silent, 
 lonely countenance of Night, he recalled the im- 
 passioned lines of Plato : — 
 
 Lookest thou at the stars ? If I were heaven, 
 
 With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee ! 
 
 Oh, how beautiful it is to love ! Even thou, that 
 sneerest at this page, and laughest in cold indiffer- 
 ence or scorn, if others are near thee, — thou too 
 must acknowledge its truth, when thou art alone ; 
 and confess that a foolisli world is prone to laugh 
 in public at what in private it reveres, 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, be- 
 cause he beffan 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 the maiden, 
 
198 HYPERION 
 
 in her day-dreams, counted the number of her 
 friends, some voice in the sacred silence of her 
 thoughts might whisper his name ! 
 
 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 gi-ass. The dis- 
 tant 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 
 
 rum 
 
 " I will make you one, if you wish," said Flem- 
 ming. 
 
 " Can you make old traditions ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I made three, the other day, about 
 the Rhine, and one very old one about the Black 
 Forest. A lady wnth dishevelled hair ; a robber 
 with a horrible slouched hat ; and a night storm 
 among the roaring pines." 
 
 " Delightful ! Do make one for me." 
 
 " AVith the greatest pleasure. "Where will you 
 have the scene ? Here, or in the Black Forest ? " 
 
 " In the Black Forest, by all means ! Begin." 
 
 " I will unite this ruin and the forest together. 
 But first promise not to interrupt me. If you snap 
 tlie golden threads of thought, they will float away 
 on the air like the film of the gossamer, and I shall 
 never be able to recover them." 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION 199 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 " Listen, then, to the tradition of The Foun- 
 tain OF Oblivion." 
 
 " Begin." 
 
 rieiuming 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 lin- 
 den-trees overhead. 
 
 " Gentle lady ! Dost thou remember the linden- 
 trees of Biilach, — 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 won- 
 der 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 little 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 Hierony- 
 mus, as he sat at midnight in a chamber of this 
 old tower, with his hands clasped together, and 
 resting upon an open volume, which he should 
 have been reading. His pale face was raised, and 
 the pupils of his eyes dilated, as if the spirit-world 
 
200 HYPERION 
 
 were open before liiiii, and some beauteous \^sion 
 were standing there, and drawing the student's 
 soul through his eyes up into heaven, — as the 
 evening sun, through parting summer-elouds, seems 
 to draw into its bosom the vajjors of the earth. 
 Oh, it was a lovely vision ! 1 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 beau- 
 tiful as the light of stars ; and, night after night, 
 as the lonely wight sat alone and read in this lofty 
 tower, through the mist and murk 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, antiquated tome, it seemed as 
 if some angel opened for him the gates of Paradise ; 
 and already he was known in the land as Hierony- 
 mus 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 Ilermione ; 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 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION 201 
 
 whom he had too rashly gazed. Alas ! he was un- 
 happy ; for the proud Ilermione 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 forgot- 
 ten that such a being lived as the student Hierony- 
 mus. The adoration of his heart had been to her 
 only as the perfume of a wild-flower which she had 
 carelessly crushed with 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 j^oor student, who, in his threadbare 
 cassock, dared to lift his eyes to the Lady Her- 
 mione, while he sat alone, in his desolate chamber, 
 and suffered in silence. He remembered many 
 things which he would fain have forgotten ; but 
 which, if he had forgotten them, he would have 
 wished again to remember. Such were the linden- 
 trees of Biilach, under whose pleasant shades 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 music 
 in his thoughts, which you, lady, mistook for 
 rhyme. 
 
 " Suddenly, with a melancholy clang, the convent 
 clock struck twelve. It roused the student Hieron- 
 ymus from his dream, and rang in his ears, like 
 che iron hoofs of the steeds of Time. The magic 
 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 
 
202 II YPERION 
 
 from the flame and spread itself through the cham- 
 ber ; the four walls dilated into magnificent cloud- 
 vistas ; a fragrance, as of wild-flowers, filled the 
 air ; and a dreamy music, like distant, sweet-chim- 
 ing bells, announced the api)roach 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 pres- 
 ence 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 Ilieronymus to-night ? ' 
 — ' Peace ! ' he answered, raising his clasped 
 hands, and smiling through his tears. ' 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.' Hiei'onymus opened his arms to em- 
 brace 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 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION 203 
 
 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 entei-ed, not 
 without a feeling of dread, that land of shadows ; 
 and jjassed onward, under melancholy pines and 
 uedars, 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 above 
 him ; and erelong 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 fragments 
 of 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. 
 
204 HYPERION 
 
 " And amid the crowd that thronged those 
 streets, he behekl faces once familiar and dear to 
 hiui, and heai'd sorrowful, sweet voices singing, 
 Oh, forget us not ! forget us not I and then the dis- 
 tant, 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 over it. 
 
 " 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 fra- 
 grant as with the breath of May-flowers, and a 
 light streamed through the shadowy forest, and 
 gleamed upon the lake ; and the student Hierony- 
 mus pressed the dear name to his lips, and ex- 
 claimed, with streaming ejes : ' Oh, 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; 
 
A TALK ON THE STAIRS 205 
 
 and the student Ilieronynius — is lying at your 
 feet ! O gentle Lady, 
 
 " I did hear you talk 
 Far above sing'iiig' ; after you were gone, 
 I gi-ew 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 stran- 
 ger ; and the sound of his footsteps and his voice 
 excited in it no emotion. He had deceived him- 
 self ! 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. Oh, 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 Fran- 
 
206 HYPERION 
 
 cisean convent never looked so gloomily as tlien, 
 though tJie 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 al- 
 ways shall be." 
 
 He tried to laugh, but could not. He then re- 
 lated to Berkley the whole story, from beginning 
 to end. 
 
 " This is a miserable piece of business ! " ex- 
 claimed 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 
 
A TALK ON THE STAIRS 207 
 
 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 way with 
 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 ; adorns 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 desjierately 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 rarefied delights. 
 
 I adored and was rejected. ' You are in love with 
 certain attributes,' said the lady. ' Damn your at- 
 tributes, Madam,' said I ; ' I know nothing about 
 attributes.' — ' Sir,' said she, with dignity, ' you 
 have been drinking.' — So we parted. She was 
 married afterwards to another, who knew some- 
 thing 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 sadl3^ 
 
 "Oh, never mind the lot," cried Berkley, laugh- 
 
208 HYPERION 
 
 iiig, " so long as you don't get Lot's wife. If the 
 cucumber is bitter, throw it away, as the philoso- 
 pher Marcus Antoninus says, in his Meditations. 
 Foi'get 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 affec- 
 tions 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 mad- 
 ness in me ; but so it is. Alas and alas ! Para- 
 celsus of old wasted life in tx-ying 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 
 
A TALK ON THE STAIRS 209 
 
 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, but 
 only intoxicate us. By Heaven ! we are all of us 
 mad." 
 
 " But are you sure the case is utterly hope» 
 less?" 
 
 '' 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 proverb, ' The king never dies.' But perhaps 
 you have never heard that, at the court of Naples, 
 when 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 solemn mockeiy we offer him his accustomed 
 food, but are constrained to 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 Inter- 
 lachen to-morrow morning. I am going to the 
 Tyrol." 
 
210 HYPERION 
 
 " 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 conver- 
 sation will not be very various ; nothing but Ed- 
 ward 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 Ladle, and this imto- 
 ward accident." 
 
 " Accident ! " said Flemming. " This is no ac- 
 cident, but God's providence, which brought us to- 
 gether, to punish me for my sins." 
 
 " Oh, my friend," interrupted Berkley, " if you 
 see the finger of Providence so distinctly in every 
 act of your life, you will end by thinking your- 
 self 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 soids rarely wed 
 together ; almost as rarely as those who are akin 
 by blood. 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 vmlike, 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." 
 
A TALK ON THE STAIRS 211 
 
 On the following morning, rigmming and Berk- 
 ley started on their way to Innsbruck, like Huon 
 of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their way to 
 Babylon. Berkley's self-assumed duty was to con- 
 sole his companion ; a duty which he performed 
 like an ancient Spanish Despenadora, whose busi- 
 ness was to attend the sick, and put her elbow into 
 the stomach of the dying, to shorten their agony. 
 
BOOK THE FOURTH 
 
 Mortal, they softly say, 
 
 Peace to thy heart I 
 We too, yes, mortal, 
 
 Have been as tliou art ; 
 Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, 
 
 Seeing in part. 
 Tried, troubled, tempted, 
 
 Sustained, — as thou art. 
 
 Carolinb Southex 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A MISERERE. 
 
 In the Orlando Innamorato, Malagigi, the 
 necromancer, puts all the company to sleep by read- 
 ins: 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 Koman- 
 esque style, with pinnacles, and flying buttresses, 
 and roofs, 
 
 Gargoyled -wnth greyhouiicls, and with many lions 
 Made of fiue gold, with divers sundry dragons. 
 
A MISERERE 213 
 
 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, stain- \ . 
 ing the cusps and crumpled leaves of the window- I ^/^ 
 shafts, and the cherubs and holy-water-stoups be- 
 low. 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 fi-om 
 the chantry ? Have you not heard the sound of 
 church-bells, as I promised, — mysterious sounds 
 from the Past and Future, as from the belfries out- 
 side the cathedral, — even such a mournful, mel- 
 low, 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 the 
 critics. They may wish, perhaps, that I had 
 omitted some of my many ornaments, my ara- 
 besques, and roses, and fantastic spouts, and Holy- 
 Roods and Galilee-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 ! Oh, 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- 
 
214 jjypERiON 
 
 sark, and goest not on horseback after foolish ad- 
 ventures. 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-rotted papers. 
 
 Sooner or later, some passages of every one's 
 romance must be written, either in words or ac- 
 tions. They will proclaim the truth, for Truth is 
 thought which has assumed its appropriate gar- 
 ments, either of words or actions ; while Falsehood 
 is thought which, disguised in words or actions not 
 its own, comes before the blind old w^orld, 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 birthright 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 ro- 
 mance, 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 en- 
 joy 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 pendu' 
 
A MISERERE 216 
 
 lous 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 Washing-ton and Wil- 
 liam 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 oh, this lassitude, — this wea- 
 riness, — 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 po- 
 etry 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, 
 
216 HYPERION 
 
 and forward ! The romance must be finished, and 
 finished soon. 
 
 O thou poor authorliug ! 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 ear 
 shall hear them, save thine own ! And, to cheer 
 thy solitary labor, remember that the secret stud- 
 ies 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 se- 
 
 cure 
 
 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 manu- 
 script 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 tor- 
 rent of indiscreet and troublesome apprehensions, 
 carrying critic calumny and squint - eyed detrac- 
 tion mainly against the wind of wisdom and judg- 
 ment." 
 
 In secula seculorum ! Amen I 
 
CURFEW BELLS 217 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 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 ! Oh, there is something sublime in calm 
 endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed 
 purpose of suffering without complaining, which 
 makes disappointment oftentimes better than suc- 
 cess ! 
 
 The Emperor Isaac Angelus made a treaty with 
 Saladin, and tried to purchase the Holy Sepulchre 
 with gold. Richard Lion-heart scorned such alli- 
 ance, 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 prinpiple. But the resolute will of 
 a strong man scorns such means, and struggles 
 nobly with his foe to achieve great deeds. There- 
 fore, 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 indul- 
 gence. 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 deepen- 
 ing before us. Are not, then, the sorrows of child- 
 
218 HYPERION 
 
 hood as dark as those of age ? Are not the morn- 
 ing- shadows of life an deep and broad as those of 
 its evening? Yes; Lut 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 the life of man 
 upon this fair earth is made up, for the most j^art, 
 of little pains and little pleasures. The great won- 
 der-flowers bloom but once in a lifetime. 
 
 A week had already elapsed since the events re- 
 corded 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 char- 
 acter, 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, througli many a dark and lonely hoiu'. 
 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 was forever 
 saying : — 
 
 " You are not the Magician." 
 
 Painful indeed it is to be misunderstood and un« 
 dervalued by those we love. But this, too, in our 
 
CURFEW BELLS 219 
 
 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 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 
 mide. This was not always the case with Paul 
 riemming, 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 Tyro- 
 lese 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. AU 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 
 sold, both by day and night, both waking and 
 sleei^ing. 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 Berk- 
 ley, 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 
 
220 HYPERION 
 
 pursues his own golden bubble, and laughs at his 
 neighbor for doing the same. I have been think- 
 ing how a moral Linnaeus 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 dowTi 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. 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 mattei's, and looks upon her as a be- 
 ing of more than human goodness and wisdom. In 
 short, the women 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- 
 
CURFEW BELLS 221 
 
 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 
 heyday 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 continually lantern- 
 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 off. 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 at- 
 mosphere of kid gloves and cambric handker- 
 chiefs, 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 
 wriggling round among the ladies ! He is a Lucky 
 Dog." 
 
 " And as a specimen of the class of Miserable 
 AVretches, I suppose you will take me," said Flem- 
 ming, 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 
 
222 HYPERION 
 
 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. ^^ hy 
 so wan and pale, fond lover? Do yo\x 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 ! tliis 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 consola- 
 tion 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 happi- 
 ness, 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 yom*self in love." 
 
 " Expression of feeling is different with different 
 minds. It is not always simple. Some minds, 
 
CURFEW BELLS 223 
 
 when excited, naturally speak in figures and si- 
 militudes. They do not on that account feel less 
 deeply. This is obvious in our most common 
 modes of speech. It depends upon the individ- 
 ual." 
 
 " Kyrie Eleyson ! " 
 
 " 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 black- 
 er the storm came sailing up majestically from the 
 southwest, with almost unbroken volleys of dis- 
 tant 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 thunder- 
 bolt. At the entrance of the village stood a large 
 wooden ci'ucifix, around which was a crowd of 
 priests and peasants, kneeling in the wet grass, by 
 the roadside, with their hands and eyes lifted to 
 heaven, and praying for rain. Their prayer was 
 soon answered. 
 
224 HYPERION 
 
 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 rest- 
 less 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 ter- 
 ror ; 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 en- 
 trance of a town ; and among the tombs a dim 
 lamp was burning before an image of the Virgin. 
 It had a most unearthly apiiearance. 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 ! Oh, if we had 
 spiritual organs, to see and hear things now invisi- 
 ble and inaudible to us, we shoidd behold the whole 
 air filled with the departing souls of that vast mul- 
 titude whicli every moment dies, — should behold 
 them streaming up like thin vapors heavenward, 
 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 
 
CURFEW BELLS 225 
 
 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 Innsbi-uck 
 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 suc- 
 ceeding hollow rolling and tramping on the wet 
 earth ; the blackness of the night ; the thunder and 
 lightning and rain ; the roar of waters, leaping 
 through deep chasms by the roadside ; and the 
 wind through the mountain-passes, sounding loud 
 and long, like the inextinguishable 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 
 ieaning 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 through the 
 public gardens, with the jagged mountains right 
 
226 IIYPEPdON 
 
 over their heads, and all around them tall, mel- 
 ancholy j)ines, 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 AVaidering and Unken. 
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 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 cathedral opposite was striking 
 ten. The window-shutters were closed, and the 
 room was nearly dark. He was lying with his 
 hands crossed upon his breast, and his eyes look- 
 ing up at the white curtains overhead. He thought 
 them the white marble canopy of a tomb, and him- 
 self the marble statue lying beneath. When the 
 clock ceased striking, the eight-and-twenty gigantic 
 bronze statues from the Church of Holy Kood in 
 Innsbruck stalked into the chamber, and arranged 
 themselves along the walls, which spread into dimly 
 lighted aisles and arches. On the painted win- 
 dows he saw Interlachen, with its Franciscan 
 cloister, and the Square Tower of the ruins. In 
 a pendant, overhead, stood the German mechanic, 
 as Saint Vitus ; and on a lavatory, 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 
 
SHADOWS ON THE WALL 227 
 
 anon the gilded gates in the bronze screen before 
 the chancel opened, and a bridal procession passed 
 throngh. 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, " To-whit ! to-who ! " Then the whole 
 scene changed, and he thought himself a monk's- 
 head on a gutter-spout ; and it rained dismally, 
 and Berkley was standing underneath with an um- 
 brella, laughing ! 
 
 In other words, Flemming was in a raging fever, 
 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 Hoff- 
 mann's writings. 
 
 " How very strange it is," said he, " that you 
 can hai-dly open the biography of any German 
 author, biit you will find it begin with an account 
 
228 HYPERION 
 
 of his grandfather I It will tell you how the ven- 
 erable 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. 
 Or you will find him sitting by the chimney-corner 
 in the great chair, smoking his ancestral pipe, with 
 shaggy eyebrows, and eyes like bird's-nests under 
 the eaves of a house, and a mouth like a Nurem- 
 berg nutcracker's. The future poet climbs upon 
 the old man's knees. His genius is not recognized 
 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 mementoes, 
 Her grancbuother and worm-eaten aunts left to her, 
 To tell her what her heauty must arrive at. ' ' 
 
 " But this is not the case with the life of Hoff- 
 mann, 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 
 Konigsberg ; and occasionally the benign counte- 
 nance of a venerable grand-uncle, whom La Motte 
 Fouqu6 called a hero of the olden time in morning 
 
SHADOWS ON THE WALL 229 
 
 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 Konigsberg 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 himself 
 many 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 Esthetic Teas given by a lit- 
 erary lady tmter 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 
 
230 HYPERION 
 
 not uni)loasing irony. This strange-looking per- 
 sonage began to bow his way through the erowcl, 
 with quick, nervous, hinge-like motions, much re- 
 sembling those of a marionnette. lie had a hoarse 
 voice, and such a rapid utterance that, although I 
 understand German well enough for ordinary pur- 
 poses, I coidd not make out 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 is Hoffmann,' was the answer. 
 ' The Devil ! ' said I. ' Yes,' continued my in- 
 formant, ' and if you should follow him now, you 
 would see him plunge into an obscure and unfre- 
 quented wine-cellar, and there, amid boon compan- 
 ions, 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. 
 
SHADOWS ON THE WALL 231 
 
 eye flashing from beneath his matted hair, and 
 taking note of all that was grotesque in the com- 
 pany 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 wTote." 
 
 " 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 birthday 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 mer- 
 riment, that were wont to set the table on a roar, 
 not one now, to mock his own grinning ! — quite 
 chapfallen.' 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, 
 
232 HYPERION- 
 
 no ! Life, life, only life ! on any condition what- 
 soever ! ' Five mouths 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, thi'ough 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 grad- 
 ually 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 bedside, and begged her 
 to fold his motionless hands together. Then, as 
 he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard liim say, 
 ' We must, then, think of God, also ! ' ]VIore sor- 
 rowful words than these have seldom fallen from 
 
SHADOWS ON THE WALL 233 
 
 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 stoiy 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 con- 
 fess that I have not the heart to take him from the 
 general crowd of erring, sinful men, and judge 
 him harshly. The little 1 have seen of the world, 
 and know of the history of mankind, teaches me 
 to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in 
 anger. When I take the history of one poor heart 
 that has sinned and suffered, and represent to my- 
 self the struggles and temptations it has passed, — 
 the brief pulsations of joy, the feverish inquietude 
 of hope and fear, the tears of regret, the feebleness 
 of purpose, the pressvire 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, happi- 
 ness 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 girl, 
 Weeping ahd laughing in her 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 deli- 
 
234 HYPERION 
 
 cate frame of Hoffmann ; and no less thoroiighly 
 upon liis 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 irregu- 
 lar 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 1 read his 
 strange fancies, it is with me as when in the sum- 
 mer night I hear the rising wind among the trees, 
 and the branches bow, and beckon with their long 
 fingers, and voices go gibbering and mocking 
 through 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 with- 
 out noticing the smile, though he knew what was 
 passing in the mind of his friend : — 
 
SHADOWS ON THE WALL 235 
 
 " The life and writings of this singular being in- 
 terest me in a high degree. Sometimes we may 
 learn more from a man's errors than from his vir- 
 tues. Moreover, from the common sympathies of 
 our nature, souls that have struggled and suffered 
 are dear to me. Willingly do I recognize 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 of 
 weariness 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 overcome ! " 
 
 " I think you are very lenient in your judgment. 
 This is not the usual defect of critics. Like 
 Shakespeare'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 now go on with the 
 phantasy-Pieces in Callot's manner." 
 
 " By the way, who was this Callot ? " 
 
 " He was a Lorraine painter, of the seventeenth 
 
236 HYPERION 
 
 century, celebrated for his wild and grotesque con- 
 ceptions. These sketches of Hoffmann are imita- 
 tions of his style." 
 
 " And which of them shall I read to you next ? 
 The Ritter Gliick ; or the Musical Sufferings of 
 John Kreisler ; or that exquisite stoi-y of the 
 Golden Jar, wherein is depicted the life of Poesy 
 in this commonplace world of ours? " 
 
 " Read the shortest. Read Kreisler. That 
 will amuse me. It is a picture of his own suffer- 
 ings at the Esthetic Teas in Berlin, supposed to be 
 written in pencil on the blank leaves of a music- 
 book." 
 
 Thereupon Berkley leaned back in his easy- 
 chair, and read as follows. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MUSICAL SUFFERmGS OF JOHN KREISLER. 
 
 " They are all gone ! I might have known it 
 by the whispering, shuffling, coughing, humming 
 through aU 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 Mephis- 
 topheles 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 
 
MUSICAL SUFFERINGS OF KREISLER 237 
 
 and merry ! However, while I was playing, I took 
 out my pencil, and on page sixty-three, under the 
 last staff, 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 1 go on writing, 
 I leave all ciphers and sweet sounds, and with true 
 delight, like a sick man restored to health, who can 
 never stop relating what he has suffered, I note 
 down here cii'cumstantially 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 Nageli in Zurich, 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 state- 
 ment of grievances) turn over the leaf and read. 
 
 " They will at once see the connection. They 
 know that the Geheimerath Rodelein'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 
 Rodelein is a rich man. At his quarterly dinners 
 he sends up 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, 
 
238 HYPERION 
 
 wine, ices, etc., a little imisic is always served up, 
 which, like the other refreshinents, is very quietly 
 swallowed by the fashionable world. 
 
 " Tlie arrangements arc as follows. After every 
 guest has had time enough to drink as many cujjs 
 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, in fact, this kind of 
 jjlaying does not make such a useless noise as the 
 other, and you hear only the clink of money. 
 
 " This is a hint for the younger part of the com- 
 pany to pounce upon the Misses Rodelein. A great 
 tumult ensues ; in the midst of which you can dis- 
 tinguish these words : — 
 
 '''"'' Schones Friiulein I do not refuse us the 
 gratification of your heavenly talent ! Oh, sing 
 something ! that 's a good dear ! — impossible, — 
 bad cold, — the last ball ! have not practised any- 
 thing. — 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 re- 
 spectable mamma, — 
 
 " •• Chante?. donc^ wie.s enfants ! ' 
 
 " That is the cue of my part. I place myself at 
 the piano-forte, and the Rcideleins are led up to the 
 instrument in triumph. 
 
 " And now another difficulty arises. Neither 
 wishes to sing first. 
 
 " ' You know, dear Nanette, how dreadfully 
 hoarse I am.' 
 
MUSICAL SUFFERINGS OF KREISLER 239 
 
 " ' Why, my clear Marie, I am as hoarse as you 
 are.' 
 
 " ' I sing so badly ! ' — 
 
 " ' Oh, my clear 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 delV 
 cniirna, etc. 
 
 " To tell the truth, the talent of the Misses 
 Rodelein is not the smallest. I have been an in- 
 structor here only five years, and little short of 
 two years in the Rodelein family. In this short 
 time, Fraulein 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. Frau- 
 lein 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, con- 
 sidering her pretty little doll-face, and very pass- 
 able rosy lips. 
 
 " After the duet, a universal chorus of applause ! 
 And now ariettas and duettinos succeed each other, 
 and right merrily I hammer away at the thousand- 
 times-repeated accompaniments. During the sing- 
 ing, the Finanzrathin Eberstein, by coughing and 
 humming, has given us to understand that she also 
 sings. Fraulein Nanette says : — 
 
 " ' But, my dear Finanzrathin, now you must let 
 us hear your exquisite voice.' 
 
240 HYPERION 
 
 " A new tumult arises. She has a bad cold In 
 her head, — she does not know anything by heart ! 
 Gottlieb brings straightway two armf uls of music- 
 books; and the leaves are turned over again and 
 again. First she thinks she will sing l)cr Ilolle 
 Hache, etc., then Hehe sich, etc., then Ach, Ich 
 liebte, etc. In this embarrassment, I propose, J^in 
 Veilchen aiif der JVlese, etc. But she is for the 
 heroic style ; she wants to make a display, and 
 finally selects Constanze. 
 
 " Oh, scream, squeak, mew, gurgle, groan, ago- 
 nize, 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 fi'om the cracked trumpet 
 of a mountebank 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 Finanzrathin and Mozart had 
 put me quite into 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 Canon- 
 icus Kratzer sings, you know, a heavenly bass, 
 as was observed by the gentleman yonder, with the 
 
MUSICAL SUFFERINGS OF KREISLER 241 
 
 head of Titus Andronicus, who modestly remarked 
 also, that he himself was properly only a second- 
 rate tenor ; but, though he said it who should not 
 say it, he 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 ohllgato in a cathedral. He struck the 
 notes gloriously ; but in his hurry he got the tempo 
 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 tinison or monotone. They all sang treble, 
 with slight variations, caused by accidental rising 
 or falling of the voice, say some quarter of a 
 note. 
 
 " This somewhat noisy affair produced a univer- 
 sal tragic state of feeling, namely a kind of terror, 
 even at the card-tables, which for the moment 
 could no longer, as before, chime in melodramati- 
 cally, by weaving into the music sundry exclama- 
 tions ; as, for instance : — 
 
 " ' Oh ! 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 ex- 
 hibition this evening. ' Now it is all over,' thought 
 
242 HYPERION 
 
 I to mj'self. I shut the book, and got up from the 
 piano-forte. But the Baron, mj ancient reuor, 
 came up to me and said : — 
 
 " ' My dear Herr Capellmeister, they say you 
 play the most exquisite voluntaries I Now do play 
 us one ; only a short one, I entreat you I ' 
 
 " I answered very dryly, 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 Varia- 
 tions, which were lying under my hat in the next 
 room. He thinks they are merely little variations, 
 such as Nel cor mio non piti 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 Kodeleins, 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 con- 
 clusion, 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 
 
MUSICAL SUFFERINGS OF KREISLER 243 
 
 tliem. The notes became alive, and glimmered 
 and hopped all round about me, — an electric fire 
 streamed 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 Sebas- 
 tian 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 tor- 
 mented ? Verily, no art is so damnably abused as 
 this same glorious, holy Musica, who, in her deli- 
 cate being, is so easily desecrated. Have you real 
 talent, — real feeling for art ? Then study music, 
 — do something worthy of the art, — and dedicate 
 yovir 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 finish- 
 ing 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 
 neighbor's, the Oberjligermeister, 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. 
 
244 HYPERION 
 
 Obliquely across the way, some one Is murdering 
 the riute, and has, moreover, lungs like Kameau's 
 nej)he\v ; and, in notes of ' linked sweetness long 
 drawn out,' his neighbor is trying acoustic experi- 
 ments on the French horn. The numerous dt)gs 
 of the neighborhood are growing unquiet, and my 
 landlord's cat, inspired by that sweet duet, is nuik- 
 ing, by my window (for, of course, my musico- 
 poetic laboratory is an attic) certain tender con- 
 fessions, upward through the whole chromatic 
 scale, soft complaining, to the neighbor's tabby, 
 with whom he has been in love since March last ! 
 Till this is all fairly over, I think I will sit quietly 
 hei-e. Besides, there is stdi blank paper and Bur- 
 gundy left, of which I forthwith take a sip. 
 
 " There is, as I have heard, an ancient law, for- 
 bidding those who follow any noisy handicraft from 
 living near literary men. Should not then musi- 
 cal 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 al- 
 lowed to apply this law to themselves, and banish 
 out of the neighborhood all ballad-singers and bag- 
 pipers ? What would a painter say, while trans- 
 ferring to his canvas 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 thoughts to the 
 very Devil." 
 
SAINT GILGEN 246 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SAINT GILGEN. 
 
 It was a bright Sunday morning when Flem- 
 ming and Berkley left beliind 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 per- 
 fume 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 uj)on 
 the soul like a benediction. 
 
 They stopped to change horses at Hof, a handful 
 of houses on the brow of a breezy hill, the church 
 and inn standing opposite to each other, and noth- 
 ing 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 inn-door, were groups of peasants, wait- 
 ing 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 trumper}^ orna- 
 ments, and reminded Flemming of the Indians in 
 the frontier villages of America. Near the church- 
 
246 HYPERION 
 
 yard-gate was a booth, filled with flaunting cali- 
 coes ; and opposite sat an old woman behind a 
 table, which was loaded with gingei-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 fore- 
 noon, they came suddenly in sight of the beautifid 
 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 un- 
 awares, 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 Schondorfer ; " 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. 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 
 sUver spoon in her girdle, came out of the inn, and 
 
SAINT GILGEN 247 
 
 asked Flemming what he would please to order for 
 breakfast. 
 
 Breakfast was soon ready, and was served 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 Hem- 
 ming sat in his chamber and read. It was a large 
 room in the front of the house, looking ujjon the 
 village and the lake. The windows were latticed, 
 with small panes, and the window-sills filled with 
 fragrant flowers. 
 
 At lengi;h the heat of noon was over. Day, like 
 a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of 
 heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the 
 latchets of his sandal-shoon. Flemming and Berk- 
 ley sallied forth to ramble by the borders of the 
 lake. Down the cool green glades and alleys, be- 
 neath the illuminated leaves of the forest, over the 
 rising grounds in the glimmering fretwork of sun- 
 shine and leaf -shadow, — an exhilarating wallt ! 
 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. 
 
248 HYPERION 
 
 " Let lis go in and see how the dead rest," said 
 Fleniniing, as they passed beneath the belfry of 
 the chuieh ; 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, — no 
 armor 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 visitor, 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 to 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 he is transformed into something less 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 hajipier land. 
 
 Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. They 
 
SAINT GILGEN 249 
 
 are waiting for us, and we shall not long delay. 
 They have gone before us, and are like the angela^ 
 in hea^yen. They stand upon the borders of the 
 grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affec- 
 tion which they wore on earth ; yet more lovely, 
 more radiant, more spiritual ! He spake well who 
 said that graves are the footprints 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 which have 
 made death lovely. 
 
 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, 
 Wliose light doth trample on my days, 
 
 My days, which are at best but dull and hoaxy, 
 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. 
 
250 HYPERION 
 
 Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just ! 
 
 Shimng^ nowhere hut in the dark 1 
 Wliat 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 angel^, in some brighter dreams, 
 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 
 
 And into glory peep. 
 
 If a star were confined into a tomb, 
 
 Her captive flame must needs burn there. 
 
 But when the hand that locked her up gave room 
 She 'd shine through all the sphere. 
 
 O Father of eternal life, and all 
 
 Created glories under thee ! 
 Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
 
 Into true liberty. 
 
 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
 
 My perspective, still as they pass, 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
 
 Where I shall need no glass. 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment's rest from pain, and went back to his cham- 
 ber 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 
 
SAINT WOLFGANG 251 
 
 of Iscliel. 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 enjoyed the 
 silence within and without. Hour after hour 
 slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie. 
 At length, his candle sank m 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. 
 
 SAESTT 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 cac- 
 tus, are all so beautiful, that we think the German 
 poet right, when he calls the flowers " stars in the 
 
252 HYPERION 
 
 firmament of the earth." Out of doors all is quiet. 
 Opposite tlio window stands the village school- 
 house. 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 bai'efoot urchins in breeches are 
 spelling out their lessons. The clock strikes twelve, 
 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, knit- 
 ting in the shade ; and in front of her is an aque- 
 duct, 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. Be- 
 yond is a stable, and still farther 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 sil- 
 ver-white run into each other, with almost imper- 
 ceptible change. 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 be- 
 held from 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 
 
SAINT WOLFGANG 253 
 
 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 about 
 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 coun- 
 tenance, with more delicacy in its features than is 
 usual among peasantry. It wore also an expres- 
 sion of patient suffering. As he was looking at 
 her, a deformed child came out of the door and 
 hung upon her knees. She caressed it affection- 
 ately. It was her child, in whom she beheld her 
 own fair features distorted and hardly to be recog- 
 nized, as one sometimes sees one's face reflected 
 from the bowl of a spoon. 
 
 The child's deformity and the mother's tender- 
 ness 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 sur- 
 vived to become a mother, 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 des- 
 titute ; for her husband had left her, besides the 
 deformed child, a life estate in a tomb in the 
 churchyard of Saint Gilgen. During the week 
 
254 HYPERION 
 
 she labored for other pcoi)le, and on Sundays for 
 herself, by going to church and reading the Jiible, 
 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, beai'ing 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 ; and 
 in the afternoon, when Flemming was preparing 
 to go down to the lake, as his custom was, a car- 
 riage 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 
 
SAINT WOLFGANG 255 
 
 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 shako 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 Berldey ; " I became tired of 
 Ischel, — very tired. I did not find there the 
 friends I expected. Now I am going back to 
 Salzburg, and then to Gastein. There I shall cer- 
 tainly find them. You must go with me." 
 
 Flemming declined the invitation ; and proposed 
 to Berkley that he should join him in his excur- 
 sion on the lake. 
 
 " Yon shall hear the grand echo of the Falken- 
 stein," 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 
 further 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, 
 
256 HYPERION 
 
 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 covdd have done this," 
 asked Berkley, " if Saint Wolfgang had not helped 
 him?" 
 
 " Of course not I " answered leather-breeches ; 
 and the Englishman laughed. 
 
 From this point they rowed along under the 
 shore to a low promontory, upon which stood an- 
 other monument, commemorating a more tragical 
 event. 
 
 " This is the place I was speaking of," said 
 riemming, as the boatmen rested on their oars. 
 " The melancholy and singidar event it commem- 
 orates 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 overhanging 
 roof to shelter it from storms. In a niche in front 
 is a small image of the Saviour, in a sitting pos- 
 ture ; and an inscription upon a marble tablet 
 below says that it was placed there by Longinus 
 
SAINT WOLFGANG 257 
 
 Walther, and his wife, Barbara Juliana von Ilain- 
 berg; 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 erelong 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 de- 
 parted saint to be sitting there, and repeating the 
 voices from below, — not word by word, but sen- 
 tence 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 
 are you to-day. Saint Wolfgang ? You infernal 
 old rascal ! How is the Frau von Wolfgang ? — 
 God save great George, our 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 
 
258 HYPERION 
 
 met. It led them to a Gothic church ; a magnifi- 
 cent 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, run- 
 ning 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 Ilabel 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 hun- 
 dred 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 jiarsonage near the 
 church, and courteously saluted the strangers. 
 After returning the salutation, the mad English- 
 man, 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 ques- 
 tions, 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 strangers 
 from distant countries. My friend is an English- 
 man, and I an American." 
 
 Berkley, however, was not so easily silenced. 
 After a few moments' conversation, he broke out 
 
SAINT WOLFGANG 259 
 
 into most audacious Latin, in which the only 
 words clearly intelligible were : — 
 
 " Plurimum reverende, in Cliristo religiosissime 
 ac clarissime Domine, necnon et amice observan- 
 dissime ! Petrus sic est locutus : ' Nee argentum 
 mihi, nee 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 confoimded and 
 abashed. Through the mist of a strange pronun- 
 ciation, he could recognize only here and there a 
 familiar 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, stretch- 
 ing forth his long forefinger, he concluded in Ger- 
 man : — 
 
 " 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, ex- 
 claimed 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. 
 
260 HYPERION 
 
 " 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 IIolo- 
 f ernes said of Sir Nathaniel's : — ' Priscian a little 
 scratched ; 't will serve.' I think I have heard 
 better. 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, sorrow- 
 ful expression. Flemming thought the Latin con- 
 test 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 ques- 
 tion him about that distant country, for which he 
 was on the point of embarking. There was noth- 
 ing pecidiar in his manner, nor in the questions he 
 asked, nor the remarks he made. They were the 
 usual questions and remarks about cities and cli- 
 mate and sailing the sea. At length Flemming 
 asked him the object of his journey to America. 
 The stranger came close 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 fatherland, Krain ; and I am 
 chosen by Heaven to go forth as Minister Extraor- 
 
SAINT WOLFGANG 261 
 
 dinary of Christ, to unite all nations and people in 
 one church ! " 
 
 Flemming almost started at the singular earnest- 
 ness 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 coimtenance was unchanged ; only 
 in the eyes burned a mysterious light, as if candles 
 had been lighted in the brain, to magnify the day- 
 light 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 coidd not choose but listen. 
 He felt interested in this strange being. There 
 was something awe-inspiring in the spirit that pos- 
 sessed 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 circimistances re- 
 corded in the following chapter. 
 
262 HYPERION 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 THE STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS. 
 
 " I was born in the city of Stein, in the land 
 of Krain. My pious mother, Gertrude, sang me 
 psahus 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 pray- 
 ing 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 owti soul filled with the 
 faith that erelong all people would be united in 
 one church. Yet at times 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 mj'^self 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 
 tliis resolve. I had long walked with this angel 
 of God in a human form, and his parting benedic- 
 tion sank deep into my soul. The Prince-Abbot 
 
STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS 263 
 
 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 novitiate passed. I became a 
 Franciscan friar, and took the name of Brother 
 Bernardus. Yet my course of life remained un- 
 changed. I seldom left the cloister; but sat in 
 my cell, and pored over those tomes of holy wis- 
 dom. 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 mid- 
 night, 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 ser- 
 mon ended in a strain of exultation ; and I awoke 
 with ' Amen ! ' upon my lips. A few days after- 
 wards, I heard that on that night the old man died. 
 After this event, I became restless and melan- 
 choly. I strove in vain to drive away 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, 
 
264 HYPERION 
 
 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 
 fidly awake, yet saw nothing but the bright light, 
 which disappeared when the words had been 
 spoken. Still it was broad daylight in my cham- 
 ber. 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 the 
 original 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 re- 
 freshed with heavenly consolation. 
 
 " Not long after this, an important event hap- 
 pened in the cloister. In the absence of the deacon 
 of the abbey, I was to preach the Thanksgi\ang 
 sermon of Harvest-home. During the week, the 
 Prince- Abbot Berthold gave up the ghost, and my 
 sermon became at once a thanksgiving and fimeral 
 sermon. Perhaps it may not be unworthy of no- 
 tice, that I was thus called to pronounce the burial 
 discourse over the body of the last reigning spir- 
 itual Prince-Abbot in Germany. He was a man 
 of God, and worthy of this honor. 
 
STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS 266 
 
 " One year after this event, I was appointed 
 professor of Biblical Hermeneutics in Klagenfurt, 
 and left the abbey forever. In Klagenfurt I re- 
 mained ten years, dwelling in the same house, and 
 eating at the same table, with seventeen other Pro- 
 fessors. Their conversation naturally suggested 
 new 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 men- 
 tioned, 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. Erelong 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 in- 
 deed had read much, and yet only what was calcu- 
 lated 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 per- 
 
266 HYPERION 
 
 ceived, at the same time, that this was the strong- 
 est instrument for battering down the walls which 
 separate Christian from Christian. I saw, though 
 as yet dimly, the way in which the union of Chris- 
 tians in the one true Church was to be accom- 
 plished. 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 jus- 
 tify 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, 1 am now no more astonished at this, 
 but pray only to Divine Providence, who so myste- 
 riously prepares all people to be united in one true 
 Church. I no longer believed in the Pope's infal- 
 libility ; 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 pub- 
 lished. The Austrian censor of the press cannot 
 find time to read it ; thougli 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 
 
STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS 267 
 
 my 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 in- 
 fluences of the Spirit, upon the Confusion of 
 Tongues, the Division of the People, and the im- 
 portance of the study of Comparative Philology, 
 in reference to their union in one Church. So 
 wrapped was I in the thought that 1 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 at 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 very hour when I was writing alone in my 
 chamber on the importance of Comparative Phi- 
 lology 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 
 
268 HYPERION 
 
 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 under- 
 take the voyage to America. Suddenly my trou- 
 bled 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, glar- 
 ing meteor, which had just been seen in the air, 
 southeast from Klagenfurt, and had suddenly dis- 
 appeared with a dull, hollow sound. It was the 
 very moment at which I had taken my final reso- 
 lution to leave my native land. Every great pur- 
 pose and event of my life seemed heralded and 
 attended by divine messengers, — the voices of the 
 dead, the bright morning star shining in the clear 
 sunshine, and the red meteor in the evening twi- 
 light. 
 
 " I now began seriously to prepare for my de- 
 parture. 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 pro- 
 hibited books. Here also I kept my papers and 
 my great work on Biblical Hermeneutics. The 
 inside of the doors was covered with horrible cari- 
 catures 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 
 
STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS 269 
 
 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 tempta- 
 tions 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 moun- 
 tain 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 
 yet shone 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 
 
270 HYPERION 
 
 events wliicli awaited him, and withdrew with the 
 other priest into the church. Fleniming could not 
 smile as Berldey 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 almsman 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 
 riemming good night, he said : — 
 
 " I shall not see you in the morning ; so good 
 by, and God bless you. Remember my parting 
 words. 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 
 riemming, laughing, " that I begin to believe it. 
 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 neighborhood 
 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 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS 271 
 
 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 to and 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 Vni. 
 
 FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS. 
 
 It was Sunday morning ; and the church bells 
 were all ringing together. From the neighboring 
 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 patri- 
 archs 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 
 
272 HYPERION 
 
 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 in- 
 nocence 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, chant- 
 ing. Peasants, old and young, followed him, with 
 burning tapers in their hands. A young girl car- 
 ried 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 cof&n ; and, as he 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS 273 
 
 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 the 
 hyssop. 
 
 A few moments afterwards, the voice of the 
 priest was heard saying mass in the church, and 
 riemming saw the toothless old sexton treading, 
 with his clouted shoes, the fresh earth into the 
 grave of the little child. He approached him, and 
 asked the age of the deceased. The sexton leaned 
 a moment on his spade, and, shrugging his shoul- 
 ders, 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 tomb- 
 stone." 
 
 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 is 
 sculptured as a beautiful youth, leaning on an in- 
 verted torch, in the attitude of repose, his wings 
 
274 HYPERION 
 
 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 sjiectral 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 ap- 
 parition of the grim spectre putting a sudden 
 stop to all business, and leading men away into 
 the " remarkable retirement " of the grave. It is 
 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 chil- 
 dren sitting round a cottage hearth, Death has 
 taken one by the hand, and is leading it out of the 
 door. Quietly and xmresisting goes the little child, 
 and in its countenance no grief, but wonder only ; 
 while the other children are weeping and stretch- 
 ing forth their hands in vain towards their depart- 
 ing brother. It is a beautiful design, in all save 
 the skeleton. An angel had been better, with 
 folded wings, and torch inverted. 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS 275 
 
 And now the sun was growing high and warm. 
 A little chapel, whose door stood open, seemed to 
 invite Flemmiug to enter and enjoy the grateful 
 coolness. He went in. There was no one there. 
 The walls were covered with paintings and sculp- 
 ture 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 
 Flemraing was weak, — weak as a child's. He 
 bowed his stubborn knees, and wept. And, oh, 
 how many disappointed hopes, how many bitter 
 recollections, how much of wounded pride and un- 
 requited love, were in those tears through which 
 he read, on a marble tablet in the chapel wall oppo- 
 site, 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 painful 
 longings to behold once more the faces of their de- 
 parted friends ; and as they gaze upon them, lying 
 
276 HYPERION 
 
 there so peacefully with the semblance that they 
 wore on earth, the sweet brcatli 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 Moun- 
 tain; and to him likewise was it forbidden to 
 look back. 
 
 In the life of every man there are sudden tran- 
 sitions 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 succeeds the 
 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 
 Plemming ; 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 w^ait the f ulfihnent of boundless hopes 
 and Ladiscreet desires, but to live in the Present 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS 277 
 
 wisely, alike forgetful of the Past, and careless of 
 what the mysterious Future might bring. And 
 froni that moment he was calm and strong ; he was 
 reconciled witli himseK. 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 be mine 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 conies, say. Welcome, friend 1 
 
 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 reck- 
 less 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 writ- 
 ten 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 re- 
 main a more noble history than the child's story 
 with which the book began." 
 
278 UYPERION 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE LAST PANG. 
 
 " Farewell to thee, Saint Gilgen ! " said Flera- 
 ming, as lie 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 inscrip- 
 tion 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 behind him the 
 mountains of the Tyrol, and beheld them for 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 a blessing. 
 There were many beggars, too, in the streets ; and 
 
THE LAST PANG 279 
 
 an old man who was making hay in a field by the 
 roadside, when he saw the carriage approaching, 
 threw down his rake, and came tumbling over the 
 ditch, uttering the most dismal wail, with his hat 
 held out in both hands. The next day, the bright 
 yellow jackets of the postilions, and the two great 
 tassels of their bugle-horns, dangling down their 
 backs, like cauliflowers, told him he was in Wiir« 
 temberg ; and, late in the evening, he stopped at 
 a hotel in Stuttgard, and from his chamber-win- 
 dow saw, in the bright moonlight, the old Gothic 
 cathedral, with its narrow, lancet windows and jut- 
 ting buttresses, right in front of him. Erelong he 
 had forgotten all his cares and sorrows in sleep, 
 and with them his hopes, and wishes, and good re- 
 solves. 
 
 He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber, 
 the next morning, when the great bell of the ca- 
 thedral opposite began to ring, and reminded him 
 that it was Simday. Erelong the organ answered 
 from within, and from its golden lips breathed 
 forth a psalm. The congregation began to assem- 
 ble, 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 be- 
 long 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 Mar- 
 tin Luther, — 
 
 Our God, he is a tower of strength, 
 A tnistj shield and weapon. 
 
 During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black, 
 with a surplice thrown loosely about him, came 
 
280 HYPERION 
 
 pacing along one of the aisles, from beneath the 
 organ-loft, and ascended the pulj)it. 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 pidpit, while 
 the congregation remained standing. For a while 
 there was a breathless silence in the church, which 
 to Flenmiing was more solemnly imjjressive than 
 any audible prayer. The clergyman then arose, 
 and began his sermon. His theme was the Ref- 
 ormation, and he attempted to prove how much 
 easier it was to enter the kingdom of Heaven 
 through the gateways of the Reformed Evangel- 
 ical German Chui'ch, than by the aisles and peni- 
 tential staircases of Saint Peter's. He then gave 
 a history of the Reformation ; and when Flemming 
 thought he was near the end, he heard liim say 
 that he should divide his discourse into four heads. 
 This reminded him of the sturdy old Puritan, Cot- 
 ton 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 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, dressed in a loose white jacket, with a face 
 like Franklin's, a pale blue eye, and his white hair 
 flowing over his shoulders. 
 
 " So you are from America," said he. " But 
 
THE LAST PANG 281 
 
 you have a German name. Paul Flemming was 
 one of our old poets. I have never been in Amer- 
 ica, and never shall go there. I am now too old. 
 I have been in Paris and in liome. 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 Flem- 
 ming felt 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 aU 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 beautiful 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. 
 
282 lIYPEPdON 
 
 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 en- 
 graving 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 some- 
 thing 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 wallced 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, 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 coidd no 
 longer go to church, but must sit at home and read 
 the Bible in large print. His heart was full of in- 
 definite 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-me- 
 nots. It is only after midsummer, when the days 
 
THE LAST PANG 283 
 
 grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. 
 Then tlie heat of the day brings forward the har- 
 vest, 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 mechanic 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, having made 
 his preparations 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 be- 
 fore 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, read- 
 ing 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 I His heart could not be de- 
 ceived ; 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 
 
284 HYPERION 
 
 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 was 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 vision of the 
 morning, stay ! thou wast so fair ! He stood again 
 on the green sunny meadow, beneath the ruined 
 tower ; 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 to- 
 wards 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 pos- 
 tilion and the stamping of horses' hoofs on the 
 pavement at the door. 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 I 
 
THE LAST PANG 285 
 
 He had drunk the hist drop of the bitter cup, and 
 now laid the goklen goblet gently down, knowing 
 that he should behold it no more ! 
 
 No more ! Oh, how majestically mournful are 
 those words ! They sound like the roar of the 
 wind through a forest of pines 1 
 
KAVANAGH 
 
 The flighty purpose never is o'ertook, 
 Unless the deed go with it. 
 
 Shasssfeasb. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 On the day when Mr. Longfellow wrote the 
 last lines o£ Evangeline he noted in his diary: 
 " Now for a little prose ;_a romance which I have 
 in my brain — Kavanagh by name." This was 
 February 27, 1847, and the book was published 
 May 12, 1849. At that time he wrote of it: "Peo- 
 ple think it is not long enough. But why beat 
 out one's ideas into thin leaf ? " It must not be 
 supposed, however, that he was at work for two 
 years on this slight romance. He began it, indeed, 
 immediately after finishing Evangeline, but ap- 
 pears to have worked at it in a very desultory 
 fashion until the autumn of 1848. He records in 
 his diary under date of October 3, 1848 : " Still 
 the imprisoning rain ; but to-day welcome, thrice 
 welcome. Sat by the fireside in the library and 
 wrote in Kavanagh, to my own great satisfaction 
 and delight." On the 31st of the same month, he 
 wrote : " Kavanagh is nearly completed. I have 
 
288 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 written It coji amore^ and have had so much satis- 
 faction as this, whatsoever may be its fate here- 
 after ; " on the 9th of November he finished the 
 book. Yet, in spite of the evident pleasure which 
 he took in his work, he was not over-confident of 
 success. Perhaps he was affected a little by the 
 cautious appreciation which the manuscript re- 
 ceived from his first audience of three, — his wife, 
 his brother, and Sumner ; — " The general opinion 
 favorable, on the whole, though it did not awaken 
 any very lively enthusiasm." At any rate, he 
 wrote in his diary, February 13, 1849 : " With 
 some doubts and misgivings I carried the first 
 sheets of Kavaiuujli to the printer. I have never 
 hesitated so much about any of my books, except 
 the first hexameters, Tlie Children of the Lord's 
 Su2)per. Let us sec how it will look in print. 
 I want to get this out of the way. Things lying 
 in manuscript incumber and impede me ; hold me 
 back from working on to something better." His 
 hesitation continued after he had begun to see the 
 book in print, and on the 8th of March he wrote : 
 " My mind is perplexed about Kavanaxjh. The 
 title is better than the book, and suggests a differ- 
 ent kind of book. One more long, spiritual chap- 
 ter must be written for it. The thought struck 
 me last night. It must go into the book as the 
 keystone into the arch. An idea so very obvi- 
 ous, and yet coming so late ! " The next day, 
 he recorded : " Longed to write the chapter for 
 Kavanagh, but was obliged to go to college. Ah, 
 me! and yet what a delight to begin every day 
 with Dante ! " 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 289 
 
 The chapter which was thus written to give spir 
 itual significance and unity to the book was the 
 eighteenth, which can be removed without disturb- 
 ing the flow of the narrative, and yet does per- 
 form just the function designed by the author, 
 since it is, as it were, a brief history of the hero's 
 spiritual experience. 
 
 As has been said before, the figure of a school- 
 master was a favorite one with Mr. Longfellow, 
 and he seems to have employed it finally in 
 Kavanagh as the centre about which to group his 
 thoughts respecting literature and scholarship, — ■ 
 thoughts which before he had given in fragmen- 
 tary, note-book form. He made use also of his 
 country rambles both in the Berkshire hills and in 
 Maine for pictures of life and scenery. The time 
 when the romance was written easily explains the 
 freedom of reference to domestic life, and the little 
 society of the household. Without regarding the 
 interior of Mr. Chui-chill's home as in any direct 
 sense a reproduction of the author's, it is fair to 
 suppose that the scenes narrated of childish life 
 have the same general relation to Mr. Longfel- 
 low's domestic experience that the scenes portrayed 
 in Hyperion bear to his life before his mai'riage. 
 
 Although Mr. Longfellow kept no note-book in 
 the manner of Hawthorne's, recording suggestions 
 for stories and poems, he was in the habit, as the 
 reader has seen, of setting down occasionally in 
 his diary a half-formed plan, and he also kept for 
 use such newspaper clippings as bore upon his 
 work. He valued the real touch which he con- 
 ceived that he thus secured, and sometimes incor- 
 
290 INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 ^orated tins matter in his mannscript. Thus the 
 announcement of Edward Dimple in the nine- 
 teenth chapter was a veritable advertisement, cut 
 from some newspaper and attached in its place to 
 the manuscript given to the printer. 
 
 Th6 name of Kavanagh is that of an old Roman 
 Catholic family of Maine, now extinct, and is 
 perpetuated both by this book and by a school 
 in Portland called the Kavanagh School. The 
 Arthur Kavanagh of the story is, however, an 
 entirely imaginary personage. 
 
KAVANAGH 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 
 Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, 
 
 Who ne'er the mournful midniglit hours 
 
 Weeping upon his bed has sate, 
 He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. 
 
 GOSTHX 
 
 I. 
 
 Great men stand like solitary towers in the 
 city of God, and secret passages running deep be- 
 neath external nature give their thoughts inter- 
 course with higher intelligences, which strengthens 
 and consoles them, and of which the laborers on 
 the surface do not even dream ! 
 
 Some such thought as this was floating vaguely 
 through the brain of Mr. Churchill, as he closed 
 his school-house door behind him ; and if in any 
 degree he applied it to himself, it may perhaps be 
 pardoned in a dreamy, poetic man like him ; for 
 we judge ourselves by what we feel capable of 
 doing, while others judge us by what we have al- 
 ready done. And moreover his wife considered 
 him equal to great things. To the people in the 
 village he was the schoolmaster, and nothing more. 
 They beheld in his form and countenance no out- 
 ward sign of the divinity within. They saw him 
 
292 KAVANAGH 
 
 daily moiling and delving in the common path, 
 like a beetle, and little thought that underneath 
 that hard and cold exterior lay folded delicate 
 golden wings, wherewith, when the heat of day 
 was over, he soared and revelled in the pleasant 
 evening air. 
 
 To-day he was soaring and revelling before the 
 sun had set ; for it was Saturday. With a feeling 
 of infinite relief he left behind him the empty 
 school-house, into which the hot sun of a Septem- 
 ber afternoon was pouring. All the bright young 
 faces were gone ; all the impatient little hearts 
 were gone ; all the fresh voices, shrill, but musical 
 with the melody of childhood were gone ; and the 
 lately busy realm was given up to silence, and the 
 dusty sunshine, and the old gray flies, that buzzed 
 and bumped their heads against the window-panes. 
 The sound of the outer door, creaking on its heb- 
 domadal hinges, was like a sentinel's challenge, to 
 which the key growled responsive in the lock ; and 
 the master, casting a furtive glance at the last cari- 
 cature of himself in red chalk on the wooden fence 
 close by, entered with a light step the solemn 
 avenue of pines that led to the margin of the 
 river. 
 
 At first his step was quick and nervous ; and he 
 swung his cane as if aiming blows at some iuNasi- 
 ble and retreating enemy. Though a meek man, 
 there were moments when he remembered with bit- 
 terness the unjust reproaches of fathers and their 
 insulting words ; and then he fought imaginary 
 battles with people out of sight, and struck them 
 to the ground, and trampled upon them ; for Mc 
 
A TALE 293 
 
 Churchill was not exempt from the weakness of 
 human nature, nor the customary vexations of a 
 schoolmaster's life. Unruly sons and unreasonable 
 fathers did sometimes embitter his else sweet days 
 and nights. But as he walked, his step grew 
 slower, and his heart calmer. The coolness and 
 shadows of the great trees comforted and satisfied 
 him, and he heard the voice of the wind as it were 
 the voice of spirits calling around him in the air. 
 So that when he emerged from the black woodlands 
 into the meadows by the river's side, all his cares 
 were forgotten. 
 
 He lay down for a moment under a sycamore, 
 and thought of the Roman Consul Licinius, pass- 
 ing a night with eighteen of his followers in the 
 hollow trunk of the great Lycian plane-tree. 
 From the branches overhead the falling seeds were 
 wafted away through the soft air on plumy tufts 
 of down. The continuous murmur of the leaves 
 and of the swift - running stream seemed rather 
 to deepen than disturb the pleasing solitude and 
 silence of the place ; and for a moment he imag- 
 ined himself far away in the broad prairies of the 
 West, and lying beneath the luxuriant trees that 
 overhang the banks of the Wabash and the Kas- 
 kaskia. He saw the sturgeon leap from the river, 
 and flash for a moment in the sunshine. Then a 
 flock of wild-fowl flew across the sky towards the 
 sea-mist that was rising slowly in the east ; and his 
 sold seemed to float away on the river's current, 
 till he had glided far out into the measureless sea, 
 and the sound of the wind among the leaves was 
 no longer the sound of the wind, but of the sea. 
 
294 KAVANAGH 
 
 Nature had made Mr. Churchill a poet, but 
 /destiny made him a schoolmaster. This produced 
 ' a discord between his outward and his inward ex- 
 istence. Life presented itself to him like the 
 Sphinx, with its perpetual riddle of the real and 
 the ideal. To the solution of this dark problem he 
 devoted his days and his nights. He was forced to 
 teach grammar when he would fain have written 
 poems ; and from day to day, and from year to 
 year, the trivial things of life postponed the great 
 designs, which he felt capable of accomplishing, 
 but never had the resolute courage to begin. Thus 
 he dallied with his thoughts and with all things, 
 and wasted his strength on trifles ; like the lazy 
 sea, that plays with the pebbles on its beach, but 
 under the inspiration of the Aviiid might lift great 
 navies on its outstretched palms, and toss them into 
 the air as playthings. 
 
 The evening came. The setting sun stretched 
 his celestial rods of light across the level land- 
 scape, and, like the Hebrew in Egypt, smote the 
 rivers and the brooks and the ponds, and they be- 
 came as blood. 
 
 Mr. Churchill turned his steps homeward. He 
 climbed the hill with the old windmill on its summit, 
 and below him saw the lights of the village ; and 
 around him the great landscape sinking deeper 
 and deeper into the sea of darkness. He passed 
 an orchard. The air was filled with the odor of 
 the fallen fruit, which seemed to him as sweet as 
 the fragrance of the blossoms in June. A few 
 steps farther brought him to an old and neglected 
 graveyard ; and he paused a moment to look at 
 
A TALE 295 
 
 the white gleaming stone, under which slumbered 
 the old clergyman, who came into the village in 
 the time of the Indian wars, and on which was re- 
 corded that for half a century he had been " a 
 painful preacher of the word." He entered the 
 village street, and interchanged a few words with 
 Mr. Pendexter, the venerable divine, whom he 
 found standing at his gate. He met, also, an ill- 
 looking man, carrying so many old boots that he 
 seemed literally buried in them ; and at intervals 
 encountered a stream of strong tobacco smoke, 
 exhaled fx'om the pipe of an Irish laborer, and 
 pervading the damp evening air. At length he 
 reached his own door. 
 
 II. 
 
 When Mr. Churchill entered his study, he 
 found the lamp lighted, and his wife waiting for 
 him. The wood fire was singing on the hearth 
 like a grasshopper in the heat and silence of a 
 summer noon ; and to his heart the chill autumnal 
 evening became a summer noon. His wife turned 
 towards him with looks of love in her joyous blue 
 eyes ; and in the serene expression of her face he 
 read the Divine beatitude, " Blessed are the pure 
 in heart." 
 
 No sooner had he seated himself by the fireside 
 than the door was swung wide open, and on the 
 threshold stood, with his legs apart, like a minia- 
 ture colossus, a lovely, golden boy, about three 
 years old, with long, light locks, and very red 
 cheeks. After a moment's pause, he dashed for- 
 
296 KAVANAGH 
 
 ward into the room with a shout, and establishefl 
 himself in a large arm-chair, which he converted 
 into a carrier's wagon, and over the back of 
 which he urged forward his imaginary horses. He 
 was followed by Lucy, the maid of all work, bear- 
 ing in her arms the baby, with large, round eyes, 
 and no hair. In his mouth he held an India-rub- 
 ber ring, and looked very much like a street-door 
 knocker. He came down to say good night, but 
 after he got down, could not say it ; not being 
 able to say anything but a kind of explosive 
 " Papa ! " He was then a good deal kissed and 
 tormented in various ways, and finally sent off to 
 bed blowing little bubbles with his mouth, — Lucy 
 blessing his little heart, and asseverating that no- 
 body could feed him in the night without loving 
 him ; and that if the flies bit him any more she 
 would pull out every tooth in their heads ! 
 
 Then came Master Alfred's hour of trivunph and 
 sovereign sway. The fire-light gleamed on his 
 hard, red cheeks, and glanced from his liquid eyes, 
 and small, white teeth. He piled his wagon full 
 of books and papers, and dashed off to town at the 
 top of his speed ; he delivered and received par- 
 cels and letters, and played the post-boy's horn 
 with his lips. Then he climbed the back of the 
 great chair, sang " Sweep ho ! " as from the top of 
 a very high chimney, and, sliding down upon the , 
 cushion, pretended to fall asleep in a little white 
 bed, with white curtains ; from which imaginary 
 slumber his father awoke him by crying in his ear, 
 in mysterious tones, — 
 
 " What little boy is this ! " 
 
A TALE 297 
 
 Finally he sat clown in his chair at his mother's 
 knee, and listened very attentively, and for the 
 hundredth time, to the story of the dog Jumper, 
 which was no sooner ended, than vociferously 
 called for again and again. On the fifth repeti- 
 tion, it was cut as short as the dog's tail by Lucy, 
 who, ha\nng put the baby to bed, now came for 
 Master AKred. He seemed to hope he had been 
 forgotten, but was nevertheless marched off with- 
 out any particidar regard to his feelings, and dis- 
 appeared in a kind of abstracted mood, repeating 
 softly to himself his father's words, — 
 
 " Good night, Alfred ! " 
 
 His father looked fondly after him as he went 
 up stairs, holding Lucy by one hand, and with the 
 other rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! these children, these children ! " said Mr. 
 Churchill, as he sat down at the tear-table ; " we 
 ought to love them very much now, for we shall not 
 have them long with us ! " 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed his wife, " what do 
 you mean ? Does anything ail them ? Are they 
 going to die ? " 
 
 " I hope not. But they are going to grow up, 
 and be no longer children." 
 
 " Oh, you foolish man ! You gave me such a 
 fright ! " 
 
 " And yet it seems impossible that they should 
 ever grow to be men, and drag the heavy artillery 
 along the dusty roads of life." 
 
 " And I hope they never wiU. That is the last 
 thing I want either of them to do." 
 
 " Oh, I do not mean literally, only figuratively. 
 
298 KAVANAGH 
 
 By the way, speaking of growing up and growing 
 old, I saw Mr. Pendexter this evening, as I came 
 home." 
 
 " And what had he to say ? " 
 
 " He tokl me he should preach his farewell ser- 
 mon to-morrow." 
 
 " Poor old man ! I really pity him." 
 
 " So do I. But it must be confessed he is a didl 
 preacher ; and I dare say it is as dull work for him 
 as for his hearers." 
 
 " Why are they going to send him away ? " 
 
 " Oh, there are a great many reasons. He does 
 not give time and attention enough to his sermons 
 and to his parish. He is always at work on his 
 farm ; always wants his salary raised ; and insists 
 upon his right to pasture his horse in the parish 
 fields." 
 
 " Hark ! " cried his wife, lifting up her face in a 
 listening attitude. 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 " I thought I heard the baby ! " 
 
 There was a short sUence. Then Mr. Churchill 
 said, — 
 
 " It was only the cat in the cellar." 
 
 At this moment Lucy came in. She hesitated a 
 little, and then, in a submissive voice, asked leave 
 to go down to the village to buy some ribbon for 
 her bonnet. Lucy was a girl of fifteen, who had 
 been taken a few years before from an Orphan 
 Asylum. Her dark eyes had a gypsy look, and 
 she wore her brown hair twisted round her head 
 after the manner of some of Murillo's girls. She 
 had Milesian blood in her veins, and was impetuous 
 and impatient of contradiction. 
 
A TALE 299 
 
 When she had left the room, the schoohnaster 
 resumed the conversation by saying, — 
 
 " I do not like Lucy's going out so much in the 
 evenmg. I am afraid she will get into trouble. 
 She is really very pretty." 
 
 Then there was another pause, after which he 
 added, — 
 
 " My dear wife, one thing puzzles me exceed- 
 ingly." 
 
 " And what is that ? " 
 
 " It is to know what that man does with all the 
 old boots he picks up about the village. I met him 
 again this evening. He seemed to have as many 
 feet as Briareus had hands. He is a kind of cen- 
 tipede." 
 
 " But what has that to do with Lucy ? " 
 
 " Nothing. It only occurred to me at the mo- 
 ment ; and I never can imagine what he does with 
 so many old boots." 
 
 III. 
 
 When tea was over, Mr. Churchill walked to 
 and fro in his study, as his custom was. And as 
 he walked, he gazed with secret rapture at the 
 books, which lined the walls, and thought how 
 many bleeding hearts and aching heads had found 
 consolation for themselves and imparted it to 
 others, by writing those pages. The books seemed 
 to him almost as living beings, so instinct were 
 they with human thoughts and sympathies. It was 
 as if the authors themselves were gazing at him 
 from the walls, with countenances neither sorrow- 
 
300 KAVANAGH 
 
 ful nor glad, but full of calm indifference to fate, 
 like those of the poets who appeared to Dante in 
 his vision, walking together on the dolorous shore. 
 And then he dreamed of fame, and thought that 
 perhaps hereafter he might be in some degree, and 
 to some one, what these men were to him ; and in 
 the enthusiasm of the moment he exclaimed aloud, 
 
 " Would you have me be like these, dear 
 Mary?" 
 
 " Like these what ? " asked his wife, not com- 
 prehending him. 
 
 " Like these great and good men, — like these 
 scholars and poets, — the authors of all these 
 books ! " 
 
 She pressed his hand and said, in a soft, but 
 excited tone, — 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Like them, only perhaps better ! " 
 
 " Then I will write a Eomance ! " 
 
 " Write it ! " said his wife, like the angel. For 
 she believed that then he would become famous 
 forever ; and that all the vexed and busy world 
 would stand still to hear him blow his little trum- 
 pet, whose sound was to rend the adamantine walls 
 of time, and reach the ears of a far-off and startled 
 posterity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " I was thinking to-day," said Mr. Churchill a 
 few minutes afterwards, as he took some papers 
 from a drawer scented with a quince, and arranged 
 them on the study table, while his wife as usual 
 seated herself opposite to him with her work in 
 her hand, — "I was thinking to-day how dull and 
 
A TALE 301 
 
 prosaic the study of mathematics is made in our 
 school-books ; as if the grand science of numbers 
 had been discovered and perfected merely to fur- 
 ther the purposes of trade." 
 
 " For my part," answered his wife, " I do not see 
 how you can make mathematics poetical. There is 
 no poetry in them." 
 
 " Ah, that is a very great mistake ! There is 
 something divine in the science of nvimbers. Like 
 God, it holds the sea in the hollow of its hand. It 
 measures the earth ; it weighs the stars ; it illu- 
 mines the universe ; it is law, it is order, it is 
 beauty. And yet we imagine — that is, most of 
 us — that its highest end and culminating point is 
 book-keeping by double entry. It is our way of 
 teaching it that makes it so prosaic." 
 
 So saying, he arose, and went to one of his 
 book-cases, from the shelf of which he took down 
 a little old quarto volume, and laid it upon the 
 table. 
 
 " Now here," he continued, " is a book of math- 
 ematics of quite a different stamp from ours." 
 
 " It looks very old. What is it ? " 
 
 " It is the Lilawati of Bhascara Acharya, trans- 
 lated from the Sanscrit." 
 
 " It is a pretty name. Pray what does it 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Lilawati was the name of Bhascara's daugh- 
 ter ; and the book was written to perpetuate it. 
 Here is an account of the whole matter." 
 
 He then opened the volume, and read as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " It is said that the composing of Lilawati was 
 
302 KAVANAGH 
 
 occasioned by the following circumstance. Lila- 
 wati was the name of the author's daughter, con- 
 cerning whom it a})poared, from the qualities of the 
 Ascendant at her birth, that she was destined to 
 pass her life unmarried, and to remain without 
 children. The father ascertained a lucky hour for 
 contracting her in marriage, that she might be 
 firmly connected, and have children. It is said 
 that, when that hour approached, he brought his 
 daughter and his intended son near him. He left 
 the hour-cup on the vessel of water, and kept in 
 attendance a time-knowing astrologer, in order 
 that, when the cup should subside in the water, 
 those two precious jewels shovdd be united. But 
 as the intended arrangement was not according to 
 destiny, it happened that the girl, from a curiosity 
 natural to children, looked into the cup to observe 
 the water coming in at the hole ; when by chance 
 a pearl separated from her bridal dress, fell into 
 the cup, and, rolling down to the hole, stopped the 
 influx of the water. So the astrologer waited in 
 expectation of the promised hour. When the op- 
 eration of the cup had thus been delayed beyond 
 all moderate time, the father was in consterna- 
 tion, and examining, he found that a small pearl 
 had stopped the course of the water, and the long- 
 expected hour was passed. In short, the father, 
 thus disappointed, said to his unfortunate daugh- 
 ter, I will write a book of your name, which shall 
 remain to the latest times, — for a good name 
 is a second life, and the groundwork of eternal 
 existence." 
 
 As the schoolmaster read, the eyes of his wife 
 dilated and grew tender, and she said, — 
 
A TALE 303 
 
 " What a beautiful story I When did it hap- 
 pen?" 
 
 " Seven hundred years ago, among the Hin- 
 doos." 
 
 " Why not write a poem about it ? " 
 
 " Because it is ah-eady a poem of itself, — one 
 of those things of which the simplest statement 
 is the best, and which lose by embellishment. The 
 old Hindoo legend, brown with age, would not 
 please me so well if decked in gay colors, and hung 
 round with the tinkling bells of rhyme. Now hear 
 how the book begins." 
 
 Again he read : — 
 
 " Salutation to the elephant-headed Being who 
 infuses joy into the minds of his worshippers, who 
 delivers from every difficulty those that call upon 
 him, and whose feet are reverenced by the gods ! 
 — Reverence to Ganesa, who is beautiful as the 
 pure purple lotos, and around whose neck the black 
 curling snake winds itself in playful folds ! " 
 
 " That sounds rather mystical," said his wife. 
 
 " Yes, the book begins with a salutation to the 
 Hindoo deities, as the old Spanish Chronicles be- 
 gin in the name of God and the Holy Virgin. 
 And now see how poetical some of the examples 
 are." 
 
 He then turned over the leaves slowly and 
 read, — 
 
 " One third of a collection of beautiful water- 
 lilies is offered to Mahadev, one fifth to Huri, 
 one sixth to the Sun, one fourth to Devi, and 
 six which remain are presented to the spiritual 
 teacher. Required the whole number of water- 
 lilies." 
 
304 KAVANAGH 
 
 " That is very pretty," said the wife, " and 
 would put it into the boys' heads to bring you 
 pond-lilies." 
 
 " Here is a prettier one still. One fifth of a 
 hive of bees flew to the Kadamba flower ; one third 
 flew to the Silandhara ; three times the difference 
 of these two numbers flew to an arbor ; and one 
 bee continued flying about, attracted on each side 
 by the fragrant Ketaki and the Malati. What 
 was the number of the bees ? " 
 
 " I am sure I should never be able to tell." 
 
 " Ten times the square root of a flock of 
 geese " — 
 
 Here Mrs. Churchill laughed aloud ; but he con- 
 tinued very gravely, — 
 
 " Ten times the square root of a flock of 
 geese, seeing the clouds collect, flew to the Man us 
 lake ; one eighth of the whole flew from the edge 
 of the water amongst a multitude of water-lilies ; 
 and three couple were observed plajdng in the water. 
 Tell me my young girl with beautiful locks, what 
 was the whole number of geese ? " 
 
 " Well, what was it ? " 
 
 " What should you think ? " 
 
 " About twenty." 
 
 " No, one hundred and forty-four. Now try an- 
 other. The square root of half a number of bees, 
 and also eight ninths of the whole, alighted on the 
 jasmines, and a female bee buzzed responsive to 
 the hum of the male enclosed at night in a water- 
 lily. Oh, beautiful damsel, tell me the number of 
 bees." 
 
 " That is not there. You made it." 
 
A TALE 305 
 
 " No, indeed I did not. I wish I had made it. 
 Look and see." 
 
 Pie showed her the book, and she read it her- 
 self. He then proposed some of the geometrical 
 questions. 
 
 " In a hike the bud of a water-lily was observed, 
 one span above the water, and when moved by the 
 gentle breeze, it sank in the water at two cubits' 
 distance. Required the depth of the water." 
 
 " That is charming, but must be very difficult. 
 I could not answer it." 
 
 " A tree one hundred cubits high is distant from 
 a well two hundred cubits ; from this tree one 
 monkey descends and goes to the well ; another 
 monkey takes a leap upwards, and then descends 
 by the hypothenuse ; and both pass over an equal 
 space. Required the height of the leap." 
 
 " 1 do not believe you can answer that question 
 yourself, without looking into the book," said the 
 laughing wife, laying her hand over the solution. 
 " Try it." 
 
 " With great pleasure, my dear child," cried the 
 confident schoolmaster, taking a pencil and paper. 
 After making a few figvu-es and calculations, he 
 answered, — 
 
 " There, my young girl with beautiful locks, 
 there is the answer, — forty cubits." 
 
 His wife removed her hand from the book, 
 and then, clapping both in triumph, she ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 " No, you are wrong, you are wrong, my beau- 
 tiful youth with a bee in your bonnet. It is fifty 
 cubits ! " 
 
306 KAVANAGH 
 
 " Then I must have made some mistake." 
 
 " Of course you did. Your monkey did not 
 jump high enough," 
 
 She signalized his mortifying defeat as if it had 
 been a victory, by showering kisses, like roses, 
 upon his forehead and cheeks, as he passed beneath 
 the triumphal archway of her arms, trying in vaira 
 to articulate, — 
 
 " My dearest Lilawati, what is the whole num- 
 ber of the geese ? " 
 
 V. 
 
 After extricating himself from this pleasing 
 dilemma, he said, — 
 
 " But I am now going to write. I must really 
 begin in sober earnest, or I shall never get any- 
 thing finished. And you know I have so many 
 things to do, so many books to write, that really I 
 do not know where to begin. I think I will take 
 up the Romance first." 
 
 " It will not make much difference, if you only 
 begin ! " 
 
 " That is true. I will not lose a moment." 
 
 " Did you answer Mr, Wainwright's letter about 
 the cottage bedstead ? " 
 
 " Dear me, no ! I forgot it entirely. That must 
 be done first, or he will make it all wrong." 
 
 "And the young lady who sent you the poetry 
 to look over and criticise ? " 
 
 " No ; I have not had a single moment's leisure. 
 And there is Mr. Hanson, who wants to know 
 about the cooking-range. Confound it! there is 
 
A TALE 307 
 
 always something interfering with my Romance. 
 However, I will despatch those matters very 
 speedily." 
 
 And he began to write with gi-eat haste. For a 
 while nothing was heard but the scratching of his 
 pen. Then he said, probably in connection with 
 the cooking-range, — 
 
 " One of the most convenient things in house- 
 keeping is a ham. It is always ready and always 
 welcome. You can eat it with anything, and with- 
 out anything. It reminds me always of the great 
 wild boar Scrimner, in the Northern Mythology, 
 who is killed every day for the gods to feast on 
 in Valhalla, and comes to life again every night." 
 
 " In that case, I should think the gods would 
 have the nightmare," said his wife. 
 
 " Perhaps they do." 
 
 And then another long silence, broken only by 
 the skating of the swift pen over the sheet. Pres- 
 ently Mrs. Churchill said, — as if following out 
 her own train of thought, while she ceased plying 
 her needle to bite off the thread, which women 
 will sometimes do in spite of all that is said against 
 
 it, — 
 
 " A man came here to-day, calling himself the 
 agent of an extensive house in the needle trade. 
 He left this sample, and said the driU of the eye 
 was superior to any other, and they are warranted 
 not to cut the thread. He puts them at the whole- 
 sale price ; and if I do not like the sizes, he offers 
 to exchange them for others, either sharps or 
 betweens." 
 
 To this remark the abstracted schoolmaster 
 
308 KAVANAGH 
 
 vouchsafed no reply. He found his half-dozen 
 letters not so easily answered, particularly that to 
 the poetical young lady, and worked away busily 
 at them. Finally they were finished and sealed, 
 and he looked up to his wife. She turned her eyes 
 dreamily upon him. Slumber was hanging in their 
 blue orbs, like snow in the heavens, ready to fall. 
 It was quite late, and he said to her, — 
 
 " I am too tired, my charming Lilawati, and you 
 too sleepy, to sit here any longer to-night. And, 
 as I do not wish to begin my Romance without 
 having you at my side, so that I can read detached 
 passages to you as I write, I wall put it off till to- 
 morrow or the next day." 
 
 He watched his wife as she went up stairs with 
 the light. It was a picture always new and always 
 beautiful, and like a painting of Gherardo della 
 Notte. As he followed her, he paused to look at 
 the stars. The beauty of the heavens made his 
 soul overflow. 
 
 " How absolute," he exclaimed, " how absolute 
 and omnipotent is the silence of the night ! And 
 yet the stillness seems almost audible ! From all 
 the measureless depths of air around us comes a 
 half-sound, a half- whisper, as if we could hear the 
 crumbling and falling away of earth and all created 
 things, in the great miracle of nature, decay and 
 reproduction, ever beginning, never ending, — the 
 gradual lapse and running of the sand in the great 
 hour-glass of Time ! " 
 
 In the night, IVIr. ChurchiU had a singular 
 dream. He thought himself in school, where he 
 was reading Latin to his pupils. Suddenly all the 
 
A TALE 309 
 
 genitive cases of the first declension began to make 
 faces at him, and to laugli immoderately ; and 
 when he tried to lay hold of them, they jumped 
 down into the ablative, and the circumflex accent 
 assumed the form of a great moustache. Then 
 the little village school-house was transformed into 
 a vast and endless school-house of the world, 
 stretching forward, form after form, through all 
 the generations of coming time ; and on all the 
 forms sat young men and old, reading and tran- 
 scribing his Romance, which now in his dream was 
 completed, and smiling and passing it onward 
 from one to another, till at last the clock in the 
 corner struck twelve, and the weights ran down 
 with a strange, angry whirr, and the school broke 
 up ; and the schoolmaster awoke to find this vision 
 of fame only a dream, out of which his alarm clock 
 had aroused him at an untimely hour. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Meanwhile, a different scene was taking place at 
 the parsonage. Mr. Pendexter had retired to his 
 study to finish his farewell sermon. Silence 
 reigned through the house. Sunday had already 
 commenced there. . The week ended with the set- 
 ting of the sun, and the evening and the morning 
 were the first day. 
 
 The clergyman was interrupted in his labors by 
 the old sexton, who called as usual for the key of 
 the church. He was gently rebuked for coming so 
 late, and excused himself by saying that his wife 
 was worse. 
 
310 KAVANAGII 
 
 " Poor woman ! " said Mr. Pendexter ; " has she 
 her mind ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the sexton, " as much as ever." 
 
 " She has been ill a long time," continued the 
 clergj'man. " We have had prayers for her a great 
 many Sundays." 
 
 " It is very true, sir," replied the sexton, mourn° 
 fully ; " I have given you a great deal of trouble. 
 But you need not pray for her any more. It is of 
 no use." 
 
 Mr. Pendexter's mind was in too fervid a state 
 to notice the extreme and hopeless humility of his 
 old parishioner, and the unintentional allusion to 
 the inefficacy of his prayers. He pressed the 
 old man's hand warmly, and said, with much 
 emotion, — 
 
 " To-morrow is the last time that I shall preach 
 in this parish, where I have preached for twenty- 
 five years. But it is not the last time I shall pray 
 for you and your family." 
 
 The sexton retired also much moved ; and the 
 clergyman again resumed his task. His heart 
 glowed and burned within him. Often his face 
 flushed and his eyes filled with tears, so that he 
 could not go on. Often he rose and paced the 
 chamber to and fro, and wiped away the large 
 drops that stood on his red and feverish forehead. 
 
 At length the sermon was finished. He rose 
 and looked out of the window. Slowly the clock 
 struck twelve. He had not heard it strike before, 
 since six. The moonlight silvered the distant hills, 
 and lay, white almost as snow, on the frosty roofs 
 of the village. Not a light could be seen at any 
 window. 
 
A TALE 311 
 
 " Ungrateful people ! Could you not watch with 
 me one hour?" exclaimed he, in that excited and 
 bitter moment ; as if he had thought that on that 
 solemn night the whole parish would have watched, 
 while he was writing his farewell discourse. He 
 pressed his hot brow against the window-pane to 
 allay its fever, and across the tremulous wavelets 
 of the river the tranquil moon sent towards him a 
 silvery shaft of light, like an angelic salutation. 
 And the consoling thought came to him that not 
 only this river, but all rivers and lakes, and the 
 great sea itseK, were flashing with this heavenly 
 light, though he beheld it as a single ray only ; 
 and that what to him were the dark waves were 
 the dark providences of God, luminous to others, 
 and even to himself should he change his position. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The morning came — the dear, delicious, silent 
 Sunday ; to the weary workman, both of brain and 
 hand, the beloved day of rest. When the first 
 bell rang, like a brazen mortar, it seemed from its 
 gloomy fortress to bombard the village with burst- 
 ing shells of sound, that exploded over the houses, 
 shattering the ears of all the parishioners, and 
 shaking the consciences of many. 
 
 Mr. Pendexter was to preach his farewell ser- 
 mon. The church was crowded, and only one per- 
 son came late. It was a modest, meek girl, who 
 stole silently up one of the side aisles, — not so 
 silently, however, but that the pew-door creaked a 
 Uttle as she opened it ; and straightway a hundred 
 
312 KAVANAGH 
 
 heads were turned in that direction, although it 
 was in the midst of the prayer. Old Mrs. Fair- 
 field did not turn round, but she and her daughter 
 looked at each other, and their bonnets made a 
 parenthesis in the prayer, within which one asked 
 •what that was, and the other replied, — 
 
 " It is only Alice Archer. She always comes 
 late." 
 
 Finally the long prayer was ended, and the con- 
 gregation sat down, and the weary children — who 
 are always restless during prayers, and had been 
 for nearly half an hour twisting and turning, and 
 standing first on one foot and then on the other, 
 and hanging their heads over the backs of the 
 pews, like tired colts looking into neighboring pas- 
 tures — settled suddenly down, and subsided into 
 something like rest. 
 
 The sermon began, — such a sermon as had 
 never been preached, or even heard of before. It 
 brought many tears into the eyes of the pastor's 
 friends, and made the stoutest hearts among his 
 foes quake with something like remorse. As he 
 announced the text, " Yea, I think it meet as long 
 as I am in this tabernacle to stir you up, by put- 
 ting you in remembrance," it seemed as if the 
 apostle Peter himself, from whose pen the words 
 first proceeded, were calling them to judgment. 
 
 He began by giving a minute sketch of his min- 
 istry and the state of the parish, with all its trou- 
 bles and dissensions, social, political, and ecclesias- 
 tical. He concluded by thanking those ladies who 
 had presented him with a black silk gown, and 
 had been kind to his wife during her long illness; 
 
A TALE 313 
 
 by apologizing for having neglected his own busi- 
 ness, which was to study and preach, in order to at- 
 tend to that of the parish, which was to support its 
 minister, — stating that his own shortcomings had 
 been owing to theirs, which had driven him into the 
 woods in winter and into the fields in summer; 
 and finally by telling the congregation in general 
 that they were so confirmed in their bad habits, 
 that no reformation was to be expected in them 
 under his ministry, and that to produce one would 
 require a greater exercise of Divine power than it 
 did to create the world ; for in creating the world 
 there had been no opposition, whereas, in their ref- 
 ormation, their own obstinacy and evil propen- 
 sities, and self-seeking, and worldly-mindedness, 
 were all to be overcome ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When Mr. Pendexter had finished his discourse, 
 and pronounced his last benediction upon a con- 
 gregation to whose spiritual wants he had minis- 
 tered for so many years, his people, now his no 
 more, returned home in very various states of 
 mind. Some were exasperated, others mortified, 
 and others filled with pity. 
 
 Among the last was Alice Archer, — a fair, del- 
 icate girl, whose whole life had been saddened by 
 a too sensitive organization and by somewhat un- 
 toward circumstances. She had a pale, transpar- 
 ent complexion and large gray eyes, that seemed 
 to see visions. Her figure was slight, almost frag- 
 ile; her hands white, slender, diaphanous. With 
 
 y 
 
314 KAVANAGH 
 
 these external traits her character was in unison. 
 She was thoughtful, silent, susceptible ; often sad, 
 often in tears, often lost in reveries. She led a 
 lonely life with her mother, who was old, queru- 
 lous, and nearly blind. She had herself inherited a 
 predisposition to blindness, and in her disease there 
 was this peculiarity, that she could see in Sum- 
 mer, but in Winter the power of vision failed her. 
 
 The old house they lived in, with its four sickly 
 Lombardy poplars in front, suggested gloomy and 
 mournful thoughts. It was one of those houses 
 that depress you as you enter, as if many persons 
 had died in it, — sombre, desolate, silent. The 
 very clock in the hall had a dismal sound, gasp- 
 ing and catching its breath at times, and striking 
 the hour with a violent, determined blow, remind- 
 ing one of Jael driving the nail into the head of 
 Sisera. 
 
 One other inmate the house had, and only one. 
 This was Sally Manchester, or Miss Sally Man- 
 chester, as she preferred to be called ; an excellent 
 chambermaid and a very bad cook, for she served 
 in both capacities. She was, indeed, an extraor- 
 dinary woman, of large frame and masculine 
 features ; — one of those who are born to work, 
 and accept their inheritance of toil as if it were 
 play, and who consequently, in the language of 
 domestic recommendations, are usually styled "a 
 treasure, if you can get her." A treasure she was 
 to this family ; for she did all the housework, and 
 in addition took care of the cow and the poultry, 
 — occasionally venturing into the field of veter- 
 inary practice, and administering lamp-oil to the 
 
A TALE 315 
 
 cock, when she thought he crowed hoarsely. She 
 had on her forehead what is sometimes denomi- 
 nated a " widow's peak," — that is to say, her hair 
 grew down to a point in the middle ; and on Sun- 
 days she appeared at church in a blue poplin gown, 
 with a large pink bow on what she called " the 
 conoreg'ation side of her bonnet." Her mind was 
 strong, like her person ; her disposition not sweet, 
 but, as is sometimes said of apples by way of rec- 
 ommendation, a pleasant sour. 
 
 Such were the inmates of the gloomy house, — 
 from which the last-mentioned frequently expressed 
 her intention of retiring, being engaged to a trav- 
 elling dentist, who, in filling her teeth with amal- 
 gam, had seized the opportunity to fill a soft place 
 in her heart with something still more dangerous 
 and mercurial. The wedding-day had been from 
 time to time postponed, and at length the family 
 noped and believed it never would come, — a wish 
 prophetic of its own fulfilment. 
 
 Almost the only sunshine that from without 
 shone into the dark mansion came from the face 
 of Cecilia Vaughan, the school-mate and bosom- 
 friend of Alice Archer. They were nearly of the 
 same age, and had been drawn together by that 
 mysterious power which discovers and selects 
 friends for us in our childhood. They sat together 
 in school ; they walked together after school ; they 
 told each other their manifold secrets ; they wrote 
 long and impassioned letters to each other in the 
 evening ; in a word, they were in love with each 
 other. It was, so to speak, a rehearsal in girlhood 
 of the great drama of woman's life. 
 
316 KAVANAGH 
 
 IX. 
 
 The golden tints of Autumn now brightened 
 the shrubbery around this melancholy house, and 
 took away something of its gloom. The four 
 poplar trees seemed all ablaze, and flickered in 
 the wind like huge torches. The little border of 
 box filled the air with fragrance, and seemed to 
 welcome the return of Alice, as she ascended the 
 steps, and entered the house with a lighter heart 
 than usual. The brisk autumnal air had quick- 
 ened her pulse and given a glow to her cheek. 
 
 She found her mother alone in the parlor, seated 
 in her larsfe arm-chair. The warm sun streamed 
 in at the uncurtained windows, and lights and 
 shadows from the leaves lay upon her face. She 
 turned her head as Alice entered, and said, — 
 
 " Who is it ? Is it you, Alice ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is I, mother." 
 
 " Where have you been so long ? " 
 
 " I have been nowhere, dear mother. I have 
 come directly home from church." 
 
 " How long it seems to me ! It is very late. It 
 is growing quite dark. I was just going to call 
 for the lights." 
 
 " Why, mother ! " exclaimed Alice, in a startled 
 tone ; " what do you mean ? The sun is shining 
 directly into your face ! " 
 
 " Impossible, my dear Alice. It is quite dark. 
 I cannot see you. Where are you ? " 
 
 She leaned over her mother and kissed her. 
 Both were silent, — both wept. They knew that 
 the hour, so long looked forward to with dismay, 
 had suddenly come. Mrs. Archer was blind J 
 
A TALE 317 
 
 This scene of sorrow was Interrupted by the 
 abrupt entrance of Sally Manchester. She, too, 
 was in tears ; but she was weeping for her own 
 affliction. In her hand she held an open letter, 
 which she gave to Alice, exclaiming amid sobs, — 
 
 " Read this. Miss Ai-cher, and see how false 
 man can be ! Never trust any man ! They are all 
 alike ; they are all false — false — false ! " 
 
 Alice took the letter and read as follows : — 
 
 "It is with pleasure. Miss Manchester, I sit 
 down to write you a few lines. I esteem you as 
 higlily as ever, but Providence has seemed to order 
 and direct my thoughts and affections to another, 
 — one in my own neighborhood. It was rather 
 unexpected to me. Miss Manchester, I suppose 
 you are well aware that we, as professed Chris- 
 tians, ought to be resigned to our lot in this world. 
 May God assist you, so that we may be prepared 
 to join the great company in heaven. Your an- 
 swer woidd be very desirable. I respect your 
 virtue, and regard you as a friend. 
 
 " Martin Cherryfteld. 
 
 " P. S. The society is generally pretty good 
 here, but the state of religion is quite low." 
 
 " That is a cruel letter, Sally," said Alice, as 
 she handed it back to her. " But we all have our 
 troubles. That man is unworthy of you. Think 
 no more about him." 
 
 " What is the matter ? " inquired Mrs. Archer, 
 hearing the counsel given and the sobs with which 
 it was received. " Sally, what is the matter ? " 
 
318 KAVANAGH 
 
 Sally made no answer ; but Alice said, — 
 
 " Mr. Clierr3rfield has fallen in love with some- 
 body else." 
 
 " Is that all ? " said Mrs. Archer, evidently re- 
 lieved. " She ought to be very glad of it. Why 
 does she want to be married ? She had much 
 better stay with us; particularly now that I am 
 blind." 
 
 When Sally heard this last word, she looked up 
 in consternation. In a moment she forgot her 
 own grief to sympathize with Alice and her 
 mother. She wanted to do a thousand things at 
 once ; to go here ; to send there ; to get this and 
 that ; and particularly to call all the doctors in 
 the neighborhood. Alice assured her it would be 
 of no avail, though she finally consented that one 
 should be sent for. 
 
 Sally went in search of him. On her way, her 
 thoiaghts reverted to herself ; and, to use her own 
 phrase, " she curbed in like a stage-horse," as she 
 walked. This state of haughty and offended pride 
 continued for some hours after her return home. 
 Later in the day, she assumed a decent composure, 
 and requested that the man — she scorned to name 
 him — might never again be mentioned in her 
 hearing. Thus was her whole dream of felicity 
 swept away by the tide of fate, as the nest of a 
 ground-swaUow by an inundation. It had been 
 built too low to be secui'e. 
 
 Some women, after a burst of passionate tears, 
 are soft, gentle, affectionate ; a warm and genial 
 air succeeds the rain. Others clear up cold, and 
 are breezy, bleak, and dismal. Of the latter class 
 
A TALE 319 
 
 was Sally Manchester. She became embittered 
 against all men on account of one, and was often 
 heard to say that she thought women were fools to 
 be married, and that, for one, she would not marry 
 any man, let liim be who he might, — not she ! 
 
 The village doctor came. He was a large man, 
 of the cheerful kind ; vigorous, florid, encouraging, 
 and pervaded by an indiscriminate odor of drugs. 
 Loud voice, large cane, thick boots — everytliing 
 about him synonymous with noise. His presence 
 in the sick-room was like martial music, — inspirit- 
 ing, but loud. He seldom left it without saying 
 to the patient, " I hope you will feel more com- 
 fortable to-morrow," or, " When your fever leaves 
 you, you will be better." But, in this instance, he 
 could not go so far. Even his hopefulness was 
 not sufficient for the emergency. Mrs. Archer 
 was blind, — beyond remedy, beyond hope, — irrev- 
 ocably blind I 
 
 On the following morning, very early, as the 
 schoolmaster stood at his door, inhaling the bright, 
 wholesome air, and beholding the shadows of the 
 rising sun, and the flashing dew-drops on the red 
 vine-leaves, he heard the sound of wheels, and saw 
 Mr. Pendexter and his wife drive down the village 
 street in their old-fashioned chaise, known by all 
 the boys in town as " the ark." The old white 
 horse, that for so many years had stamped at 
 funerals, and gnawed the tops of so many posts, 
 and imagined he killed so many flies because he 
 
320 KAVANAGH 
 
 wagged the stump of a tail, and, finally, had been 
 the cause of so much discord in the parish, seemed 
 now to make common cause with his master, and 
 stepped as if endeavoring to shake the dust from 
 his feet as he passed out of the ungrateful village. 
 Under the axle-tree hung suspended a leather 
 trunk; and in the chaise, between the two occu- 
 pants, was a large bandbox which forced Mr. Pen- 
 dexter to let his legs hang out of the vehicle, and 
 gave him the air of imitating the Scriptural be- 
 havior of his horse. Gravely and from a distance 
 he saluted the schoolmaster, who saluted him in 
 return, with a tear in his eye, that no man saw, 
 but which, nevertheless, was not unseen. 
 
 " Farewell, poor old man ! " said the school- 
 master within himself, as he shut out the cold 
 autumnal air, and entered his comfortable study. 
 " We are not worthy of thee, or we should have 
 bad thee with us forever. Go back again to the 
 place of thy childhood, the scene of thine early 
 labors and thine early love ; let thy days end 
 where they began, and, like the emblem of eter- 
 nity, let the serpent of life coil itself round and 
 take its tail into its mouth, and be still from all 
 its hissings f orevermore ! I would not call thee 
 back ; for it is better thou shouldst be where thou 
 art, than amid the angry contentions of this little 
 town." 
 
 Not all took leave of the old clergyman in so 
 kindly a spirit. Indeed, there was a pretty gen- 
 eral feeling of relief in the village, as when one 
 gets rid of an ill-fitting garment, or old-fashioned 
 hat, which one neither wishes to wear, nor is quite 
 willing to throw away. 
 
A TALE 321 
 
 Thus Mr. Pendexter dejiarted from the village. 
 A few days afterwards he was seen at a fall train- 
 ing, or general muster of the militia, making a 
 prayer on horseback, with his eyes wide open ; a 
 performance in which he took evident delight, as 
 it gave him an opportunity of going quite at large 
 into some of the bloodiest campaigns of the an- 
 cient Hebrews. 
 
 XI. 
 
 For a while the schoolmaster walked to and fro, 
 looking at the gleam of the sunshine on the carpet, 
 and revelling in his day-dreams of unwritten books 
 and literary fame. With these day-dreams min- 
 gled confusedly the pattering of little feet, and the 
 murmuring and cooing of his children overhead. 
 His plans that morning, could he have executed 
 them, woidd have filled a shelf in his library with 
 poems and romances of his own creation. But 
 suddenly the vision vanished, and another from 
 the actual world took its place. It was the canvas- 
 covered cart of the butcher, that, like the flying 
 wigwam of the Indian tale, flitted before his eyes. 
 It drove up the yard and stopped at the back 
 door; and the poet felt that the sacred rest of 
 Sunday, the God's-truce with worldly cares, was 
 once more at an end. A dark hand passed be- 
 tween him and the land of light. Suddenly closed 
 the ivory gate of dreams, and the horn gate of 
 e very-day life opened, and he went forth to deal 
 with the man of flesh and blood. 
 
 " Alas ! " said he with a sigh ; '' and must my 
 
322 KAVANAGH 
 
 life, then, always be like the Sabbatical river of the 
 Jews, flowing in full stream only on the seventh 
 day, and sandy and arid all the rest ? " 
 
 Then he thought of his beautiful wife and chil- 
 dren, and added, half aloud, — 
 
 " No ; not so ! Rather let me look upon the 
 seven days of the week as the seven magic rings of 
 Jarchas, each inscribed with the name of a separate 
 planet, and each possessing a peculiar power ; — 
 or, as the seven sacred and mysterious stones which 
 the pilgrims of Mecca were forced to throw over 
 their shoulders in the valleys of Menah and Akbah, 
 cursing the devil and saying at each throw, ' God 
 is great ! ' " 
 
 He found Mr. Wilmerdings, the butcher, stand- 
 ing beside his cart, and surrounded by five cats, 
 that had risen simultaneously on their hind legs, to 
 receive their quotidian morning's meal. Mr. Wil- 
 merdings not only supplied the village with fresh 
 provisions daily, but he likewise weighed all the 
 ba,bies. There was hardly a child in town that had 
 not himg beneath his steelyards, tied in a silk 
 handkerchief, the movable weight above sliding 
 along the notched beam from eight pounds to 
 twelve. He was a young man with a very fresh 
 and rosy complexion, and every Monday morning 
 he appeared dressed in an exceedingly white frock. 
 He had lately married a milliner, who sold " Dun- 
 stable and eleven-braid, openwork and colored 
 straws," and their bridal tour had been to a neigh- 
 boring town to see a man hanged for murdering 
 his wife. A pair of huge ox-horns branched from 
 the gable of his slaughter-house, and near it stood 
 
A TALE 323 
 
 the great pits of the tannery, which all the school- 
 boys thought were filled with blood ! 
 
 Perhaps no two men could be more unlike than 
 Mr. Churchill and Mr. Wilmerdings. Upon such 
 a grating iron hinge opened the door of his daily 
 life — opened into the school-room, the theatre of 
 those life-long labors, which theoretically are the 
 most noble, and practically the most vexatious in 
 the world. Toward this, as soon as breakfast was 
 over, and he had plaj^ed a while with his children, 
 he directed his steps. On his way, he had many 
 glimpses into the lovely realms of Nature, and one 
 into those of Art, through the medium of a placard 
 pasted against a wall. It was as follows : — 
 
 " The subscriber professes to take profiles, plain 
 and shaded, which, viewed at right-angles with the 
 serious countenance, are warranted to be infallibly 
 correct. 
 
 " No trouble of adorning or dressing the per- 
 son is required. He takes infants and children 
 at sight, and has frames of all sizes to accommo- 
 date. 
 
 " A profile is a delineated outline of the exterior 
 form of any person's face and head, the use of 
 which when seen tends to vivify the affections of 
 those whom we esteem or love, 
 
 " William Bantam." 
 
 Erelong even this glimpse into the ideal world 
 had vanished ; and he felt himself bound to the 
 earth with a hundred invisible threads, by which 
 a hundi'ed urchins were tugging and tormenting 
 
824 KAVANAGH 
 
 him ; and it was only with considerable effort, and 
 at intervals, that his mind could soar to the moral 
 dignity of his profession. 
 
 Such was the schoolmaster's life, and a dreary, 
 weary life it would have been, had not poetry 
 from within gushed through every crack and 
 crevice in it. This transformed it, and made it 
 resemble a well, into which stones and rubbish 
 have been throvm ; but underneath is a spring of 
 fresh, pure water, which nothing external can ever 
 check or defile. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Mr. Pendexter had departed. Only a few old 
 and middle-aged people regretted him. To these 
 few, something was wanting in the service ever 
 afterwards. They missed the accounts of the He- 
 brew massacres, and the wonderful tales of the 
 Zumzummims ; they missed the venerable gray 
 hair, and the voice that had spoken to them in 
 childhood, and forever preserved the memory of 
 it in their hearts, as in the Kussian Church the 
 old hymns of the earliest centuries are still piously 
 retained. 
 
 The winter came, with all its affluence of snows, 
 and its many candidates for the vacant pulpit. 
 But the parish was difficult to please, as all par- 
 ishes are ; and talked of dividing itself, and build- 
 ing a new church, and other extravagances, as all 
 })arishes do. Finally it concluded to remain as it 
 was, and the choice of a pastor was made. 
 
 The events of the winter were few in number, 
 
A TALE 325 
 
 and can be easily described. The following ex- 
 tract from a scliool-girrs letter to an absent friend 
 contains the most important : — 
 
 " At school, things have gone on pretty much as 
 usual. Jane Brown has grown very pale. They 
 say she is in a consumption, but I think it is 
 because she eats so many slate-pencils. One of her 
 shoulders has grown a good deal higher than the 
 other. Billy Wilmerdings has been turned out 
 of school for playing truant. He promised his 
 mother, if she would not whip him, he would expe- 
 rience religion. I am sure I wish he would ; for 
 then he would stop looking at me through the hole 
 in the top of his desk. Mr. Churchill is a very 
 curious man. To-day he gave us this question in 
 arithmetic : ' One fifth of a hive of bees flew to the 
 Kadamba flower ; one third flew to the Silandhara ; 
 three times the difference of these two numbers 
 flew to an arbor; and one bee continued flying 
 about, attracted on each side by the fragrant Ke- 
 taki and the Malati. What was the number of 
 bees ? ' Nobody could do the sum. 
 
 " The church has been repaired, and we have a 
 new mahogany pulpit. Mr. Churchill bought the 
 old one, and had it put up in his study. What a 
 strange man he is ! A good many candidates have 
 preached for us. The only one we like is Mr. 
 Kavanagh. Arthur Kavanagh ! is not that a ro- 
 mantic name ? He is tall, very pale, with beautiful 
 black eyes and hair ! Sally — Alice Archer's *^ 
 Sally — says ' he is not a man ; he is a Thaddeus 
 of Warsaw ! ' I think he is very handsome. And 
 such sermons ! So beautifully written, so different 
 
826 KAVANAGII 
 
 from old Mr. Pendexter's ! He has been invited 
 to settle here, but he cannot come till Spring. 
 Last Sunday he preached about the ruling passion. 
 He said that once a German nobleman, when he 
 was dying, had his hunting-horn blown in his bed- 
 room, and his hounds let in, springing and howling 
 about him ; and that so it was with the ruling pas- 
 sions of men ; even around the death-bed, at the 
 well-known signal, they howled and leaped about 
 those that had fostered them ! Beautiful, is it 
 not? and so original ! He said in another sermon, 
 that disappointments feed and nourish us in the 
 desert places of life, as the ravens did the Prophet 
 in the wilderness ; and that as, in Catholic coun- 
 tries, the lamps lighted before the images of saints, 
 in narrow and dangerous streets, not only served as 
 offerings of devotion, but likewise as lights to those 
 who passed, so, in the dark and dismal streets of 
 the city of Unbelief, every good thought, word, and 
 deed of a man, not only was an offering to heaven, 
 but likewise served to light him and others on their 
 way homeward ! I have taken a good many notes 
 of Mr. Kavanagh's sermons, which you shall see 
 when you come back. 
 
 " Last week we had a sleigh-ride, with six white 
 horses. We went like the wind over the hollows 
 in the snow ; — the driver called them ' thank-you- 
 ma'ams,' because they made everybody bow. And 
 such a frantic ball as we had at Beaverstock ! I 
 wish you had been there ! We did not get home 
 till two o'clock in the morning ; and the next day 
 Hester Green's minister asked her if she did not 
 feel the fire of a certain place growing hot under 
 her feet, while she was dancing ! 
 
A TALE 327 
 
 "The new fashionable boarding-school begins 
 next week. The prospectus has been sent to our 
 house. One of the regulations is, ' Young ladies 
 are not allowed to cross their benders in school ' ! 
 Papa says he never heard knees called so before. 
 Old Mrs. Plainfield is gone at last. Just before 
 she died, her Irish chambermaid asked her if she 
 wanted to be buried with her false teeth ! There 
 has not been a single new engagement since you 
 went away. But somebody asked me the other 
 day if you were engaged to Mr. Pillsbury. I was 
 very angry. Pillsbury, indeed ! He is old enough 
 to be your father ! 
 
 " What a long, rambling letter I am writing 
 you ! — and only because you will be so naughty 
 as to stay away and leave me all alone. If you 
 could have seen the moon last night ! But what a 
 goose I am ! — as if you did not see it ! Was it 
 not glorious? You cannot imagine, dearest, how 
 every hour in the day I wish you were here with 
 me. I know you would sympathize with all my 
 feelings, which Hester does not at all. For, if I 
 admire the moon, she says I am romantic, and, for 
 her part, if there is anything she despises, it is the 
 moon ! and that she prefers a snug, warm bed (oh, 
 horrible !) to all the moons in the universe ! " 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The events mentioned in this letter were the 
 principal ones that occurred during the winter. 
 The case of Billy Wilmerdings grew quite desper- 
 ate, in vain did his father threaten and the school- 
 
328 KA VANA Gil 
 
 master expostulate ; he was only the more sullen and 
 stubborn. In vain did his mother represent to his 
 weary mind, that, if he did not study, the boys who 
 knew the dead languages would throw stones at 
 him in the street ; he only answered that he should 
 like to see them try it. Till, finally, having lost 
 many of his illusions, and having even discovered 
 that his father was not the greatest man in the 
 world, on the breaking up of the ice in the river, 
 to his own infinite relief and that of the whole 
 village, he departed on a coasting trip in a fore- 
 and-aft schooner, which constituted the entire navi- 
 gation of Fairmeadow. 
 
 Mr. Churchill had really put up in his study 
 the old white pulpit, shaped like a wine-glass. 
 It served as a play-house for his children, who, 
 whether in it or out of it, daily preached to his 
 heart, and were a living illustration of the way to 
 enter into the kingdom of heaven. Moreover, he 
 himself made use of it externally as a note-book, 
 recording his many meditations with a pencil on 
 the white panels. The following will serve as a 
 specimen of this pulpit eloquence : — 
 
 Morality without religion is only a kind of dead- 
 reckoning, — an endeavor to find our place on 
 a cloudy sea by measuring the distance we have 
 run, but without any observation of the heavenly . 
 bodies. 
 
 Many readers judge of the power of a book by 
 the shock it gives their feelings, — as some savage 
 tribes determine the power of muskets by their 
 
A TALE 329 
 
 recoil ; that being considered best which fairly 
 prostrates the purchaser. 
 
 Men of genius are often dull and inert in so- 
 ciety ; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to 
 earth, is only a stone. 
 
 The natural alone is permanent. Fantastic idols 
 may be worshipped for a while ; but at length 
 they are overturned by the continual and silent 
 progress of Truth, as the grim statues of Copan 
 have been pushed from their pedestals by the 
 growth of forest-trees, whose seeds were sown by 
 the wind in the ruined walls. 
 
 The every-day cares and duties, which men call 
 drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the 
 clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibra- 
 tion, and its hands a regular motion ; and when 
 they cease to hang upon the wheels, the pendulum 
 no longer swings, the hands no longer move, the 
 clock stands still. 
 
 The same object, seen from the three different 
 points of view, — the Past, the Present, and the 
 Future, — often exhibits three different faces to us ; 
 like those sign-boards over shop doors, which rep- 
 resent the face of a lion as we approach, of a 
 man when we are in front, and of an ass when we 
 have passed. 
 
 In character, in manners, in style, in all things, 
 the supreme excellence is simplicity. 
 
i^30 KAVANAGII 
 
 Witli many readers, brilliancy of style passes 
 for affluence of thought ; they mistake buttercups 
 in the grass for immeasurable gold mines under 
 ground. 
 
 The motives and purposes of authors are not 
 always so pure and high as, in the enthusiasm of 
 youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trum- 
 pet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them 
 home, like laborers from the field, at dinner-time ; 
 and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner. 
 
 The rays of happiness, like those of light, are 
 colorless when unbroken. 
 
 Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, 
 stationed at the corners of newspapers and re- 
 views, to challenge every new author. 
 
 The country is lyric, — the town dramatic. 
 When mingled, they make the most perfect mu- 
 sical drama. 
 
 Our passions never wholly die ; but in the last 
 cantos of life's romantic epos, they rise up again 
 and do battle, like some of Ariosto's heroes, who 
 have already been quietly interred, and ought to be 
 turned to dust. 
 
 This country is not priest-ridden, but press- 
 ridden. 
 
 Some critics have the habit of rowing up the 
 
A TALE 331 
 
 Heliconian rivers with their backs turned, so as to 
 see the landscape precisely as the poet did not see 
 it. Others see faults in a book much larger than 
 the book itself ; as Sancho Panza, with his eyes 
 blinded, beheld from his wooden horse the earth 
 no larger than a grain of mustard-seed, and the 
 men and women on it as large as hazel-nuts. 
 
 Like an inundation of the Indus is the course of 
 Time. We look for the homes of our childhood, 
 they are gone ; for the friends of our childhood, 
 they are gone. The loves and animosities of 
 youth, where are they ? Swept away like the 
 camjjs that had been pitched in the sandy bed of 
 the river. 
 
 As no saint can be canonized until the Devil's 
 Advocate has exposed all his evil deeds, and 
 showed why he should not be made a saint, so no 
 poet can take his station among the gods until the 
 critics have said all that can be said against him. 
 
 It is curious to note the old sea-margins of hu- 
 man thought ! Each subsiding century reveals 
 some new mystery ; we build where monsters used 
 to hide themselves. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 At length the Spring came, and brought the 
 birds, and the flowers, and Mr. Kavanagh, the new 
 clergyman, who was ordained with all the pomp 
 and ceremony usual on such occasions. The open- 
 
332 KAVANAGH 
 
 ing of the season furnished also the theme of his 
 first discourse, which some of the congregation 
 thought very beautiful, and others very incompre- 
 hensible. 
 
 Ah, hovtr wonderful is the advent of the Spring ! 
 — the great annual miracle of the blossoming of 
 Aaron's rod, repeated on myriads and myriads of 
 branches ! — the gentle progression and growth 
 of herbs, flowers, trees, — gentle, and yet irre- 
 pressible, — which no force can stay, no violence 
 restrain, like love, that wins its way and cannot be 
 withstood by any human power, because itself is 
 divine power. If Spring came but once a century, 
 instead of once a year, or burst forth with the 
 sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what 
 wonder and expectation would there be in all 
 hearts to behold the miraculous change! 
 
 But now the silent succession suggests nothing 
 but necessity. To most men, only the cessation of 
 the miracle would be miraculous, and the perpetual 
 exercise of God's power seems less wonderful than 
 its withdrawal would be. We are like children 
 who are astonished and delighted only by the 
 second-hand of the clock, not by the hour-hand. 
 
 Such was the train of thought with which 
 Kavanagh commenced his sermon. And then, 
 with deep solemnity and emotion, he proceeded to 
 speak of the Spring of the soul, as from its cheer- 
 less wintry distance it turns nearer and nearer to 
 the great Sun, and clothes its dry and withered 
 branches anew with leaves and blossoms, unfolded 
 from within itself, beneath the penetrating and 
 irresistible influence. 
 
A TALE 333 
 
 While delivering the discourse, Kavanagh had 
 not succeeded so entirely in abstracting himself 
 from all outward things as not to note in some 
 degree its effect upon his hearers. As in modern 
 times no applause is permitted in our churches, 
 however moved the audience may be, and, conse- 
 quently, no one dares wave his hat and shout, — 
 " Orthodox Chrysostom ! Thirteenth Apostle ! 
 Worthy the Priesthood ! " — as was done in the 
 days of the Christian Fathers ; and, moreover, as 
 no one after church spoke to him of his sermon, or 
 of anything else, he went home with rather a 
 heavy heart, and a feeling of discouragement. One 
 tiling had cheered and consoled him. It was the 
 pale countenance of a young girl, whose dark eyes 
 had been fixed upon him during the whole dis- 
 course with unflagging interest and. attention. She 
 sat alone in a pew near the pulpit. It was Alice 
 Ai'cher. Ah ! could he have known how deeply 
 sank his words into that simple heart, he might 
 have shuddered with another kind of fear than 
 that of not moving his audience sufficiently ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 On the following morning Kavanagh sat musing 
 upon his worldly affairs, and upon various little 
 household arrangements which it would be neces- 
 sary for him to make. To aid him in these, he 
 had taken up the village paper, and was running 
 over the columns of advertisements, — those nar- 
 row and crowded thoroughfares, in which the 
 wants and wishes of humanity display themselves 
 
334 KAVANAGH 
 
 like mendicants without disguise. His eye ran 
 hastily over the advantageous offers of the cheap 
 tailors and the dealers in patent medicines. He 
 wished neither to be clothed nor cured. In one 
 place he saw that a young lady, perfectly compe- 
 tent, desired to form a class of young mothers and 
 nurses, and to instruct them in the art of talking 
 to infants so as to interest and amuse them ; and 
 in another, that the firemen of Fairmeadow wished 
 well to those hostile editors who had called them 
 gamblers, drunkards, and rioters, and hoped that 
 they might be spared from that great fire which 
 they were told could never be extinguished ! 
 Finally, his eye rested on the advertisement of a 
 carpet warehouse, in which the one-price system 
 was strictly adhered to. It was farther stated that 
 a discount woidd be made " to clergymen on small 
 salaries, feeble churches, and charitable institu- 
 tions." Thinking that this was doubtless the 
 place for one who united in himself two of these 
 qualifications for a discount, with a smile on his 
 lips, he took his hat and sallied forth into the 
 street. 
 
 A few days previous, Kavanagh had discovered 
 in the tower of the church a vacant room, which 
 he had immediately determined to take possession 
 of, and to convert into a study. From this re- 
 treat, through the four oval windows, fronting the 
 four corners of the heavens, he could look down 
 upon the streets, the roofs and gardens of the vil- 
 lage, — on the winding river, the meadows, the 
 farms, the distant blue mountains. Here he could 
 sit and meditate, in that peculiar sense of seclusion 
 
A TALE 335 
 
 and spiritual elevation, that entire separation from 
 the world below, which a chamber in a tower al- 
 ways gives. Here, uninterrupted and aloof from 
 all intrusion, he could pour his heart into those 
 discourses, with which he hoped to reach and move 
 the hearts of his parishioners. 
 
 It was to furnish this retreat, that he went forth 
 on the Monday morning after his first sermon. He 
 was not long in procuring the few things needed, 
 — the carpet, the table, the chairs, the shelves for 
 books ; and was returning thoughtfully homeward, 
 when his eye was caught by a sign-board on the 
 corner of the street, inscribed " Moses Merry- 
 weather, Dealer in Singing Birds, foreign and do- 
 mestic." He saw also a whole chamber-window 
 transformed into a cage, in which sundry canary- 
 birds, and others of a gayer plumage, were jargon- 
 ing together, like peojsle in the market-places of 
 foreign towns. At the sight of these old favorites, 
 a long slumbering passion awoke within him, and 
 he straightway ascended the dark wooden stair- 
 case, with the intent of enlivening his solitary 
 room with the vivacity and songs of these captive 
 ballad-singers. 
 
 In a moment he found himself in a little room 
 hung round with cages, roof and walls ; full of 
 sunshine ; full of twitterings, cooings, and flutter- 
 ings ; full of downy odors, suggesting nests, and 
 dovecots, and distant islands inhabited only by 
 birds. The taxidermist — the Selkirk of the sunny 
 island — was not there ; but a young lady of noble 
 mien, who was looking at an English goldfinch in 
 a square cage with a portico, turned upon him, as 
 
336 KAVANAGII 
 
 he entered, a fair and beautiful face, shaded by 
 long light locks, in which the sunshine seemed en- 
 tangled, as among the boughs of trees. That face 
 he had never seen before, and yet it seemed famil- 
 iar to him ; and the added light in her large, celes- 
 tial eyes, and the almost imi^erceptible expression 
 that passed over her face, showed that she knew 
 who he was. 
 
 At the same moment the taxidermist presented 
 himself, coming from an inner room ; — a little 
 man in gray, with spectacles upon his nose, holding 
 in his hands, with wings and legs dra\vn close and 
 smoothly together, like the green husks of the 
 maize ear, a beautiful carrier-pigeon, who turned 
 uj) first one bright eye and then the other, as if ask- 
 ing, " What are you going to do with me now ? " 
 This silent inquiry was soon answered by Mr. Mer- 
 ryweather, who said to the young lady, — 
 
 " Here, Miss Vaughan, is the best carrier-pigeon 
 in my whole collection. The real Columba Ta- 
 bullaria. He is about three years old, as you can 
 see by his wattle." 
 
 " A very pretty bird," said the lady ; " and how 
 shall I train it?" 
 
 " Oh, that is very easy. You have only to keep 
 it shut up for a few days, well fed and well 
 treated. Then take it in an open cage to the 
 place you mean it to fly to, and do the same thing 
 there. Afterwards it will give yovi no trouble ; it 
 will always fly between those two places." 
 
 " That, certainly, is not very difficult. At all 
 events, I will make the trial. You may send the 
 bird home to me. On what shall I feed it ? " 
 
A TALE 337 
 
 *•' On any kind of grain ; barley and buckwheat 
 are best ; and remember to let it have a plenty of 
 gravel in the bottom of its cage." 
 
 " I will not forget. Send me the bird to-day, if 
 possible." 
 
 With these words she departed, much too soon 
 for Kavanagh, who was charmed with her form, 
 her face, her voice ; and who, when left alone with 
 the little taxidermist, felt that the momentary fas- 
 cination of the place was gone. He heard no 
 longer the singing of the birds ; he saw no longer 
 their gay plumage ; and having speedily made the 
 purchase of a canary and a cage, he likewise de- 
 parted, thinking of the carrier-pigeons of Bagdad, 
 and the columbaries of Egypt, stationed at fixed 
 intervals as relays and resting-places for the flying 
 post. With an indefinable feeling of sadness, too, 
 game wafted like a perfume through his memory 
 those tender, melancholy lines of Maria del Occi- 
 dente : — 
 
 And as the dove, to far Palmyra flying, 
 
 From where her native founts of Antioeh beam, 
 
 Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, 
 Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream ; 
 
 So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, — 
 
 Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed, — 
 
 Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing 
 
 Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Merryweather, left to himself, 
 walked about his aviary, musing, and talking to 
 his birds. Finally he paused before the tin cage 
 of a gray African parrot, between which and him- 
 seK there was a strong family likeness, and, giving 
 
338 KAVANAGH 
 
 it his finger to peck and perch upon, conversed 
 with it in that peculiar dialect with which it had 
 often made vocal the distant groves of Zanguebar. 
 He then withdrew to the inner room, where he re- 
 sumed his labor of stuffing a cardinal grossbeak, 
 saying to himself between whiles, — 
 
 " I wonder what Miss Cecilia Vaughan means 
 to do with a carrier-pigeon ! " 
 
 Some mysterious connection he had evidently 
 established already between this pigeon and Mi\ 
 Kavanagh ; for, continuing his re very, he said, 
 half aloud, — 
 
 " Of course she woidd never think of marrying 
 a poor clergyman ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The old family mansion of the Vaughans stood 
 a little out of town, in the midst of a pleasant 
 farm. The county road was not near enough to 
 annoy, and the rattling wheels and little clouds of 
 dust seemed like friendly salutations from trav- 
 ellers as they passed. They spoke of safety and 
 companionship, and took away all loneliness from 
 the solitude. 
 
 On three sides, the farm was enclosed by willow 
 and alder hedges, and the flowing wall of a river ; 
 nearer the house were groves clear of all under- 
 wood, with rocky knolls, and breezy bowers of 
 beech ; and afar off the blue hills broke the hori- 
 zon, creating secret longings for what lay beyond 
 them, and filling the mind with pleasant thoughts 
 of Prince Rasselas and the Happy Valley. 
 
A TALE 339 
 
 The house was one of the few old houses still 
 standing- in New England, — a large, square build- 
 ing, with a portico in front, whose door in Summer 
 time stood open from morning until night. A 
 pleasing stillness reigned about it, and soft gusts 
 of pine-embalmed air, and distant cawings from 
 the crow-haunted mountains, filled its airy and 
 ample halls. 
 
 In this old-fashioned house had Cecilia Vaughan 
 grown up to maidenhood. The travelling shadows 
 of the clouds on the hillsides, — the sudden Sum- 
 mer wind, that lifted the languid leaves, and rushed 
 from field to field, from grove to grove, the fore- 
 runner of the rain, — and, most of all, the myste- 
 rious mountain, whose coolness was a perpetual in- 
 vitation to her, and whose silence a perpetual fear, 
 
 — fostered her dreamy and poetic temperament. 
 Not less so did the reading of poetry and romance 
 in the long, silent, solitary winter evenings. Her 
 mother had been dead for many years, and the 
 memory of that mother had become almost a reli- 
 gion to her. She recalled it incessantly, and the 
 reverential love which it inspired completely filled 
 her soul with melancholy delight. Her father was 
 a kindly old man, a judge in one of the courts ; 
 dignified, affable, somewhat bent by his legal 
 erudition, as a shelf is by the weight of the books 
 upon it. His papers encumbered the study table, 
 
 — his law books, the study floor. They seemed 
 to shut out from his mind the lovely daughter, 
 who had grown up to womanhood by his side, but 
 almost without his recognition. Always affection- 
 ate, always indulgent, he left her to walk alone. 
 
340 KAVANAGH 
 
 without his stronger thought and firmer purpose to 
 lean upon ; and though her education had been, on 
 this account, somewhat desultory, and her imagina- 
 tion indulged in many dreams and vagaries, yet, 
 on the whole, the result had been more favorable 
 than in many cases where the process of instruction 
 has been too diligently carried on, and wliere, as 
 sometimes on the roofs of farm-houses and barns, 
 the scaffolding has been left to deform the building. 
 
 Cecilia's bosom-friend at school was Alice 
 Archer ; and, after they left school, the love be- 
 tween them, and consequently the letters, rather 
 increased than diminished. These two young 
 hearts found not only a delight, but a necessity, in 
 pouring forth their thoughts and feelings to each 
 other ; and it was to facilitate this intercommuni- 
 cation, for whose exigencies the ordinary methods 
 were now found inadequate, that the carrier-pigeon 
 had been purchased. He w^as to be the flying 
 post ; their bedrooms the dovecots, the pure and 
 friendly columbaria. 
 
 Endowed with youth, beauty, talent, fortune, 
 and, moreover, with that indefinable fascination 
 which has no name, Cecilia Vaughan was not with- 
 out lovers, avowed and unavowed ; — young men, 
 who made an ostentatious disjjlay of their affec- 
 tion ; — boys, who treasured it in their bosoms, as 
 something indescribably sweet and precious, per- 
 fuming all the chambers of the heart with its 
 celestial fragrance. Whenever she returned from 
 a visit to the city, some unknown youth of elegant 
 manners and varnished leather boots was sure to 
 hover round the village inn for a few days, — was 
 
A TALE 341 
 
 known to visit the Vauglians assiduously, and then 
 silently to disapjDear, and be seen no more. Of 
 course, nothing could he known of the secret 
 history of such individuals, but shrewd surmises 
 were formed as to their designs and their destinies ; 
 till finally, any well-di'cssed stranger, lingering in 
 the village without ostensible business, was set 
 down as " one of Miss Vaughan's lovers." 
 
 In all this, what a contrast was there between 
 the two young friends ! The wealth of one and 
 the poverty of the other were not so strikingly at 
 variance, as this affluence and refluence of love. 
 To the one, so much was given that she became re- 
 gardless of the gift ; from the other, so much with- 
 held, that, if possible, she exaggerated its impor- 
 tance. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 In addition to these transient lovers, who were 
 but birds of passage, winging their way, in an in- 
 credibly short space of time, from the torrid to the 
 frigid zone, there was in the village a domestic and 
 resident adorer, whose love for himself, for Miss 
 Vaughan, and for the beautiful, had transformed 
 his name from Hiram A. Hawkins to H. Adolphus 
 Hawkins. He was a dealer in English linens and 
 carpets — a profession which of itself fills the 
 mind with ideas of domestic comfort. His waist- 
 coats were made like Lord Melbourne's in the 
 illustrated English papers, and his shiny hair went 
 off to the left in a superb sweep, like the hand-rail 
 of a banister. He wore many rings on his fingers, 
 
342 KAVANAGH 
 
 and several breastpins and gold chains disposed 
 about his person. On all his bland physiognomy 
 was stamped, as on some of his linens, " Soft finish 
 for family use." Everything about him spoke the 
 lady's man. He was, in fact, a perfect ring-dove ; 
 and, like the rest of his species, always walked 
 up to the female, and, bowing his head, swelled 
 out his white crop, and uttered a very plaintive 
 murmur. 
 
 Moreover, Mr. H. Adolphus Hawkins was a 
 poet, — so much a poet, that, as his sister frequently 
 remarked, he " spoke blank verse in the bosom of 
 his family." The general tone of his productions 
 was sad, desponding, perhaps slightly morbid. 
 How could it be otherwise with the writings of one 
 who had never been the world's friend, nor the 
 world his ? who looked upon himself as "a pyramid 
 of mind on the dark desert of despair " ? and who, 
 at the age of twenty -five, had drunk the bitter 
 draught of life to the dregs, and dashed the goblet 
 down ? His productions were published in the 
 Poet's Corner of the Fairm6adow Advertiser, and 
 it was a relief to know, that, in private life, as his 
 sister remarked, he was " by no means the censo- 
 rious and moody person some of his writings might 
 imply." 
 
 Such was the personage who assumed to himself 
 the perilous position of Miss Vaughan's permanent 
 lover. He imagined that it was impossible for 
 any woman to look upon him and not love him. 
 Accordingly, he paraded himself at his shop-door 
 as she passed ; he paraded himself at the corners 
 of the streets ; he paraded himself at the church. 
 
A TALE 843 
 
 steps on Sunday. He spied her from the window •, 
 he sallied from the door ; he followed her with his 
 eyes ; he followed her with his whole august per- 
 son ; he passed her and repassed her, and turned 
 back to gaze ; he lay in wait with dejected counte- 
 nance and desponding- air ; he persecuted her with 
 his looks ; he pretended that their souls could 
 comprehend each other without words ; and when- 
 ever her lovers were alluded to in his presence, he 
 gravely declared, as one who had reason to know, 
 that, if Miss Vaughan ever married, it would be 
 some one of gigantic intellect ! 
 
 Of these persecutions Cecilia was for a long 
 time the unconscious victim. She saw this indi- 
 vidual, with rings and strange waistcoats, perform- 
 ing his gyrations before her, but did not suspect 
 that she was the centre of attraction, — not imag- 
 ining that any man would begin his wooing with 
 such outrages. Gradually the truth dawned upon 
 her, and became the source of indescribable annoy- 
 ance, which was augmented by a series of anony- 
 mous letters, written in a female hand, and setting 
 forth the excellences of a certain mysterious rela- 
 tive, — his modesty, his reserve, his extreme deli- 
 cacy, his talent for poetry, — rendered authentic 
 by extracts from his papers, made, of course, with- 
 out the slightest knowledge or suspicion on his 
 part. Whence came these sibylline leaves ? At 
 fii"st Cecilia could not divine ; but, erelong, her 
 woman's instinct traced them to the thin and ner- 
 vous hand of the poet's sister. This surmise was 
 confirmed by her maid, who asked the boy that 
 broueht them. 
 
344 AM VANAGir 
 
 It was with one of these missives in her hand 
 that Cecilia entered Mrs. Archer's house, after pur- 
 chasing the carrier-pigeon. Unannounced she en- 
 tei'ed, and walked up the narrow and imjierfectly 
 lighted stairs to Alice's bedroom, — that little 
 sanctuary draped with white, — that columbarium 
 lined with warmth, and softness, and silence. Alice 
 was not there ; but the chair by the window, the 
 open volume of Tennyson's poems on the table, the 
 note to Cecilia by its side, and the ink not yet dry 
 in the pen, were like the vibration of a bough, when 
 the bird has just left it, — like the rising of the 
 grass, when the foot has just pressed it. In a mo- 
 ment she returned. She had been down to her 
 mother, who sat talking, talking, talking, with an 
 old friend in the parlor below, even as these young 
 friends were talking together, in the bedroom 
 above. Ah, how different were their themes ! 
 Death and Love, — apples of Sodom, that crum- 
 ble to ashes at a touch, — golden fruits of the 
 Hesperides, — golden fruits of Paradise, fragrant, 
 ambrosial, perennial ! 
 
 " I have just been writing to you," said Alice ; 
 " I wanted so much to see you this morning ! " 
 
 " Why this morning in particular ? Has any- 
 thing happened ? " 
 
 " Nothing, only I had such a longing to see 
 
 you!" 
 
 And, seating herself in a low chair by Cecilia's 
 side, she laid her head upon the shoulder of her 
 friend, who, taking one of her pale, thin hands in 
 both her own, silently kissed her forehead again 
 and again. 
 
A TALE 345 
 
 Aliee was not aware, that, in the words she ut- 
 tered, there was the slightest shadow of untruth. 
 And yet had nothing happened ? Was it nothing, 
 that among her thoughts a new thought had risen, 
 like a star, whose pale effulgence, mingled with the 
 common daylight, was not yet distinctly visible 
 even to herself, but would grow brighter as the 
 sun grew lower, and the rosy twilight darker? 
 Was it nothing, that a new fountain of affection 
 had suddenly sprung up within her, which she mis- 
 took for the freshening and overflowing of the old 
 fountain of friendship, that hitherto had kept the 
 lowland landscape of her life so green, but now, 
 being flooded by more affection, was not to cease, 
 but only to disappear in the greater tide, and flow 
 unseen beneath it ? Yet so it was ; and this 
 stronger yearning — this unappeasable desire for 
 her friend — was only the tumultuous swelling of 
 a heart, that as yet knows not its own secret. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you, Cecilia ! " she con- 
 tinued. " You are so beautiful ! I love so much 
 to sit and look at you ! Ah, how I wish Heaven 
 had made me as tall, and strong, and beautiful as 
 
 you are 
 
 "■ You little flatterer ! What an affectionate, 
 lover-like friend you are ! What have you been 
 doins: all the mornine: ? " 
 
 " Looking out of the window, thinking of you, 
 and writing you this letter, to beg you to come and 
 see me." 
 
 " And I have been buying a carrier-pigeon, to fly 
 between us, and carry all our letters." 
 
 " That wiU be delightful." 
 
346 KAVANAGH 
 
 " lie is to be sent home to-day ; and after he 
 gets accustomed to my room, I shall send him 
 here, to get acquainted with yours ; — an lachimo 
 in my Imogen's bedchamber, to spy out its se- 
 crets." 
 
 " I£ he sees Cleopatra in these white curtains, 
 and silver Cupids in these andirons, he will have 
 your imagination." 
 
 " He w'ill see the book with the leaf turned down, 
 and you asleep, and tell me all about you." 
 
 " A carrier-pigeon ! What a charming idea ! 
 and how like you to think of it ! " 
 
 " But to-day I have been obliged to bring my 
 own letters. I have some more sibylline leaves 
 from my anonymous correspondent, in laud and 
 exaltation of her modest relative, who speaks blank 
 verse in the bosom of his family. I have brought 
 them to read you some extracts, and to take your 
 advice ; for, really and seriously, this must be 
 stopped. It has grown too annoying." 
 
 " How much love you have offered you ! " said 
 Alice, sighing. 
 
 " Yes, quite too much of this kind. On my 
 way here, I saw the modest relative, standing at 
 the corner of the street, hanging his head in this 
 way." 
 
 And she imitated the melancholy Hiram Adol- 
 phus, and the young friends laughed. 
 
 " I hope you did not notice him ? " resumed 
 Alice. 
 
 " Certainly not. But what do you suppose he 
 did ? As soon as he saw me, he began to walk 
 backward down the street only a short distance in 
 
A TALE 347 
 
 front of me, staring at me most impertinently. 
 Of course, I took no notice of this strange con- 
 duct. I felt myself blushing to the eyes with in- 
 dignation, and yet could hardly suppress my desire 
 to laugh." 
 
 " If you had laughed, he would have taken it 
 for an encouragement, and I have no doubt it 
 would have brought on the catastroj^he." 
 
 " And that would have ended the matter. I half 
 wish I had laughed." 
 
 " But think of the immortal glory of marrying 
 a poet ! " 
 
 " And of inscribing on my cards, Mrs. H. Adol- 
 phus Hawkins ! " 
 
 " A few days ago, I went to buy something at 
 his shop ; and, leaning over the counter, he asked 
 me if I had seen the sun set the evening before, — 
 adding, that it was gorgeous, and that the grass and 
 trees were of a beautiful Paris green ! " 
 
 And again the young friends gave way to their 
 mirth. 
 
 " One thing, dear. Alice, you must consent to do 
 for me. You must write to Miss Martha Amelia, 
 the author of all these epistles, and tell her very 
 plainly how indelicate her conduct is, and how 
 utterly useless all such proceedings will prove in 
 effecting her purpose." 
 
 " I will write this very day. You shall be no 
 longer persecuted." 
 
 " And now let me give you a few extracts from 
 these wonderful epistles." 
 
 So saying, Cecilia drew forth a small package 
 of three-cornered billets, tied with a bit of pink 
 
348 KAVANAGH 
 
 ribbon. Taking one of them at random, she was 
 on the point of beginning, but paused, as if her 
 attention had been attracted by something out of 
 doors. The sound of passing footsteps was heard 
 on the gravel walk. 
 
 *' There goes Mr. Kavanagh," said she, in a half= 
 whisper. 
 
 Alice rose suddenly from her low chair at 
 Cecilia's side, and the young friends looked from 
 the window to see the clergyman pass. 
 
 " How handsome he is ! " said Alice, involun- 
 tarily. 
 
 " He is, indeed." 
 
 At that moment Alice started back from tho 
 window. Kavanagh had looked up in passing, as 
 if his eye had been drawn by some secret mag- 
 netism. A bright color flushed the cheek of 
 Alice ; her eyes fell, but Cecilia continued to look 
 steadily into the street. Kavanagh passed on, and 
 in a few moments was out of sight. 
 
 The two friends stood silent, side by side. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Arthur Kavanagh was descended from an an- 
 cient Catholic family. His ancestors had pur- 
 chased from the Baron Victor of St. Castine a 
 portion of his vast estates, lying upon that wild 
 and wonderful sea-coast of Maine, which, even 
 upon the map, attracts the eye by its singular and 
 picturesque indentations, and fills the heart of the 
 beholder with something of that delight which 
 throbbed in the veins of Pierre du Gast, when, 
 
A TALE 349 
 
 with a royal charter of the land from the Atlantic 
 to the Pacific, he sailed down the coast in all the 
 pride of one who is to be prince of such a vast 
 domain. Here, in the bosom of the solemn for- 
 ests, they continued the practice of that faith 
 which had first been planted there by Rasle and 
 St. Castine ; and the little church where they wor- 
 shipped is still standing, though now as closed and 
 silent as the graves which surround it, and in 
 which the dust of the Kavanaghs lies buried. 
 
 In these solitudes, in this faith, was Kavanagh 
 born, and grew to childhood, a feeble, delicate boy, 
 watched over by a grave and taciturn father, and 
 a mother who looked ujion him with infinite ten- 
 derness, as upon a treasure she should not long 
 retain. She walked with him by the seaside, and 
 spake to him of God, and the mysterious majesty 
 of the ocean, with its tides and tempests. She sat 
 with him on the carpet of golden threads beneath 
 the aromatic pines, and, as the perpetual melan- 
 choly sound ran along the rattling boughs, his soul 
 seemed to rise and fall, with a motion and a 
 whisper like those in the branches over him. She 
 taught him his letters from the Lives of the 
 Saints, — a volume full of wondrous legends, and 
 illustrated with engravings from pictures by the 
 old masters, which opened to him at once the 
 world of spirits and the world of art ; and both 
 were beautiful. She explained to him the pic- 
 tures ; she read to him the legends, — the lives of 
 holy men and women, full of faith and good works, 
 — things which ever afterward remained associ- 
 ated together in his mind. Thus holiness of life, 
 
350 KAVANAGH 
 
 and self-renunciation, and devotion to duty, were 
 early inii)re.ssed upon his soul. To his quick im- 
 agination, the spii'itual world became real ; the 
 holy company of the saints stood round about the 
 solitary boy ; his guardian angels led him by the 
 hand by day, and sat by his pillow at night. At 
 times, even, he wished to die, that he might see 
 them and talk with them, and return no more to 
 his weak and weary body. 
 
 Of all the legends of the mysterious book, that 
 which most delighted and most deeply impressed 
 him was the legend of St. Christopher. The pic- 
 ture was from a painting of Paolo Farinato, repre- 
 senting a figure of gigantic strength and stature, 
 leaning upon a staff, and bearing the infant Christ 
 on his bending shoulders across the rushing river. 
 The legend related, that St. Christopher, being of 
 huge proportions and immense strength, wandered 
 long about the world before his conversion, seeking 
 for the greatest king, and willing to obey no other. 
 After serving various masters, whom he in turn 
 deserted, because each recognized by some word 
 or sign another greater than himself, he heard by 
 chance of Christ, the king of heaven and earth, 
 and asked of a holy hermit where he might be 
 found, and how he might serve him. The hermit 
 told him he must fast and pray, but the giant re- 
 plied that if he fasted he should lose his strength, 
 and that he did not know how to pray. Then the 
 hermit told him to take up his abode on the banks 
 of a dangerous mountain torrent, where travellers 
 were often drowned in crossing, and to rescue any 
 that might be in peril. The giant obeyed, and tear- 
 
A TALE 351 
 
 ing up a palm-tree by the roots for a staff, lie took 
 his station by the river's side, and saved many 
 lives. And the Lord looked down from heaven 
 and said, " Behold this strong man, who knows not 
 yet the way to worship, but has found the way to 
 serve me ! " And one night he heard the voice of 
 a child, crying in the darkness and saying, " Chris- 
 topher ! come and bear me over the river ! " And 
 he went out, and found the child sitting alone on 
 the margin of the stream ; and taking him upon 
 his shoulders, he waded into tlie water. Then the 
 wind began to roar, and the waves to rise higher 
 and higher about him, and his little burden, which 
 at first had seemed so light, grew heavier and 
 heavier as he advanced, and bent his huge shoul- 
 ders down, and put his life in perU ; so that, when 
 he reached the shore, he said, " Who art thou, O 
 child, that hast weighed upon me with a weight, as 
 if I had borne the whole world upon my shoul- 
 ders ? " And the little child answered, " Thou 
 hast borne the whole world upon thy shoulders, 
 and Him who created it. I am Christ, whom 
 thou by thy deeds of charity wouldst serve. Thou 
 and thy service are accepted. Plant thy staff 
 in the ground, and it shall blossom and bear 
 fruit ! " With these words, the child vanished 
 away» 
 
 There was something in this beautiful legend 
 that entirely captivated the heart of the boy, and 
 a vague sense of its hidden meaning seemed at 
 times to seize him and control him. Later in life 
 it became more and more evident to him, and re- 
 mained forever in his mind as a lovely allegory of 
 
^y 
 
 352 KA VAN A Gil 
 
 active charity and a williu^ess to serve. Like the 
 giant's staff, it blossomed and bore fruit. 
 
 But the time at length came, when his father de- 
 creetl that he must be sent away to school. It vras 
 not meet that his son should be educated as a girl. 
 He must go to the Jesuit college in Canada. Ac- 
 cordingly, one bright summer morning, he de- 
 parted with his father, on horseback, through those 
 majestic forests that stretch with almost unbroken 
 shadows from the sea to the St. Lawrence, leaving 
 behind him all the endearments of home, and a 
 wound in his uiother's heart that never ceased to 
 ache, — a longing, unsatisfied and insatiable, for 
 her absent Arthur, who had gone from her per- 
 haps forever. 
 
 At college he distinguished himself by his zeal 
 for study, by the docilit}^, gentleness, and gen- 
 erosity of Ills nature. There he was thoroughly 
 trained in the classics, and in the dogmas of that 
 laugust faith, whose turrets gleam with such crys- 
 talline light, and whose dungeons are so deep, and 
 dark, and terrible. The study of philosophy and 
 theology was congenial to his mind. Indeed, he 
 often laid aside Homer for Parmenides, and turned 
 from the odes of Pindar and Horace to the mystic 
 hymns of Cleanthes and Synesius. 
 
 The uniformity of college life was broken only 
 by the annual visit home in the summer vacation ; 
 the joyous meeting, the bitter parting ; the long 
 journey to and fro through the grand, solitary, 
 mysterious forest. To his mother these visits were 
 even more precious than to himself ; for ever more 
 and more they added to her boundless affectiou 
 
A TALE 863 
 
 the feeling of pride and confidence and satisfac- 
 tion, — the joy and beauty of a youth unspotted 
 from the workl, and glowing with the enthusiasm 
 of virtue. 
 
 At length his college days were ended. He re- 
 turned home full of youth, full of joy and hope ; 
 but it was only to receive the dying blessings of 
 his mother, who expired in peace, having seen his 
 face once more. Then the house became empty to 
 him. Solitary was the sea-shore, solitary were the 
 woodland walks. But the sjiiritual world seemed 
 nearer and more real. For affairs he had no apti- 
 tude ; and he betook himself again to his philo- 
 sophic and theological studies. He pondered with 
 fond enthusiasm on the rapturous pages of Moli- 
 nos and Madame Guyon ; and in a spirit akin to 
 that which wrote, he read the writings of Santa 
 Theresa, which he found among his mother's books, 
 — the Meditations, the Road to Perfection, and 
 the Moradas, or Castle of the Soul. She, too, had 
 lingered over those pages with delight, and there 
 were many passages marked by her own hand. 
 Among them was this, which he often repeated to 
 himself in his lonely walks : " O Life, Life ! how 
 canst thou sustain thyself, being absent from thy 
 Life ? In so great a solitude, in what shalt thou 
 employ thyself? What shalt thou do, since all 
 thy deeds are faulty and imperfect ? " 
 
 In such meditations passed many weeks and 
 months. But mingled with them, continually and 
 ever with more distinctness, arose in his memory 
 from the days of childhood the old tradition of 
 Bt. Christopher, — the beautiful allegory of hu- 
 
354 KAVANAGH 
 
 mility and labor. lie and his service had been 
 accepted, though he woukl not fast, and had not 
 learned to pray ! It became more and more clear 
 to him, that the life of man consists not in seeing 
 visions, and in dreaming dreams, but in active 
 charity and willing service. 
 
 Moreover, the study of ecclesiastical history 
 awoke within him many strange and dubious 
 thoughts. The books tauji^ht him more than their 
 writers meant to teach. It was impossible to read 
 of Athanasius without reading also of Arius ; it 
 was impossible to hear of Calvin without hearing 
 of Servetus. Reason began more energetically to 
 vindicate itself ; that Reason, which is a light in 
 darkness, not that which is " a thorn in Revela- 
 tion's side." The search after Truth and Freedom, 
 both intellectual and spiritual, became a passion in 
 his soul, and he pursued it until he had left far 
 behind him manj^ dusky dogmas, many antique su- 
 perstitions, many time-honored observances, which 
 the lips of her alone, who first taught them to him 
 in his childhood, had invested \vith solemnity and 
 sanctity. 
 
 By slow degrees, and not by violent spiritual 
 conflicts, he became a Protestant. He had but 
 passed from one chapel to another in the same vast 
 cathedral. He was still beneath the same ample 
 roof, still heard the same divine service chanted in 
 a different dialect of the same universal language. 
 Out of his old faith he brought with him all he 
 had found in it that was holy and pure and of 
 good report. Not its bigotry, and fanaticism, 
 and intolerance ; but its zeal, its self-devotion, its 
 
A TALE 355 
 
 heavenly aspirations, its human sympathies, its 
 endless deeds of charity. Not till after his fa- 
 ther's death, however, did he become a clergyman. 
 Then his vocation was manifest to him. lie no 
 longer hesitated, but entered ujDon its many duties 
 and responsibilities, its many trials and discour- 
 agements, with the zeal of Peter and the gentle- 
 ness of John. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A week later, and Kavanagh was installed in 
 his little room in the church-tower. A week later, 
 and the carrier-pigeon was on the wing. A week 
 later, and Martha Amelia's anonymous epistolary 
 eulogies of her relative had ceased forever. 
 
 Swiftly and silently the summer advanced, and 
 the following announcement in the Fairmeadow 
 .Advertiser proclaimed the hot weather and its al- 
 leviations : — 
 
 " I have the pleasure of announcing to the La- 
 dies and Gentlemen of Fairmeadow and its vicin- 
 ity, that my Bath House is now completed, and 
 ready for the reception of those who are disposed 
 to regale themselves in a luxury peculiar to the 
 once polished Greek and noble Roman. 
 
 " To the Ladies I wiU say, that Tuesday of each 
 week wiU be appropriated to their exclusive ben- 
 efit ; the white flag will be the signal ; and I as- 
 sure the Ladies, that due respect shall be scrupu- 
 lously observed, and that they shall be guarded 
 from each vagTant foot and each licentious eye. 
 
 "Edward Dbiple." 
 
356 KAVANAGH 
 
 Moreover, the village was enlivened by the usual 
 travelling" shows, — the wax- work figures repre- 
 senting Eliza Wharton and the Salem Tragedy, to 
 which clergymen and their families were " respect- 
 fully invited, free on presenting their cards " ; a 
 stuffed shark, that had eaten the exhibitor's father 
 in Lynn Bay ; the menagerie, with its loud music 
 and its roars of rage ; the circus, with its tan and 
 tinsel, — its faded Columbine and melancholy 
 Clown ; and, finally, the standard drama, in which 
 Elder Evans, like an ancient Spanish Bululii, im- 
 personated all the principal male characters, and 
 was particularly imposing in lago and the Moor, 
 having half his face lamp-blacked, and turning 
 now the luminous, now the eclipsed side to the au- 
 dience, as the exigencies of the dialogue demanded. 
 
 There was also a great Temjaerance Jubilee, 
 with a procession, in which was conspicuous a 
 large horse, whose shaven tail was adorned with 
 gay ribbons, and whose rider bore a banner with 
 the device, " Shaved in the Cause ! " Moreover, 
 the Grand Junction Railroad was opened through 
 the town, running in one direction to the city, and 
 in the other into unknown northern regions, 
 stringing the white villages like pearls upon its 
 black thread. By this, the town lost much of its 
 rural quiet and seclusion. The inhabitants be- 
 came restless and ambitious. They were in con- 
 stant excitement and alarm, like children in story- 
 books hidden away somewhere by an ogre, who 
 visits them regularly every day and night, and oc- 
 casionally devours one of them for a meal. 
 
 Nevertheless, most of the inhabitants considered 
 
A TALE 357 
 
 the railroad a great advantage to the village. 
 Several ladies were heard to say that Fairmeadow 
 had grown quite metropolitan ; and Mrs. Wilmer- 
 dings, who suffered under a chronic suspension of 
 the mental faculties, had a vague notion, probably- 
 connected with the profession of her son, that it 
 was soon to become a seaport. 
 
 In the fields and woods, meanwhile, there were 
 other signs and signals of the summer. The dark- 
 ening foliage ; the embrowning grain ; the golden 
 dragon-fly haunting the blackberry-bushes ; the 
 cawing crows, that looked down from the moun- 
 tain on the cornfield, and waited day after day for 
 the scarecrow to finish his work and depart ; and 
 the smoke of far-oif burning woods, that pervaded 
 the air and hung in purple haze about the summits 
 of the mountains, — these were the vaunt-couriers 
 and attendants of the hot August. 
 
 Kavanagh had now completed the first great 
 cycle of parochial visits. He had seen the Vaugh- 
 ans, the Archers, the Churchills, and also the 
 Hawkinses and the Wilmerdingses, and many 
 more. With Mr. Churchill he had become inti- 
 mate. They had many points of contact and sym- 
 pathy. They walked together on leisure after- 
 noons ; they sat together through long summer 
 evenings ; they discoursed with friendly zeal on 
 various topics of literature, religion, and morals. 
 
 Moreover, he worked assiduously at his sermons. 
 He preached the doctrines of Christ. He preached 
 holiness, self-denial, love ; and his hearers remarked 
 that he almost invariably took his texts from the 
 Evangelists, as much as possible from the words of 
 
 i/ 
 
358 KAVANAGH 
 
 Christ, and seldom from Paul, or the Old Testa- 
 ment. He did not so much denounce vice, as in- 
 culcate virtue ; he did not deny, but affirm ; he did 
 not lacerate the hearts of his hearers with doubt 
 and disbelief, but consoled, and comforted, and 
 healed them with faith. 
 l_ The only danger was that he might advance too 
 far, and leave his congregation behind him ; as a 
 piping shepherd, who, charmed with his own music, 
 walks over the flowery mead, not perceiving that 
 his tardy flock is lingering far behind, more intent 
 upon cropping the thymy food around them, than 
 upon listening to the celestial harmonies that are 
 gradually dying away in the distance. 
 
 His words were always kindly ; he brought no 
 railing accusation against any man ; he dealt in 
 no exaggerations nor over-statements. But while 
 he was gentle, he was firm. He did not refrain 
 from reprobating intemperance because one of his 
 deacons owned a distillery ; nor war, because an- 
 other had a contract for supplying the army with 
 muskets ; nor slavery, because one of the great 
 men of the village slammed his pew-door, and left 
 the church with a grand air, as much as to say, 
 that all that sort of thing would not do, and the 
 clergy had better confine themselves to abusing 
 the sins of the Hindoos, and let our domestic in- 
 stitutions alone. 
 
 In affairs ecclesiastical he had not suggested 
 many changes. One that he had much at heart 
 was, that the partition wall between parish and 
 church should be quietly taken down, so that all 
 should sit together at the Supper of the Lord. He 
 
A TALE 359 
 
 also desired that the organist should relinquish 
 the old and pernicious habit of preluding with tri- 
 umphal marches, and running his fingers at random 
 over the keys of his instrument, playing scraps of 
 secular music very slowly to make them sacred, 
 and substitute instead some of the beautiful sym- , 
 phonies of Pergolesi, Palestrina, and Sebastian j 
 Bach. 
 
 He held that sacred melodies were becoming to 
 sacred themes ; and did not wish, that, in his 
 church, as in some of the French Canadian 
 churches, the holy profession of religion should be 
 sune: to the air of " When one is dead 't is for a 
 long time," — the commandments, aspirations for 
 heaven, and the necessity of thinking of one's sal- 
 vation, to " The Follies of Spain," " Louisa was 
 sleeping in a grove," or a grand " March of the 
 French Cavalry." 
 
 The study in the tower was delightful. There 
 sat the young apostle, and meditated the great de- 
 sign and purpose of his life, the removal of all 
 prejudice, and uncharitableness, and persecution, 
 and the union of all sects into one church univer- 
 sal. Sects themselves he woidd not destroy, but \ /»_ 
 sectarianism ; for sects were to him only as sepa- -' 
 rate converging roads, leading all to the same ce- 
 lestial city of peace. As he sat alone, and thought 
 of these things, he heard the great bell boom above 
 him, and remembered the ages when in all Chris- 
 tendom there was but one Church ; when bells 
 were anointed, baptized, and prayed for, that, 
 wheresoever those holy bells should sound, all de- 
 ceits of Satan, all danger of whirlwinds, thunders, 
 
360 KAVANAGII 
 
 Hglitnlngs, and tempests might be driven away, — ■ 
 that devotion might increase in every Christian 
 when he heard them, — and that the Lord would 
 sanctify them with his Holy Spirit, and infuse into 
 them the heavenly dew of the Holy Ghost. He 
 thought of the great bell Guthlac, which an abbot 
 of Croyland gave to his monastery, and of the six 
 others given by his successor, — so musical, that, 
 when they all rang together, as Ingulphus affirms, 
 there was no ringing in England equal to it. As 
 he listened, the bell seemed to breathe upon the air 
 such clangorous sentences as, 
 
 Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum, 
 Defuiietos ploro, nimbum fugo, festaque honoro. 
 
 Possibly, also, at times, it interrupted his studies 
 and meditations with other words than these. 
 Possibly it sang into his ears, as did the bells of 
 Varennes into the ears of Panurge, — " Marry 
 thee, marry thee, marry, marry ; if thou shouldst 
 marry, marry, marry, thou shalt find good therein, 
 therein, therein, so marry, marry." 
 
 From this tower of contemplation he looked 
 down with mingled emotions of joy and sorrow on 
 the toiling world below. The wide prospect seemed 
 to enlarge his sympathies and his charities, and 
 he often thought of the words of Plato : " When 
 we consider human life, we should view as from a 
 high tower all things terrestrial ; such as herds, 
 armies, men employed in agriculture, in marriages, 
 divorces, births, deaths ; the tumults of courts of 
 justice ; desolate lands ; various barbarous nations ; 
 feasts, wailings, markets ; a medley of all things, 
 in a system adorned by contrarieties." 
 
A TALE 361 
 
 On the outside of the door Kavanagh had writ- 
 ten the vigorous line of Dante, 
 
 Think that To-day will never dawn again ! 
 
 that it might always serve as a salutation and 
 memento to him as he entered. On the inside, 
 the no less striking lines of a more modern bard, — - 
 
 Lose this day loitering, 't wUl be the same story 
 To-morrow, and the next more dilatory ; 
 For indecision brings its own delays, 
 And days are lost, lamenting o'er lost days. 
 Are you in earnest ? Seize tliis very minute ! 
 What you can do or think you can, begin it ! 
 Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it ! 
 Only engage, and then the mind grows heated : 
 Begin it, and the work will be completed. 
 
 Once, as he sat in this retreat near noon, enjoy- 
 ing the silence, and the fresh air that visited him 
 through the oval windows, his attention was ar- 
 rested by a cloud of dust, rolling along the road, 
 out of which soon emerged a white horse, and then 
 a very singular, round-shouldered, old-fashioned 
 chaise, containing an elderly couple, both in black. 
 What particularly struck him was the gait of the 
 horse, who had a very disdainful fling to his hind 
 legs. The slow equipage passed, and would have 
 been forever forgotten, had not Kavanagh seen it 
 again at sunset, stationary at Mr. Churchill's door, 
 towards which he was directing his steps. 
 
 As he entered, he met Mr. Churchill, just taking 
 leave of an elderly lady and gentleman in black, 
 whom he recognized as the travellers in the old 
 chaise. Mr. Churchill looked a little flushed and 
 disturbed, and bade his guests farewell with a con- 
 strained air. On seeing Kavanagh, he saluted 
 
362 KAVANAGH 
 
 him, and called him by name ; whereupon the lady 
 pursed uj) her mouth, and, after a quick glance, 
 turned away her face ; and the gentleman passed 
 with a lofty look, in which curiosity, reproof, and 
 pious indignation were strangely mingled. They 
 got into the chaise, with some such feelings as 
 Noah and his wife may be supposed to have had 
 on entering the ark ; the whip descended upon the 
 old horse with unusual vigor, accompanied by a 
 jerk of the reins that caused him to say within 
 himself, " What is the matter now ? " He then 
 moved off at his usual pace, and with that peculiar 
 motion of the hind legs which Kavanagh had per- 
 ceived in the morning. 
 
 Kavanagh found his friend not a little disturbed, 
 and evidently by the conversation of the departed 
 guests. 
 
 " That old gentleman," said Mr. Churchill, " is 
 your predecessor, Mr. Pendexter. He thinks we 
 are in a bad way since he left us. He considers 
 your liberality as nothing better than rank Arian- 
 ism and infidelity. The fact is, the old gentleman 
 is a little soured ; the vinous fermentation in 
 his veins is now over, and the acetous has com- 
 menced." 
 
 Kavanagh smiled, but made no answer. 
 
 " I, of course, defended you stoutly," continued 
 Mr. Churchill ; " but if he goes about the village 
 sowing such seed, there will be tares growing with 
 the wheat." 
 
 " I have no fears," said Kavanagh, very quietly. 
 
 Mr. Churchill's apprehensions were not, how- 
 ever, gTOundless ; for in the course of the week it 
 
A TALE 363 
 
 came out that doubts, surmises, and suspicions of 
 Kavanagh's orthodoxy were sj^ringing up in many- 
 weak but worthy minds. And it was ever after 
 observed, that, whenever that fatal, apocalyptic 
 white horse and antediluvian chaise appeared in 
 town, many parishioners were harassed with doubts 
 and perplexed with theological difficulties and un- 
 certainties. 
 
 Nevertheless, the main current of opinion was 
 with him ; and the parish showed their grateful 
 acknowledgment of his zeal and sympathy, by re- 
 questing him to sit for his portrait to a great artist 
 from the city, who was passing the summer months 
 in the village for recreation, using his pencil only 
 on rarest occasions and as a particular favor. To 
 this martyrdom the meek Kavanagh submitted 
 without a murmur. During the progress of this 
 work of art, he was seldom left alone ; some one 
 of his parishioners was there to enliven him ; and 
 most frequently it was Miss Martha Amelia Haw^ 
 kins, who had become very devout of late, being 
 zealous in the Sunday School, and requesting her 
 relative not to walk between churches any more. 
 She took a very lively interest in the portrait, and 
 favored with many suggestions the distinguished 
 artist, who found it difficult to obtain an expression 
 which would satisfy the parish, some wishing to 
 have it grave, if not severe, and others with " Mr. 
 Kavanagh's peculiar smile." Kavanagh himself 
 was quite indifferent about the matter, and met 
 his fate with Christian fortitude, in a white cravat 
 and sacerdotal robes, with one hand hanging down 
 from the back of his chair, and the other holding 
 
364 HAVANA Gil 
 
 a large book with the fore-finger between its leaves, 
 reminding Mr. Churchill of Milo with his fingers 
 in the oak. The expression of tho face was exceed- 
 ingly bland and resigned ; perhaps a little wanting 
 in strength, biit on the whole satisfactory to the 
 parish. So was the artist's price ; nay, it was even 
 held by some persons to be cheap, considering the 
 quantity of background he had put in. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Meanwhile, things had gone on very quietly and 
 monotonously in Mr. Churchill's family. Only one 
 event, and that a mysterious one, had disturbed 
 its serenity. It was the sudden disappearance of 
 Lucy, the pretty orphan girl ; and, as the booted 
 centipede, who had so much excited Mr. Church- 
 ill's curiosity, disappeared at the same time, there 
 was little doubt that they had gone away together. 
 But whither gone, and wherefore, remained a mys- 
 tery. 
 
 Mr. Churchill, also, had had his profile, and 
 those of his wife and children, taken, in a very 
 humble style, by Mr. Bantam, whose advertisement 
 he had noticed on his way to school nearly a year 
 before. His own was considered the best, as a 
 work of art. The face was cut out entirely ; the 
 collar of the coat velvet ; the shirt-collar very high 
 and white ; and the top of his head ornamented 
 with a crest of hair turning up in front, though 
 his own turned down, — which slight deviation 
 from nature was explained and justified by the 
 painter as a license allowable in art. 
 
A TALE 365 
 
 One evening, as he was sitting down to begin, 
 for at least the hundredth time, the great Romance, 
 
 — subject of so many resolves and so much re- 
 morse, so often determined upon but never begun, 
 
 — a loud knock at the street-door, which stood 
 wide open, announced a visitor. Unluckily, the 
 study-door was likewise open ; and consequently, 
 being in full view, he found it impossible to refuse 
 himself ; nor, in fact, would he have done so, had 
 all the doors been shut and bolted, — the art of 
 refusing one's self being at that time but imper- 
 fectly understood in Fairmeadow. Accordingly, 
 the visitor was shown in. 
 
 He announced himself as Mr. Hathaway. Pass- 
 ing through the village, he could not deny himself 
 the pleasure of calling on Mr. Churchill, whom he 
 knew by his writings in the periodicals, though not 
 personally. He wished, moreover, to secure the 
 cooperation of one, already so favorably known to 
 the literary world, in a new Magazine he was about 
 to establish, in order to raise the character of 
 American literature, which, in his opinion, the ex- 
 isting reviews and magazines had entirely failed to 
 accomplish. A daily increasing want of some- 
 thing better was felt by the public, and the time 
 had come for the establishment of such a periodical 
 as he proposed. After explaining, in rather a 
 florid and exuberant manner, his plan and pros- 
 pects, he entered more at large into the subject of 
 American literature, which it was his design to 
 foster and patronize. 
 
 "I think, Mr. Churchill," said he, "that we 
 want a national literature commensurate with our 
 
366 KAVANAGH 
 
 mountains and rivers, — commensurate with Niag- 
 ara, and the Alleghanies, and the Great Lakes! " 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " We want a national epic that shall corre- 
 spond to the size of the country ; that shall be to 
 all other epics what Banvard's Panorama of the 
 jNlississippi is to all other paintings, — the largest 
 in the world I " 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " We want a national drama in which scope 
 enough shall be given to our gigantic ideas, and 
 to the unparalleled activity and progress of our 
 people ! " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 *' In a word, we want a national literature alto- 
 gether shaggy and unshorn, that shall shake the 
 earth, like a herd of buffaloes thundering over the 
 prairies ! " 
 
 " Precisely," interrupted Mr. Churchill ; " but 
 excuse me ! — are you not confounding things that 
 have no analogy ? Great has a very different 
 meaning when applied to a river, and when applied 
 to a literature. Large and shallow may perhaps 
 be applied to both. Literature is rather an image 
 of the spiritual world, than of the physical, is it 
 not ? — of the internal, rather than the external. 
 Mountains, lakes, and rivers are, after all, only its 
 scenery and decorations, not its substance and es- 
 sence. A man will not necessarily be a great poet 
 because he lives near a great mountain. Nor, be- 
 ing a poet, will he necessarily write better poems 
 than another, because he lives nearer Niagara." 
 
 " But, ]SIr. Churchill, you do not certainly mean 
 to deny the influence of scenery on the mind ? " 
 
A TALE 367 
 
 " No, only to deny that it can create genius. At 
 best, it can only develop it. Switzerland has prO' 
 duced no extraordinary poet ; nor, as far as I know, 
 have the Andes, or the Himalaya mountains, or the 
 Mountains of the Moon in Africa." 
 
 " But, at all events," urged Mr. Hathaway, " let 
 BS have our literature national. If it is not na- 
 tional, it is nothing." 
 
 " On the contrary, it may be a great deal. Na- 
 tionality is a good thing to a certain extent, but 
 universality is better. All that is best in the great 
 poets of all countries is not what is national in 
 them, but what is universal. Their roots are in 
 their native soil ; but their branches wave in the 
 unpatriotic air, that speaks the same language unto 
 all men, and their leaves shine with the illimi- 
 table light that pervades all lands. Let us throw 
 all the windows open ; let us admit the light and 
 air on all sides ; that we may look towards the four 
 corners of the heavens, and not always in the same 
 direction." 
 
 " But you admit nationality to be a good 
 thing ? " 
 
 " Yes, if not carried too far ; still, I confess, 
 it rather limits one's views of truth. I prefer 
 what is natural. Mere nationality is often ridic- 
 talous. Every one smiles when he hears the Ice- 
 landic proverb, ' Iceland is the best land the sun 
 shines upon.' Let us be natural, and we shall be 
 national enough. Besides, our literature can be 
 strictly national only so far as our character and 
 modes of thought differ from those of other na- 
 tions. Now, as we are very like the English, — ' 
 
 V 
 
368 KAVANAGIl 
 
 are, in fact, English under a different sky, — I do 
 not see how our literature can be very different 
 from theirs. Westward from hand to hand we 
 pass the lighted torch, but it was lighted at the old 
 domestic fireside of England." 
 
 " Then you think our literature is never to be 
 anything but an imitation of the English ? " 
 
 " Not at all. It is not an imitation, but, as some 
 one has said, a continuation." 
 
 " It seems to me that you take a very narrow 
 view of the subject." 
 
 " On the contrary, a very broad one. No litera- 
 ture is complete until the language in which it is 
 written is dead. We may weU be proud of our 
 task and of our position. Let us see if we can 
 build in any way worthy of our forefathers." 
 
 " But I insist upon originality." 
 
 " Yes ; but without spasms and convulsions. 
 Authors must not, like Chinese soldiers, expect to 
 win victories by turning somersets in the air." 
 
 " WeU, really, the prospect from your point of 
 view is not very brilliant. Pray, what do you think 
 of our national literature ? " 
 
 " Simply, that a national literature is not the 
 growth of a day. Centuries must contribute their 
 dew and sunshine to it. Our own is growing 
 slowly but surely, striking its roots downward, and 
 its branches upward, as is natural ; and I do not 
 wish, for the sake of what some people call origi- 
 nality, to invert it, and try to make it grow with 
 its roots in the air. And as for having it so 
 savage and wild as you want it, I have only to say, 
 that all literature, as well as all art, is the result 
 of culture and intellectual refinement." 
 
A TALE 369 
 
 •' Ah ! we do not want art and refinement ; we 
 want genius, — untutored, wild, original, free." 
 
 " But, if this genius is to find any expression, it 
 must employ art, for art is the external expres- 
 sion of our thoughts. Many have genius, but, 
 wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must 
 go together to form the great poet, painter, or 
 sculptor." 
 
 " In that sense, very well." 
 
 " I was about to say also that I thought our 
 literature would finally not be wanting in a kind 
 of universality. As the blood of all nations is 
 mingling with our o^m, so will their thoughts and 
 feelings finally mingle in our literature. We shall 
 draw from the Germans, tenderness; from the 
 Spaniards, passion ; from the French, vivacity, — 
 to mingle more and more with our English solid 
 sense. And this will give us universality, so much 
 to be desired." 
 
 " If that is your way of thinking," interrupted 
 the visitor, " you will like the work I am now en- 
 gaged upon." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " A great national drama, the scene of which is n^ 
 laid in New Mexico. It is entitled Don Serafin, 
 or the Marquis of the Seven Churches. The prin- 
 cipal characters are Don Serafin, an old Spanish 
 hidalgo, his daughter Deseada, and Era Serapion, 
 the Curate. The play opens with Era Serapion at 
 breakfast ; on the table a game-cock, tied by the 
 lee:, sharins: his master's meal. Then follows a 
 scene at the cockpit, where the Marquis stakes the 
 remnant of his fortune — his herds and hacienda 
 — on a favorite cock, and loses." 
 
370 KA VAN A Gil 
 
 " But what do you know about cock-fighting ? " 
 denmncled, rather than asked, the astonished and 
 half-laughing schoolmaster. 
 
 " I am not very well informed on that subject, 
 and I was going to ask you if you could not recom- 
 mend some work." 
 
 " The only work I am acquainted with," replied 
 Mr. Churchill, " is the Reverend Mr. Pegge's 
 Essay on Cock-fighting among the Ancients, and 
 I hardly see how you could apply that to the 
 Mexicans." 
 
 " Why, they are a kind of ancients, you know. 
 I certainly will hunt up the essay you mention, and 
 see what I can do with it." 
 
 " And all I know about the matter itself," con- 
 tinued Mr. Churchill, " is, that Mark Antony was 
 a patron of the pit, and that his cocks were always 
 beaten by Caesar's ; and that, when Themistocles 
 the Athenian general was marching against the 
 Persians, he halted his army to see a cock-fight, 
 and made a speech to his soldiery, to the effect, 
 that those animals fought, not for the gods of their 
 country, nor for the monuments of their ancestors, 
 nor for glory, nor for freedom, nor for their chil- 
 dren, but only for the sake of victory. On his 
 return to Athens, he established cock-fights in that 
 capital. But how this is to help you in Mexico I 
 do not see, unless you introduce Santa Anna, and 
 compare him to Caesar and Themistocles." 
 
 " That is it ; I will do so. It will give historic 
 interest to the play. I thank you for the sug- 
 gestion." 
 
 " The subject is certainly very original, but it 
 does not strike me as particularly national." 
 
A TALE 371 
 
 " Prospective, you see ! " said Mr. Hathaway, 
 with a penetrating look, 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I perceive you fish with a heavy 
 sinker, — down, far down in the future, — among 
 posterity, as it were." 
 
 " You have seized the idea. Besides, I obviate 
 your objection, by introducing an American circus 
 company from the United States, which enables 
 me to bring horses on the stage and produce great 
 scenic effect," 
 
 " That is a bold design. The critics will be out 
 upon you without fail." 
 
 " Never fear that. I know the critics root and 
 branch, — out and out, — have summered them, 
 and wintered them, — in fact, am one of them my- 
 self. Very good fellows are the critics, are th^y 
 not?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; only they have such a pleasant way 
 of talking down upon authors," 
 
 " If they did not talk down upon them, they 
 would show no superiority ; and, of course, that 
 would never do." 
 
 " Nor is it to be wondered at, that authors are 
 sometimes a little irritable. I often recall the 
 poet in the Spanish fable, whose manuscripts were 
 devoured by mice, till at length he put some cor- 
 rosive sublimate into his ink, and was never trou- 
 bled again." 
 
 "Why don't you try It yourself?" said Mr. 
 Hathaway, rather sharply. 
 
 " Oh," answered Mr. Churchill, with a smile 
 of humility, " I and my writings are too insignifi- 
 cant. They may gnaw and welcome. I do not 
 
372 KAVANAGH 
 
 like to have poison about, even for such pur- 
 poses." 
 
 " By the way, Mr. Churchill," said the visitor, 
 adroitly changing the subject, " do you know 
 Honeywell?" 
 
 " No, I do not. Who is he ? " 
 
 " Honeywell the poet, I mean." 
 
 " No, I never even heard of him. There are so 
 many poets nowadays ! " 
 
 " That is very strange indeed ! Why, I con- 
 sider Honeywell one of the finest writers in the 
 country, — quite in the front rank of American 
 authors. He is a real poet, and no mistake. Na- 
 ture made him with her shirt-sleeves rolled up." 
 
 " What has he published ? " 
 
 " He has not published anything yet, except in 
 the newspapers. But, this autumn, he is going to 
 bring out a volume of poems. I could not help 
 having my joke with him about it. I told him he 
 had better print it on cartridge-paper." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Why, to make it go off better ; don't you 
 understand ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, now that you explain it. Very good." 
 
 " Honeywell is going to write for the Magazine ; 
 he is to furnish a poem for every number ; and as 
 he succeeds equally well in the plaintive and 
 didactic style of AVordsworth, and the more vehe- 
 ment and impassioned style of Byron, I think we 
 shall do very well." 
 
 " And what do you mean to call the new Maga* 
 zine ? " inquired Mr. Churchill. 
 
 " We think of calling it The Niagara." 
 
A TALE 373 
 
 " Why, that is the name of our fire-engine ! 
 Why not call it the Extinguisher ? " 
 
 " That is also a good name ; but I prefer The 
 Niagara, as more national. And I hojje, Mr. 
 Churchill, you will let us count upon you. We 
 should like to have an article from your pen for 
 every number." 
 
 " Do you mean to pay your contributors ? " 
 
 " Not the first year, I am sorry to say. But 
 after that, if the work succeeds, we shall j)ay 
 handsomely. And, of course, it will succeed, for 
 we mean it shall ; and we never say fail. There 
 is no such word in our dictionary. Before the 
 year is out, we mean to print fifty thousand copies ; 
 and fifty thousand copies will give us, at least, one 
 hundred and fifty thousand readers; and, with 
 such an audience, any author might be satisfied." 
 
 He had touched at leng'th the risfht strinsrs in 
 Mr. Churchill's bosom ; and they vibrated to the 
 touch with pleasant harmonies. X/iterary vanity ! 
 ■^- literary ambition ! The editor perceived it ; 
 and so cunningly did he play upon these chords, 
 that, before he departed, Mr. Churchill had prom- 
 ised to write for him a series of papers on Ob- 
 scure Martyrs, — a kind of tragic history of the 
 unrecorded and life-long sufferings of women, 
 which hitherto had found no historian, save now 
 and then a novelist. 
 
 Notwithstanding the certainty of success, — not- 
 withstanding the fifty thousand subscribers and the 
 one himdred and fifty thousand readers, — the 
 Magazine never went into operation. Still the 
 dream was enough to occupy Mr. Churchill's 
 
374 KAVANAGII 
 
 thoughts, and to withdraw them entirely from his 
 Koniance for many weeks together. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Every State, and almost every county, of New 
 England, has its Roaring Brook, — a mountain 
 streamlet, overhung by woods, impeded by a mill, 
 encumbered by fallen trees, but ever racing, rush- 
 ing, roaring down through gurgling gullies, and 
 filling the forest with its delicious sound and fresh- 
 ness ; the drinking-place of home-returning herds ; 
 the mysterious haunt of squirrels and blue-jays ; 
 the sylvan retreat of school-girls, who frequent it 
 on summer holidays, and mingle their restless 
 thoughts, their overflowing fancies, their fair im- 
 aginings, with its restless, exuberant, and rejoicing 
 stream. 
 
 Fairmeadow had no Roaring Brook. As its 
 name indicates, it was too level a land for that. 
 But the neighboring town of Westwood, lying 
 more inland, and among the hills, had one of the 
 fairest and fullest of all the brooks that roar. It 
 was the boast of the neighborhood. Not to have 
 seen it was to have seen no brook, no waterfall, no 
 mountain ravine. And, consequently, to behold it 
 and admire was Kavanagh taken by Mr. Churchill 
 as soon as the summer vacation gave leisure and 
 opportunity. The party consisted of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Churchill, and Alfred, in a one-horse chaise ; and 
 Cecilia, Alice, and Kavanagh, in a carryall, — the 
 fourth seat in which was occupied by a lai*ge basket, 
 containing what the Squire of the Grove, in Don 
 
A TALE 375 
 
 Quixote, called his " fiambreras," — that magnilo- 
 quent Castilian word for cold collation. Over warm 
 Tiplands, smelling of clover and mint ; through 
 cool glades, still wet with the rain of yesterday ; 
 along the river ; across the rattling and tilting 
 planks of wooden bridges ; by orchards ; by the 
 gates of fields, with the tall mullen growing at the 
 bars ; by stone walls overrun with privet and bar- 
 berries ; in sun and heat, in shadow and coolness, 
 — forward drove the happy party on that pleasant 
 summer morning. 
 
 At length they reached the Koaring Brook. 
 From a gorge in the mountains, through a long, 
 winding gallery of birch, and beech, and pine, 
 leaped the bright, brown waters of the jubilant 
 streamlet ; out of the woods, across the plain, 
 under the rude bridge of logs, into the woods 
 again, — a day between two nights. With it went 
 a song that made the heart sing likewise — a song 
 of joy, and exultation, and freedom ; a continuous 
 and unbroken song of life, and pleasure, and per- 
 petual youth. Like the old Icelandic Scald, the 
 streamlet seemed to say, — 
 
 " I am possessed of songs such as neither the 
 spouse of a king, or any son of man, can repeat ; 
 one of them is called the Helper ; it will help 
 thee at thy need, in sickness, grief, and all adver- 
 sity." 
 
 The little party left their carriages at a farm- 
 house by the bridge, and followed the rough road 
 on foot along the brook ; now close upon it, now 
 shut out by intervening trees. Mr. Churchill, 
 bearing the basket on his arm, walked in front 
 
376 KAVANAGH 
 
 with his wife and Alfred. Kavanagh came behind 
 with Cecilia and Alice. The music of the brook 
 silenced all conversation ; only occasional excla- 
 mations of delight were uttered, — the irrepressi- 
 ble applause of fresh and sensitive natures, in a 
 scene so lovely. Presently, turning off from the 
 road, which led directly to the mill, and was rough 
 with the tracks of heavy wheels, they went down 
 to the margin of the brook. 
 
 " How indescribably beautiful this brown water 
 is ! " exclaimed Kavanagh. "It is like wine, or 
 the nectar of the gods of Olympus ; as if the fall- 
 ing Hebe had poured it from her goblet." 
 
 " More like the mead or metheglin of the north- 
 ern gods," said Mr. Churchill, "spilled from the 
 drinking-horns of Valhalla." 
 
 But all the ladies thought Kavanagh's compari- 
 son the better of the two, and in fact the best that 
 could be made ; and Mr. Churchill was obliged to 
 retract and apologize for his allusion to the celestial 
 ale-house of Odin. 
 
 Erelong they were forced to cross the brook, 
 stepping from stone to stone, over the little rapids 
 and cascades. All crossed lightly, easily, safely; 
 even " the sumpter mide," as Mr. Churchill called 
 himself, on account of the pannier. Only Cecilia 
 lingered behind, as if afraid to cross. Cecilia, 
 who had crossed at that same place a himdred 
 times before, — Cecilia, who had the surest foot, 
 and the firmest nerves, of all the village maidens, 
 — she now stood irresolute, seized with a sudden 
 tremor ; blushing, and laughing at her own timid- 
 ity, and yet unable to advance. Kavanagh saw 
 
A TALE 377 
 
 her embarrassment and hastened back to help her. 
 Her hand trembled in his ; she thanked him with 
 a gentle look and word. His whole soul was 
 softened within him. His attitude, his counte- 
 nance, his voice, were alike submissive and sub- 
 dued. He was as one penetrated with tenderest 
 emotions. 
 
 It is difficult to know at what moment love be- 
 gins ; it is less difficult to know that it has begun. 
 A thousand heralds proclaim it to the listening 
 air ; a thousand ministers and messengers betray 
 it to the eye. Tone, act, attitude and look, — the 
 signals upon the countenance, — the electric tel- 
 egraph of touch ; all these betray the yielding cit- 
 adel before the word itself is uttered, which, like 
 the key surrendered, opens every avenue and gate 
 of entrance, and makes retreat impossible ! 
 
 The day passed delightfully with all. They sat 
 upon the stones and the roots of trees, Cecilia 
 read, from a volume she had brought with her, 
 poems that rhymed with the running water. The 
 others listened and commented. Little Alfred 
 waded in the stream, with his bare white feet, and 
 launched boats over the falls. Noon had been 
 fixed upon for dining, but they anticipated it by 
 at least an hour. The great basket was opened ; 
 endless sandwiches were drawn forth, and a cold 
 pastry, as large as that of the Squire of the Grove. 
 During the repast, Mr. Churchill slijjped into the 
 brook, while in tlie act of handing a sandwich to 
 his wife, which caused unbounded mirth ; and 
 Kavanagh sat down on a mossy trunk, that gave 
 way beneath him, and ci-umbled into powder. This, 
 also, was received with great merriment. 
 
378 KAVANAGH 
 
 After dinner, they ascended the brook still 
 farther, — indeed, quite to the mill, which was not 
 going. It had been stopped in the midst of its 
 work. The saw still held its hungry teeth fixed in 
 the heart of a pine. Mr. Churchill took occasion 
 to make known to the company his long cherished 
 purpose of writing a poem called " The Song of 
 the Saw-Mill," and enlarged on the beautiful asso- 
 ciations of flood and forest connected with the 
 theme. He delighted himself and his audience 
 with the fine fancies he meant to weave into his 
 poem, and wondered nobody had thought of the 
 subject before. Kavanagh said it had been 
 thought of before ; and cited Kerner's little poem, 
 so charmingly translated by Bryant. Mr. Church- 
 ill had not seen it. Kavanagh looked into his 
 pocket-book for it, but it was not to be found ; 
 still he was sure that there was such a poem. Mr. 
 Churchill abandoned his design. He had spoken, 
 — and the treasure, just as he had touched it with 
 his hand, was gone forever. 
 
 The party returned home as it came, all tired 
 and happy, excepting little Alfred, who was tired 
 and cross, and sat sleepy and sagging on his fa- 
 ther's knee, with his hat cocked rather fiercely 
 over his eyes. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 ■\ The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it 
 brought to the fields the prodigality of the golden 
 harvest, — to the forest, revelations of light, — 
 and to the sky, the sharp air, the morning mist, 
 
A TALE 379 
 
 the red clouds at evening. Within doors, the 
 sense of seclusion, the stillness of closed and cur- 
 tained windows, musings by the fireside, books, 
 friends, conversation, and the long, meditative 
 evenings. To the farmer, it brought surcease of 
 toil, — to the scholar, that sweet delirium of the 
 brain which changes toil to pleasure. It brought 
 the wild duck back to the reedy marshes of the 
 south ; it brought the wild song back to the fervid 
 brain of the poet. Without, the village street was 
 paved with gold ; the river ran red with the re- 
 flection of the leaves. Within, the faces of 
 friends brightened the gloomy walls ; the return- 
 ing footsteps of the long-absent gladdened the 
 threshold ; and all the sweet amenities of social 
 life again resumed their interrupted reign. 
 
 Kavanagh preached a sermon on the coming of 
 autumn. He chose his text from Isaiah, " Who 
 is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed gar- 
 ments from Bozrah ? this that is glorious in his ap- 
 parel, travelling in the greatness of his strength ? 
 Wherefore art thou red in thine apparel, and thy 
 garments like him that treadeth in the wine-vat ? " 
 
 To Mr. Churchill, this beloved season — this 
 Joseph with his coat of many colors, as he was 
 fond of calling it — brought an unexpected guest, 
 the forlorn, forsaken Lucy. The surmises of the 
 family were too true. She had wandered away 
 with the Bi-iareus of boots. She returned alone, 
 in destitution and despair ; and often, in the grief 
 of a broken heart and a bewildered brain, was 
 heard to say, — 
 
 " Oh, how I wish I were a Christian ! If I were 
 
( 
 
 880 KAVANAGH 
 
 only a Christian, I would not live any longer ; I 
 would kill myself ! I am too wretched ! " 
 
 A few days afterwards, a gloomy-looking man 
 rode through the town on horseback, stopping at 
 every corner, and crying into every street, with a 
 loud and solemn voice, — 
 
 " Prepare ! prepare ! prepare to meet the living 
 God ! " 
 
 It was one of that fanatical sect who believed 
 the end of the world was imminent, and had pre- 
 pared their ascension robes to be lifted up in clouds 
 of glory, while the worn-out, weary world was to 
 burn with fire beneath them, and a new and fairer 
 earth to be prei3ared for their inheritance. The 
 appearance of this forerunner of the end of the 
 world was followed by numerous camp-meetings, 
 held in the woods near the village, to whose white 
 tents and leafy chapels many went for consolation 
 and found despair. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Again the two crumbly old women sat and 
 talked together in the little parlor of the gloomy 
 house under the poplars, and the two girls sat 
 above, holding each other by the hand, thoughtful, 
 and speaking only at intervals. 
 
 Alice was unusually sad and silent. The mists 
 were already gathering over her vision, — those 
 mists that were to deepen and darken as the sea- 
 son advanced, until the external world should be 
 shrouded and finally shut from her view. Already 
 the landscape began to wear a pale and sickly hue, 
 
A TALE 381 
 
 as if the sun were withdrawing farther and farther, 
 and were soon wholly to disappear, as in a northern 
 winter. But to brighten this northern winter 
 there now arose within her a soft, auroral light. 
 Yes, the auroral light of love, blushing through 
 the whole heaven of her thoughts. She had not 
 breathed that word to herself, nor did she recog- 
 nize any thrill of passion in the new emotion she\ 
 experienced. But love it was ; and it lifted her 
 soul into a region which she at once felt was native 
 to it, — into a subtler ether, which seemed its nat- 
 ural element. 
 
 This feeling, however, was not all exhilaration. 
 It brought with it its own peculiar languor and 
 sadness, its fluctuations and swift vicissitudes of 
 excitement and depression. To this the trivial 
 circumstances of life contributed. Kavanagh had 
 met her in the street, and had passed her without 
 recognition ; and, in the bitterness of the moment, 
 she forgot that she wore a thick veil, which entirely 
 concealed her face. At an evening party at Mr. 
 Churchill's, by a kind of fatality, Kavanagh had 
 stood very near her for a long time, but with his 
 back turned, conversing with ISIiss Hawkins, from 
 whose toils, he was, in fact, though vainly, strug- 
 gling to extricate himseK ; and, in the irritation 
 of supposed neglect, Alice had said to herself, — 
 
 " This is the kind of woman which most fas- 
 cinates men ! " 
 
 But these cruel moments of pain were few and 
 short, while those of delight were many and lasting. 
 In a life so lonely, and with so little to enliven 
 and embellish it as hers, the guest in disguise was 
 
382 KAVANAGH 
 
 welcomed with ardor, and entertained without fear 
 or suspicion. Had he been feared or suspected, he 
 wouhl liave been no longer dangerous. He came 
 as friendship, where friendshij) was most needed ; 
 he came as devotion, where her holy ministrations 
 were always welcome. 
 
 Somewhat differently had the same passion come 
 to the heart of Cecilia ; for as the heart is, so is 
 love to the heart. It partakes of its strength or 
 weakness, its health or disease. In Cecilia, it but 
 heightened the keen sensation of life. To all eyes, 
 she became more beautiful, more radiant, more 
 lovely, though they knew not why. When she 
 and Kavanagh first met, it was hardly as strangers 
 meet, but rather as friends long separated. When 
 they first spoke to each other, it seemed but as the 
 renewal of some previous interrupted conversation. 
 Their souls flowed together at once, without tur- 
 bulence or agitation, like waters on the same level. 
 As they found each other without seeking, so their 
 intercourse w^as without affectation and without 
 embarrassment. 
 
 Thus, while Alice, unconsciously to herself, de- 
 sired the love of Kavanagh, Cecilia, as uncon- 
 sciously, assumed it as already her own. Alice 
 keenly felt her own unworthiness ; Cecilia made 
 no comparison of merit. When Kavanagh was 
 present, Alice was happy, but embarrassed ; Cecilia, 
 joyous and natural. The former feared she might 
 displease ; the latter di\nned from the first that 
 she already pleased. In both, this was the intuition 
 of the heart. 
 
 So sat the friends together, as they had done so 
 
A TALE 383 
 
 many times before. But now, for the first time, 
 each cherished a secret, which she did not confide 
 to the other. Daily, for many weeks, the feathered 
 courier had come and gone from window to window, 
 but this secret had never been intrusted to his 
 keeping. Almost daily the friends had met and 
 talked together, but this secret had not been told. 
 That could not be confided to another, which had 
 not been confided to themselves ; that could not be 
 fashioned into words, which was not yet fashioned 
 into thoughts, but was still floating, vague and 
 formless, through the mind. Nay, had it been 
 stated in words, each, perhaps, would have denied 
 it. The distinct apparition of this fair spirit, in a 
 visible form, would have startled them ; though, 
 while it haunted all the chambers of their souls as 
 an invisible presence, it gave them only solace and 
 delight. 
 
 " How very feverish your hand is, dearest ! " 
 said Cecilia. " What is the matter ? Are you 
 unwell ? " 
 
 " Those are the very words my mother said to 
 me this moi'ning," replied Alice. " I feel rather 
 languid and tired, that is all. I could not sleep 
 last night ; I never can, when it rains." 
 
 " Did it rain last night ? I did not hear it." 
 
 " Yes ; about midnight, quite hard. I listened 
 to it for hours. I love to lie awake, and hear the 
 drops fall on the roof, and on the leaves. It throws 
 me into a delicious, dreamy state, which I like 
 much better than sleep." 
 
 Cecilia looked tenderly at her pale face. Her 
 eyes were very bright, and on each cheek was a 
 
384 KAVANAGH 
 
 crimson signal, the sight of which would have 
 given her mother so much anguish, that, perhaps, 
 it was better for her to be blind than to see. 
 
 " When you enter the land of dreams, Alice, 
 you come into my peculiar realm. 1 am the queen 
 of that country, you know. But, of late, I have 
 thought of resigning my throne. These endless 
 reveries are really a great waste of time and 
 strength." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and Mr. Kavanagh thinks so, too. We 
 talked about it the other evening ; and afterwards, 
 upon reflection, I thought he was right." 
 
 And the friends resolved, half in jest and half 
 in earnest, that, from that day forth, the gate of 
 their day-dreams should be closed. And closed it 
 was, erelong ; — for one, by the Angel of Life ; 
 for the other, by the Angel of Death ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The project of the new Magazine being heard 
 of no more, and Mr. Churchill being consequently 
 deprived of his one hundi-ed and fifty thousand 
 readers, he laid aside the few notes he had made 
 for his papers on the Obscure Martyrs, and turned 
 his thoughts again to the great Romance. A 
 whole leisure Saturday afternoon was before him, 
 — pure gold, without alloy. Ere beginning his 
 task, he stepped forth into his garden to inhale the 
 sunny air, and let his thoughts recede a little, in 
 order to leap farther. When he returned, glowing 
 and radiant with poetic fancies, he found, to his 
 
A TALE 385 
 
 unspeakable dismay, an unknown damsel sitting in 
 his arm-chair. She was rather gayly yet elegantly 
 dressed, and wore a veil, which she raised as Mr. 
 Churchill entered, fixing upon him the full, liquid 
 orbs of her large eyes. 
 
 " Mr. Churchill, I suppose ? " said she, rising, 
 and stepping forward. 
 
 " The same," replied the schoolmaster, with dig- 
 nified courtesy. 
 
 "And will you permit me," she continued, not 
 without a certain serene self-possession, " to intro- 
 duce myself, for want of a better person to do it 
 for me ? My name is Cartwright, — Clarissa 
 Cartwright." 
 
 This announcement did not produce that pow- 
 erful and instantaneous effect on Mr. Churchill 
 which the speaker seemed to anticipate, or at least 
 to hope. His eye did not brighten with any quick 
 recognition, nor did he suddenly exclaim, — 
 
 " What ! Are you Miss Cartwright, the poetess, 
 whose delififhtful effusions I have seen in all the 
 magaznies ? " J 
 
 On the contrary, he looked rather blank and 
 expectant, and only said, — 
 
 " I am very glad to see you ; pray sit down." 
 
 So that the young lady herself was obliged to 
 communicate the literary intelligence above al- 
 luded to, which she did very gracefully, and then 
 added, — 
 
 " I have come to ask a great favor of you, Mr. 
 Chux'chill, which 1 hope you will not deny me. By 
 the advice of some friends, I have collected my 
 poems together," — and here she drew forth from 
 
386 KAVANAGII 
 
 a paper a large, thin manuscript, bound in crimson 
 velvet, — " and think of publishing them in a vol- 
 ume. Now, woidd you do me the favor to look 
 them over, and give me your candid opinion, 
 whether they are worth publishing ? I should 
 value your advice so highly ! " 
 
 This simultaneous appeal to his vanity and his 
 gallantry from a fair young girl, standing on the 
 verge of that broad, dangerous ocean, in which so 
 many have perished, and looking wistfully over its 
 flashing waters to the shores of the green Isle of 
 Palms, — such an appeal, from such a person, it 
 was impossible for Mr. Churchill to resist. He 
 made, however, a faint show of resistance, — a 
 feeble grasping after some excuse for refusal, — 
 and then yielded. He received from Clarissa's 
 delicate, trembling hand the precious volume, and 
 from her eyes a still more precious look of thanks, 
 and then said, — 
 
 "What name do you propose to give the vol- 
 ume ? " 
 
 " Symphonies of the Soul, and other Poems," 
 said the young lady ; " and, if you like them, and 
 it would not be asking too much, I should be de- 
 lighted to have you write a Preface, to introduce 
 the work to the public. The publisher says it 
 would increase the sale very considerably." 
 
 " Ah, the publisher ! yes, but that is not 
 very complimentary to yourself," suggested Mr. 
 Churchill. " I can already see your Poems re- 
 belling against the intrusion of my Preface, and 
 rising like so many nuns in a convent to expel 
 the audacious foot that has dared to invade their 
 sacred precincts." 
 
A TALE 387 
 
 But it was all in vain, this pale effort at pleas- 
 antry. Objection was useless, and the soft-hearted 
 schoolmaster a second time yielded gracefully to 
 his fate, and promised the Preface. The young 
 lady took her leave with a profusion of thanks and 
 blushes, and the dainty manuscript, with its del- 
 icate chirography and crimson cover, remained in 
 the hands of Mr. Churchill, who gazed at it less as 
 a Paradise of Dainty Devices than as a deed or 
 mortgage of so many precious hours of his own 
 scanty inheritance of time. 
 
 Afterwards, when he complained a little of this 
 to his wife, — who, during the interview, had 
 peeped in at the door, and, seeing how he was oc- 
 cupied, had immediately withdrawn, — she said 
 that nobody was to blame but himseK ; that he 
 should learn to say " No ! " and not do just as 
 every romantic girl from the Academy wanted him 
 to do ; adding, as a final aggravation and climax 
 of reproof, that she really believed he never would, 
 and never meant to, begin his Romance ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Not long afterwards, Kavanagh and Mr. Church- 
 ill took a stroll together across the fields, and down 
 green lanes, walking all the bright, brief after- 
 noon. From the summit of the hill, beside the 
 old windmill, they saw the sun set, and, opposite, 
 the full moon rise, dewy, large, and red. As they 
 descended, they felt the heavy dampness of the air, 
 like water, rising to meet them, — bathing with 
 coolness first their feet, then their hands, then 
 
388 KA VAN A GH 
 
 their faces, till they were submerged in that sea of 
 dew. As they skirted the woodland on their home- 
 ward way, trampling the golden leaves underfoot, 
 they heard voices at a distance, singing ; and then 
 saw the lights of the camp - meeting gleaming 
 through the trees, and, drawing nearer, distin- 
 guished a portion of the hymn : — 
 
 Don't you hear the Lord a-coming 
 To the old churchyards, 
 
 With a band of music, 
 
 With a band of music, 
 
 With a band of music, 
 Sounding through the air ? 
 
 These words, at once awful and ludicrous, rose 
 on the still twilight air from a hundred voices, 
 thrilling with emotion, and from as many beating, 
 fluttering, struggling hearts. High above them 
 all was heard one voice, clear and musical as a 
 clarion. 
 
 " I know that voice," said Mr. Churchill ; " it is 
 Elder Evans's." 
 
 "Ah ! " exclaimed Kavanagh, — for only the im- 
 pression of awe was upon him, — " he never acted 
 in a deeper tragedy than this ! How terrible it is ! 
 Let us pass on." 
 
 They hurried away, Kavanagh trembling in 
 every fibre. Silently they walked, the music fad- 
 ing into softest vibrations behind them. 
 
 " How strange is this fanaticism ! " at length 
 said Mr. Churchill, rather as a relief to his own 
 thoughts, than for the purpose of reviving the con- 
 versation. " These people really believe that the 
 end of the world is close at hand." 
 
 " And to thousands," answered Kavanagh, " this 
 
A TALE 389 
 
 is no fiction, — no illusion of an over-heated imag- 
 ination. To-day, to-morrow, every day, to thou- 
 sands, the end of the world is close at hand. And 
 why should we fear it ? We walk here as it were 
 in the crypts of life ; at times, fi-om the great ca- 
 thedral above us, we can hear the organ and the 
 chanting of the choir; we see the light stream 
 through the open door, when some friend goes up 
 before us ; and shall we fear to mount the narrow 
 staircase of the grave, that leads us out of this un- 
 certain twilight into the serene mansions of the 
 life eternal ? " 
 
 They reached the wooden bridge over the river, 
 which the moonlight converted into a river of light. 
 Their footsteps sounded on the planks ; they passed 
 without perceiving a female figure that stood in 
 the shadow below on the brink of the stream, 
 watching wistfully the steady flow of the current. 
 It was Lucy ! Her bonnet and shawl were lying 
 at her feet ; and when they had passed, she waded 
 far out into the shallow stream, laid herself gently 
 down in its deeper waves, and floated slowly away 
 into the moonlight, among the golden leaves that 
 were faded and fallen like herself, — among the 
 water-lilies, whose fragrant white blossoms had 
 been broken off and polluted long ago. Without 
 a struggle, without a sigh, without a sound, she 
 floated downward, downward, and silently sank 
 into the silent river. Far off, faint, and indistinct, 
 was heard the startling hymn, with its wild and 
 peculiar melody, — 
 
 Oh, there will he mourning', mourning, mourning, mourning, — • 
 Oh, there will be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ I 
 
890 KAVANAGH 
 
 Kavanagh's heart was full of sadness. He left 
 Mr. Churchill at his door, and proceeded home- 
 ward. On passing his church, he could not resist 
 the temptation to go in. He climbed to his cham- 
 ber in the tower, lighted by the moon. He sat for 
 a long time gazing from the window, and watching 
 a distant and feeble candle, whose rays scarcely 
 reached him across the brilliant moon-lighted air. 
 Gentler thoughts stole over him ; an invisible pres- 
 ence soothed him ; an invisible hand was laid upon 
 his head, and the trouble and unrest of his spirit 
 were changed to peace. 
 
 "Answer me, thou mysterious future ! " exclaimed 
 he ; " tell me, — shall these things be according to 
 my desires ? " 
 
 And the mysterious future, interpreted by those 
 desires, replied, — 
 
 " Soon thou shalt know all. It shall be well 
 with thee ! " 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 On the following morning, Kavanagh sat as 
 usual in his study in the tower. No traces were 
 left of the heaviness and sadness of the preceding 
 night. It was a bright, warm morning ; and the 
 window, open towards the south, let in the genial 
 sunshine. The odor of decaying leaves scented the 
 air ; far off flashed the hazy river. 
 
 Kavanagh's heart, however, was not at rest. At 
 times he rose from his books, and paced up and 
 down his little study ; then took up his hat as if 
 to go out ; then laid it down again, and again re- 
 
A TALE 391 
 
 sumed his books. At length he arose, and, lean- 
 ing on the wintlow-sill, gazed for a long time on 
 the scene before him. Some thought was labor- 
 ing in his bosom, some doubt or fear, which 
 alternated with hope, but thwarted any fixed 
 resolve. 
 
 Ah, how pleasantly that fair autumnal land- 
 scape smiled upon him ! The great golden elms 
 that marked the line of the village street, and 
 under whose shadows no beggars sat; the air of 
 comfort and plenty, of neatness, thrift, and equal- 
 ity, visible everywhere ; and from far-off farms the 
 sound of flails, beating the triumphal march of 
 Ceres through the land ; — these were the sights 
 and sounds that greeted him as he looked. Silently 
 the yellow leaves fell upon the graves in the church- 
 yard, and the dew glistened in the grass, which 
 was still long and green. 
 
 Presently his attention was arrested by a dove, 
 pursued by a little king-bird, who constantly en- 
 deavored to soar above it, in order to attack it at 
 greater advantage. The flight of the birds, thus 
 shooting through the air at arrowy speed, was 
 beautiful. When they were opposite the tower, 
 the dove suddenly wheeled, and darted in at the 
 open window, while the pursuer held on his way 
 with a long sweep, and was out of sight in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 At the first glance, Kavanagh recognized the 
 dove, which lay panting on the floor. It was the 
 same he had seen Cecilia buy of the little man in 
 gray. He took it in his hands. Its heart was 
 beating violently. About its neck was a silken 
 
392 KAVANAGIl 
 
 band ; beneath its wing a billet, npon whicli was a 
 single word, " Cecilia." The bird, then, was on its 
 way to Cecilia Vaughan. He hailed the omen as 
 auspicious, and, immediately closing the window, 
 seated himself at his table, and wrote a few hur- 
 ried words, which, being carefully folded and 
 sealed, he fastened to the band, and then hastily, 
 as if afraid his purpose might be changed by de- 
 lay, opened the window and set the bird at liberty. 
 It sailed once or twice round the tower, apparently 
 uncertain and bewildered, or still in fear of its 
 pursuer. Then, instead of holding its way over 
 the fields to Cecilia Vaughan, it darted over the 
 roofs of the village, and alighted at the window 
 of Alice Archer. 
 
 Having written that morning to Cecilia some- 
 thing urgent and confidential, she was already 
 waiting the answer; and, not doubting that the 
 bird had brought it, she hastily untied the silken 
 band, and, without looking at the superscription, 
 opened the first note that fell on the table. It 
 was very brief — only a few lines, and not a name 
 mentioned in it ; an impulse, an ejacidation of 
 love ; every line quivering with electric fire, — 
 every word a pulsation of the writer's heart. It 
 was signed " Arthur Kavanagh." 
 
 Overwhelmed by the suddenness and violence of 
 her emotions, Alice sat for a long time motionless, 
 holding the open letter in her hand. Then she 
 read it again, and then relapsed into her dream of 
 joy and wonder. It would be difficult to say 
 which of the two emotions was the greater, — 
 her joy that her prayer for love should be an- 
 
A TALE 393 
 
 swered, and so answered, — her wonder that 
 Kavanagh should have selected her ! In the 
 tumult of her sensations, and hardly conscious of 
 what she was doing, she folded the note and re- 
 placed it in its envelope. Then, for the first time, 
 her eye fell on the superscription. It was " Cecilia 
 Vaughan." Alice fainted. 
 
 On recovering her senses, her first act was one 
 of heroism. She sealed the note, attached it to 
 the neck of the pigeon, and sent the messenger 
 rejoicing on his journey. Then her feelings had 
 way, and she wept long and bitterly. Then, with 
 a desperate calmness, she reproved her own weak- 
 ness and selfishness, and felt that she ought to re- 
 joice in the happiness of her friend, and sacrifice 
 her affection, even her life, to her. Her heart ex- 
 culpated Kavanagh from all blame. He had not 
 deluded her ; she had deluded herself. She alone 
 was in fault ; and in deep humiliation, with 
 wounded pride and wounded love, and utter self- 
 abasement, she bowed her head and prayed for 
 consolation and fortitude. 
 
 One consolation she already had. The secret 
 was her own. She had not revealed it even to 
 Cecilia. Kavanagh did not suspect it. Public 
 curiosity, public pity, she would not have to 
 undergo. 
 
 She was resigned. She made the heroic sacri- 
 fice of self, leaving her sorrow to the great physi- 
 cian. Time, — the nurse of care, the healer of all 
 smarts, the soother and consoler of all sorrows. 
 And, thenceforward, she became unto Kavanagh 
 what the moon is to the sun, forever following, 
 forever separated, forever sad ! 
 
394 KAVANAGH 
 
 As a traveller, about to start upon his journey, 
 resolved and yet irresolute, watches the clouds, and 
 notes the struggle between the sunshine and the 
 showers, and says, " It will be fair ; I will go," — 
 and again says, " Ah, no, not yet ; the rain is not 
 yet over," — so at this same hour sat Cecilia 
 Vaughan, resolved and yet irresolute, longing to 
 depart upon the fair journey before her, and yet 
 lingering on the paternal threshold, as if she 
 wished both to stay and to go, seeing the sky was 
 not without its clouds, nor the road without its 
 dangers. 
 
 It was a beautiful picture, as she sat there with 
 sweet perplexity in her face, and above it an im- 
 mortal radiance streaming from her brow. She 
 was like Guercino's Sibyl, with the scroll of fate 
 and the uplifted pen ; and the scroll she held con- 
 tained but three words, — three words that con- 
 trolled the destiny of a man, and, by their soft 
 impulsion, dii-ected forevermore the current of his 
 thoughts. They were, — 
 
 " Come to me ! " 
 
 The magic syllables brought Kavanagh to her 
 side. The full soul is silent. Only the rising and 
 falling tides rush murmuring through their chan- 
 nels. So sat the lovers, hand in hand ; but for a 
 long time neither spake, — neither had need of 
 speech ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 In the afternoon, Cecilia went to communicate 
 the news to Alice with her own lips, thinking it 
 
A TALE 395 
 
 too important to be intrusted to the wings of the 
 carrier-pigeon. As she entered the door, the 
 cheerful doctor was coining out ; but this was no 
 unusual apparition, and excited no alarm. Mrs. 
 Archer, too, according to custom, was sitting in 
 the little parlor with her decrepit old neighbor, 
 who seemed almost to have taken up her abode 
 under that roof, so many hours of every day did 
 she pass there. 
 
 With a light, elastic step, Cecilia bounded up to 
 Alice's room. She found her reclinins: in her 
 large chair, flushed and excited. Sitting down by 
 her side, and taking both her hands, she said, with 
 great emotion in the tones of her voice, — 
 
 " Dearest Alice, I have brought you some news 
 that I am sure will make you well. For my sake, 
 you will be no longer ill when you hear it. I am 
 engaged to Mr. Kavanagh ! " 
 
 Alice feigned no surprise at this announcement. 
 She returned the warm pressure of Cecilia's hand, 
 and, looking affectionately in her face, said very 
 calmly, — 
 
 " I knew it would be so. I knew that he loved 
 you, and that you would love him." 
 
 " How could I help it ? " said Cecilia, her eyes 
 beaming with dewy light ; " could any one help 
 loving him ? " 
 
 " No," answered Alice, throwing her arms 
 around Cecilia's neck, and laying her head upon 
 her shoulder ; " at least, no one whom he loved. 
 But when did this happen ? Tell me all about it, 
 dearest ! " 
 
 Cecilia was surprised, and perhaps a little hurt, 
 
396 KA VAN A Gil 
 
 at the quiet, almost impassive manner in which 
 her friend received this great intelligence. She 
 had expected exclamations of wonder and delight, 
 and such a glow of excitement as that with which 
 she was sure she shoxdd have hailed the announce- 
 ment of Alice's engagement. But this momentary 
 annoyance was soon swept away by the tide of 
 her own joyous sensations, as she proceeded to re- 
 call to the recollection of her friend the thousand 
 little circumstances that had marked the progress 
 of her love and Kavanagh's ; things which she 
 must have noticed, which she could not have for- 
 gotten; with questions interspersed at intervals, 
 such as, " Do you recollect when ? " and " I am 
 sure you have not forgotten, have you ? " and 
 dreamy little pauses of silence, and intercalated 
 sighs. She related to her, also, the perilous ad- 
 venture of the carrier-pigeon ; how it had been 
 pursued by the cruel king-bird ; how it had taken 
 refuge in Kavanagh's tower, and had been the 
 bearer of his letter, as well as her own. When 
 she had finished, she felt her bosom wet with the 
 tears of Alice, who was suffering martyrdom on 
 that soft breast, so full of happiness. Tears of 
 bitterness, — tears of blood ! And Cecilia, in the 
 exultant temper of her soul at the moment, thought 
 them tears of joy, and pressed Alice closer to her 
 heart, and kissed and caressed her. 
 
 " Ah, how very happy you are, Cecilia ! " at 
 length sighed the poor sufferer, in that slightly 
 querulous tone to which Cecilia was not unaccus- 
 tomed ; " how very happy you are, and how very 
 wretched am I ! You have all the joy of life, I all 
 
A TALE 397 
 
 its loneliness. How little you will tliink of me 
 now ! How little you will need me ! I shall be 
 nothing to you, — you will forget me." 
 
 " Never, clearest ! " exclaimed Cecilia, with much 
 warmth and sincerity. " I shall love you only the 
 more. We shall both love you. You will now 
 have two friends instead of one." * 
 
 " Yes ; but both will not be equal to the one I 
 lose. No, Cecilia ; let us not make to ourselves 
 any illusions. I do not. You cannot now be with 
 me so much and so often as you have been. Even 
 if you were, your thoughts would be elsewhere. 
 Ah, I have lost my friend, when most I needed 
 her ! " 
 
 Cecilia protested ardently and earnestly, and 
 dilated with eagerness on her little plan of life, in 
 which their romantic friendship was to gain only 
 new strength and beauty from the more romantic 
 love. She was interrupted by a knock at the 
 street door ; on hearing which, she paused a mo- 
 ment, and then said, — 
 
 " It is Arthur. He was to call for me." 
 
 Ah, what glimpses of home, and fireside, and a 
 whole life of happiness for Cecilia, were revealed 
 by that one word of love and intimacy, " Arthur " ! 
 and for Alice, what a sentence of doom ! what sor- 
 row without a name ! what an endless struggle of 
 love and friendship, of duty and inclination ! A 
 little quiver of the eyelids and the hands, a hasty 
 motion to raise her head from Cecilia's shoulder, — 
 these were the only outward signs of emotion. But 
 a terrible pang went to her heart ; her blood rushed 
 eddying to her brain ; and when Cecilia had taken 
 
398 KAVANAGH 
 
 leave of her with the triumphant look of love 
 beaming upon her brow, and an elevation in her 
 whole attitude and bearing, as if borne up by at- 
 tendant angels, she sank back into her chair, ex- 
 hausted, fainting, fearing, longing, hoping to die. 
 
 And below sat the two old women, talking of 
 moths, and cheap furniture, and what was the best 
 remedy for rheumatism ; and from the door went 
 forth two happy hearts, beating side by side with 
 the pulse of youth and hope and joy, and within 
 them and around them was a new heaven and a new 
 earth ! 
 
 Only those who have lived in a small town can 
 really know how great an event therein is a new 
 engagement. From tongue to tongue passes the 
 swift countersign ; from eye to eye flashes the 
 illumination of joy, or the bale-fire of alarm ; the 
 streets and houses ring with it, as with the pen- 
 etrating, all-pervading sound of the village bell ; 
 the whole community feels a thrill of sympathy, 
 and seems to congratulate itself that all the great 
 events are by no means confined to the great towns. 
 As Cecilia and Kavanagh passed arm in arm 
 through the village, many curious eyes watched 
 them from the windows, many hearts grown cold 
 or careless rekindled their household fires of love 
 from the golden altar of God, borne through the 
 streets by those pure and holy hands ! 
 
 The intelligence of the engagement, however, 
 was received very differently by different persons. 
 Mrs. Wilmerdings wondered, for her part, why 
 anybody wanted to get married at all. The little 
 taxidermist said he knew it would be so from the 
 
A TALE 399 
 
 very first day they had met at his aviary. Miss 
 Hawkins lost suddenly much of her piety and all 
 her patience, and laughed rather hysterically. Mr. 
 Hawkins said it was impossible, but went in secret 
 to consult a friend, an old bachelor, on the best 
 remedy for love ; and the old bachelor, as one well 
 versed in such affairs, gravely advised him to think 
 of the lady as a beautiful statue ! 
 
 Once more the indefatigable school-girl took up 
 her pen, and wrote to her foreign correspondent 
 a letter that might rival the famous epistle of 
 Madame de S^vigne to her daughter, announcing 
 the engagement of Mademoiselle Montpensier. 
 Through the whole of the first page, she told her 
 to guess who the lady was ; through the whole of 
 the second, who the gentleman was ; the third was 
 devoted to what was said about it in the village ; 
 and on the fourth there were two postscripts, one 
 at the top and the other at the bottom, the first 
 stating that they were to be married in the Spring, 
 and to go to Italy immediately afterwards, and 
 the last, that Alice Archer was dangerously ill with 
 a fever. 
 
 As for the Churchills, they could find no words 
 powerful enough to express their delight, but gave 
 vent to it in a banquet on Thanksgiving-day, in 
 which the wife had all the trouble and the husband 
 all the pleasure. In order that the entertainment 
 might be worthy of the occasion, Mr. Churchill 
 wrote to the city for the best cookery-book ; and 
 the bookseller, executing the order in all its ampli- 
 tude, sent him the Practical Guide to the Culinary 
 Art in all its Branches, by Frascatelli, pupil of the 
 
400 KAVANAGH 
 
 celebrated Careme, and Chief Cook to Her Majesty 
 the Queen, — a ponderous volume, illustrated with 
 numerous engravings, and furnished with bills of 
 fare for every month in the year, and any number 
 of persons. This great work was duly studied, 
 evening after evening ; and Mr. Churchill confessed 
 to his wife, that, although at first startled by the 
 size of the book, he had really enjoyed it very 
 highly, and had been much pleased to be present 
 in imagination at so many grand entertainments, 
 and to sit opposite the Queen without having to 
 change his dress or the general style of his con- 
 versation. 
 
 The dinner hour, as well as the dinner itself, 
 was duly debated. Mr. ChurchiU was in favor 
 of the usual hour of one ; but his wife thought 
 it should be an hour later. Whereupon he re- 
 marked, — 
 
 " King Henry the Eighth dined at ten o'clock 
 and supped at four. His queen's maids of honor 
 had a gallon of ale and a chine of beef for their 
 breakfast." 
 
 To which his wife answered, — 
 
 " I hope we shall have something a little more 
 refined than that." 
 
 The day on which the banquet should take place 
 was next discussed, and both agreed that no day 
 could be so appropriate as Thanksgiving - day ; 
 for, as Mrs. Churchill very truly remarked, it was 
 really a day of thanksgiving to Kavanagh. She 
 then said, — 
 
 " How very solemnly he read the Governor's 
 Proclamation yesterday ! particularly the words 
 
A TALE 401 
 
 * God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts ! ' 
 And what a Proclamation it was ! When he spread 
 it out on the pulpit, it looked like a table-cloth ! " 
 
 Mr. Churchill then asked, 
 
 " What day of the week is the first of Decem- 
 ber ? Let me see, — 
 
 ' At Dover dwells George Brown, Esquire, 
 Good Christopher Finch and Daniel Friar ! ' 
 
 Thursday." 
 
 " I could have told you that," said his wife, " by 
 a shorter process than your old rhyme. Thanks- 
 giving-day always comes on Thursday." 
 
 These preliminaries being duly settled, the din- 
 ner was given. 
 
 There being only six guests, and the dinner be- 
 ing modelled upon one for twenty-four persons, 
 Russian style in November, it was very abundant. 
 It began with a Colbert soup, and ended with a 
 Nesselrode pudding ; but as no allusion was made 
 in the course of the repast to the French names of 
 the dishes, and the mutton, and turnips, and pan- 
 cakes were all called by their English patron3anics, 
 the dinner appeared less magnificent in reality 
 than in the bill of fare, and the guests did not 
 fully appreciate how superb a banquet they were 
 enjoying. The hilarity of the occasion was not 
 marred by any untoward accident ; though once or 
 twice Mr. Churchill was much annoyed, and the 
 company much amused, by Master Alfred, who 
 was allowed to be present at the festivities, and 
 audibly proclaimed what was coming, long before 
 it made its appearance. When the dinner was 
 over, several of the guests remembered brilliant 
 
402 K A VAN AG H 
 
 and appropriate tilings they might have said, and 
 wondered they were so dull as not to think of 
 them in season ; and when they were all gone, 
 Mr. Churchill remarked to his wife that he had 
 enjoyed himself very much, and that he should 
 like to ask his friends to just such a dinner every 
 week ' 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The first snow came. How beautiful it was, 
 falling so silently, aU day long, all night long, on 
 the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of 
 the living, on the graves of the dead ! All white 
 save the river, that marked its course by a winding 
 black line across the landscape ; and the leafless 
 trees, that against the leaden sky now revealed 
 more fully the wonderful beauty and intricacy of 
 their branches ! 
 
 What silence, too, came with the snow, and what 
 seclusion ! Every sound was muffled, every noise 
 changed to something soft and musical. No more 
 trampling hoofs, — no more rattling wheels ! Only 
 the chiming sleigh-bells, beating as swift and mer- 
 rily as the hearts of children. 
 
 All day long, all night long, the snow fell on the 
 village and on the churchyard ; on the happy home 
 of Cecilia Vaughan, on the lonely grave of Alice 
 Archer ! Yes ; for before the winter came she had 
 gone to that land where winter never comes. Her 
 long domestic tragedy was ended. She was dead ; 
 and with her had died her secret sorrow and her 
 secret love. Kavanagh never knew what wealth 
 
A TALE 403 
 
 of affection for him faded from the world when 
 she departed ; Cecilia never knew what fidelity 
 of friendship, what delicate regard, what gentle 
 magnanimity, what angelic patience, had gone 
 with her into the grave ; Mr. Churchill never 
 knew, that, while he was exploring the Past for 
 records of obscure and unknown martyrs, in his 
 own village, near his own door, before his own 
 eyes, one of that silent sisterhood had passed away 
 into oblivion, unnoticed and unknown. 
 
 How often, ah, how often, between the desire 
 of the heart and its fulfilment, lies only the brief- 
 est space of time and distance, and yet the desire 
 remains forever unfulfilled ! It is so near that 
 we can touch it with the hand, and yet so far 
 away that the eye cannot perceive it. What Mr. 
 Churchill most desired was before him. The 
 Romance he was longing to find and record had 
 really occurred in his neighborhood, among his own 
 friends. It had been set like a picture into the 
 frame- work of his life, enclosed within his own 
 experience. But he could not see it as an object 
 apart from himself ; and as he was gazing at what 
 was remote and strange and indistinct, the nearer 
 incidents of aspiration, love, and death, escaped 
 him. They were too near to be clothed by the im- 
 agination with the golden vapors of romance ; for 
 the familiar seems trivial, and only the distant and 
 unknown completely fill and satisfy the mind. 
 
 The winter did not pass without its peculiar de- 
 lights and recreations. The singing of the great 
 wood fires ; the blowing of the wind over the chim- 
 ney-tops, as if they were organ pipes ; the splendor 
 
404 KAVANAGH 
 
 of the spotless snow ; the purple wall built round 
 the horizon at sunset ; the sea-suggesting pines, 
 with the moan of the billows in their branches, 
 on which the snows were furled like sails ; the 
 northern lights ; the stars of steel ; the transcen- 
 dent moonlight, and the lovely shadows of the leaf- 
 less trees upon the snow ; — these things did not 
 pass unnoticed nor unremembered. Eveiy one 
 of them made its record upon the heart of Mr. 
 ChurchiU. 
 
 His twilight walks, his long Saturday afternoon 
 rambles, had again become solitary; for Kavanagh 
 was lost to him for such purposes, and his wife 
 was one of those women who never walk. Some- 
 times he went down to the banks of the frozen 
 river, and saw the farmers crossing it with their 
 heavy-laden sleds, and the Fairmeadow schooner 
 imbedded in the ice ; and thought of Lapland 
 sledges, and the song of Kulnasatz, and the dis- 
 mantled, ice-locked vessels of the explorers in the 
 Arctic Ocean. Sometimes he went to the neigh- 
 boring lake, and saw the skaters wheeling round 
 their fire, and speeding away before the wind ; and 
 in his imagination arose images of the Norwe- 
 gian Skate-Runners, bearing the tidings of King 
 Charles's death from Frederickshall to Drontheim, 
 and of the retreating Swedish army, frozen to 
 death in its fireless tents among the mountains. 
 And then he would watch the cutting of the ice 
 with ploughs, and the horses dragging the huge 
 blocks to the storehouses, and contrast them with 
 the Grecian mules, bearing the snows of Mount 
 Parnassus to the markets of Athens, in panniers, 
 
A TALE 4*05 
 
 protected from the sun by boughs of oleander and 
 rhododendron. 
 
 The rest of his leisure hours were employed in 
 anything and everything save in writing his Ro- 
 mance. A great deal of time was daily consumed 
 in reading the newspapers, because it was neces- 
 sary, he said, to keep up with the times ; and a 
 great deal more in writing a Lyceum Lecture, on 
 " What Lady Macbeth might have been, had her 
 energies been properly directed." He also made 
 some little progress in a poetical arithmetic, founded 
 on Bhascara's, but relinquished it, because the 
 school committee thought it was not practical 
 enough, and more than hinted that he had better 
 adhere to the old system. And still the vision of 
 the great Romance moved before his mind, august 
 and glorious, a beautiful mirage of the desert. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The wedding did not take place till spring. 
 And then Kavanagh and his Cecilia departed on 
 their journey to Italy and the East, — a sacred 
 mission, a visit like the Apostle's to the Seven 
 Churches, nay, to all the Churches of Christen- 
 dom ; he hoping by some means to sow in many 
 devout hearts the desire and prophecy that filled his 
 own, — the union of all sects into one universal 
 Church of Christ. They intended to be absent 
 one year only ; they were gone three. It seemed 
 to their friends that they never would return. But 
 at length they came, — the long absent, the long 
 looked for, the long desired, ~ bearing with them 
 
40f6 KAVANAGH 
 
 that delicious perfume of travel, that genial, sunny 
 atmosphere, and soft, Ausonian air, which return- 
 ing travellers always bring about them. 
 
 It was night when they reached the village, and 
 they could not see what changes had taken place in 
 it during their absence. How it had dilated and 
 magnified itself, — how it had jjuffed itself up, and 
 bedizened itself with flaunting, ostentatious signs, 
 — how it stood, rotund and rubicund with brick, 
 like a portly man, with his back to the fire and both 
 hands in his pockets, warm, expansive, apoplectic, 
 and entertaining a very favorable opinion of him- 
 self, — all this they did not see, for the darkness ; 
 but Kavanagh beheld it all, and more, when he 
 went forth on the following morning. 
 
 How Cecilia's heart beat as they drove up the 
 avenue to the old house ! The piny odors in the 
 night air, the solitary light at her father's window, 
 the familiar bark of the dog Major at the sound 
 of the wheels, awakened feelings at once new and 
 old. A sweet perplexity of thought, a strange fa- 
 miliarity, a no less pleasing strangeness ! The 
 lifting of the heavy brass latch, and the jarring of 
 the heavy brass knocker as the door closed, were 
 echoes from her childhood. Mr. Vaughan they 
 found, as usual, among his papers in the study ; — 
 the same bland, white-haired man, hardly a day 
 older than when they left him there. To Cecilia 
 the whole long absence in Italy became a dream, 
 and vanished away. Even Kavanagh was for the 
 moment forgotten. She was a daughter, not a 
 wife ; — she had not been married, she had not 
 been in Italy ! 
 
A TALE 407 
 
 In the morning, Kavanagh sallied forth to find 
 the Fairmeadow of his memory, but found it not. 
 The railroad had completely transformed it. The 
 simple village had become a very precocious town. 
 New shops, with new names over the doors ; new 
 streets, with new forms and faces in them ; the 
 whole town seemed to have been taken and occu- 
 pied by a besieging army of strangers. Nothing 
 was permanent but the workhouse, standing alone 
 in the pasture by the river ; and, at the end of the 
 street, the school - house, that other worldiouse, 
 where in childhood we twist and untwist the cord- 
 age of the brain, that, later in life, we may not be 
 obliged to pull to pieces the more material cordage 
 of old ships. 
 
 Kavanagh soon turned in despair from the main 
 street into a little green lane, where there were 
 few houses, and where the barberry still nodded 
 over the old stone wall ; — a place he had much 
 loved in the olden time for its silence and seclu- 
 sion. He seemed to have entered his ancient realm 
 of dreams again, and was walking with his hat 
 drawn a little over his eyes. He had not pro- 
 ceeded far, when he was startled by a woman's 
 voice, quite sharp and loud, crying from the oppo- 
 site side of the lane. Looking up, he beheld a 
 small cottage, against the wall of which rested a 
 ladder, and on this ladder stood the woman from 
 whom the voice came. Her face was nearly con- 
 cealed by a spacious gingham sun-bonnet, and in 
 her right hand she held extended a large brush, 
 with which she was painting the front of her cot- 
 tage, when interrupted by the approach of Kava- 
 
408 KAVANAGH 
 
 nagh, who, thinking she was calling to him, but 
 not understanding what she said, made haste to 
 cross over to her assistance. At this movement 
 her tone became louder and more peremptory, and 
 he covdd now understand that her cry was rather a 
 warning than an invitation. 
 
 " Go away ! " she said, flourishing her brush. 
 " Go away ! What are you coming down here for, 
 when I am on the ladder, painting my house ? K 
 you don't go right about yoiu' business, I will come 
 down and" — 
 
 " Why, Miss Manchester ! " exclaimed Kava- 
 nagh ; " how coidd I know that you would be 
 going up the ladder just as I came down the 
 lane ? " 
 
 " Well, I declare ! If it is not Mr. Kav- 
 anagh ! " 
 
 And she scrambled down the ladder backwards 
 with as much grace as the circumstances permit- 
 ted. She, too, like the rest of his friends in the 
 village, showed symptoms of growing older. The 
 passing years had drunk a portion of the light 
 from her eyes, and left their traces on her cheeks, 
 as birds that drink at lakes leave their footprints 
 on the margin. But the pleasant smile remained, 
 and reminded him of the bygone days, when she 
 used to open for him the door of the gloomy house 
 under the poplars. 
 
 Many things had she to ask, and many to tell ; 
 and for full half an hour Kavanagh stood leaning 
 over the paling, while she remained among the 
 hollyhocks, as stately and red as the plants them- 
 selves. At parting, she gave him one of the flow* 
 
A TALE 409 
 
 ers for his wife ; and, when he was fairly out of 
 sight, again climbed the perilous ladder, and re- 
 sumed her fresco painting. 
 
 Through all the vicissitudes of these later years, 
 Sally had remained true to her principles and reso- 
 lution. At Mrs. Archer's death, which occurred 
 soon after Kavanagh's wedding, she had retired to . 
 this little cottage, bought and paid for by her own 
 savings. Though often urged by Mr. Vaughan's 
 man, Silas, who breathed his soul out upon the air 
 of summer evenings through a keyed bugle, she 
 resolutely refused to marry. In vain did he send 
 her letters written with his own blood, — going 
 barefooted into the brook to be bitten by leeches, 
 and then using his feet as inkstands : she refused 
 again and again. Was it that in some blue cham- 
 ber, or some little warm back parlor, of her heart, 
 the portrait of the inconstant dentist was still hang- 
 ing ? Alas, no ! But as to some hearts it is given 
 in youth to blossom with the fragrant blooms of 
 young desire, so others are doomed by a mysterious 
 destiny to be checked in Spring by chill winds, 
 blowing; over the bleak common of the world. So 
 had it been with her desires and thoughts of love. 
 Fear now predominated over hope ; and to die un- 
 married had become to her a fatality which she 
 dared not resist. 
 
 In the course of his long conversation with Miss 
 Manchester, Kavanagh learned many things about 
 the inhabitants of the town. Mrs. Wilmerdings 
 was still carrying on her labors in the " Dunstable 
 and eleven-braid, open-work and colored straws." 
 Her husband had taken to the tavern, and often 
 
410 KAVANAGII 
 
 came home very late, " with a brick in his hat," as 
 Sally expressed it. Their son and heir was far 
 away in the Pacific, on board a whale-ship. Miss 
 Amelia Hawkins remained unmarried, though pos- 
 sessing a talent for matrimony which amounted 
 almost to genius. Her brother, the poet, was no 
 more. Finding it impossible to follow the old 
 bachelor's advice, and look upon Miss Vaughan as 
 a beautiful statue, he made one or two attempts, 
 but in vain, to throw himself away on unworthy 
 objects, and then died. At this event, two elderly 
 maidens went into mourning simultaneously, each 
 thinking herseK engaged to him ; and suddenly 
 went out of it again, mutually indignant with each 
 other, and mortified with themselves. The little 
 taxidermist was still hopping about in his aviary, 
 looking more than ever like his gray African j)ar- 
 rot. Mrs. Archer's house was uninhabited. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Kavanagh continued his walk in the direction 
 of Mr. Churchill's residence. This, at least, was 
 unchanged, — quite unchanged. The same white 
 front, the same brass knocker, the same old 
 wooden gate, with its chain and ball, the same 
 damask roses under the windows, the same sun- 
 shine without and within. The outer door and 
 study door were both open, as usual in the warm 
 weather, and at the table sat Mr. Churchill, writ- 
 ing. Over each ear was a black and inky stump 
 of a pen, which, like the two ravens perched on 
 Odin's shoulders, seemed to whisper to him all that 
 
A TALE 411 
 
 passed in heaven and on earth. On this occasion, 
 their revehitions were of the earth. He was cor- 
 recting school exercises. 
 
 The joyful welcome of Mr. Churchill, as Kava- 
 nagh entered, and the cheerful sound of their 
 voices, soon brought Mrs. Churchill to the study, 
 — her eyes bluer than ever, her cheeks fairei", her 
 form more round and full. The children came in 
 also, — Alfred grown to boy's estate and exalted 
 into a jacket, and the baby, that was less than 
 two years behind him, and catching all his falling 
 mantles, and all his tricks and maladies. 
 
 Kavanagh found Mr. Churchill precisely where 
 he left him. He had not advanced one step, — 
 not one. The same dreams, the same longings, 
 the same aspirations, the same indecision. A thou- 
 sand things had been planned, and none completed. 
 His imagination seemed still to exhaust itself in 
 running, before it tried to leap the ditch. While 
 he mused, the fire burned in other brains. Other 
 hands wrote the books he dreamed about. He 
 freely used his good ideas in convei'sation, and in 
 letters, and they were straightway wrought into 
 the texture of other men's books, and so lost to 
 him forever. His work on Obscure Martyrs was 
 anticipated by Mr. Hathaway, who, catching the 
 idea from him, wrote and published a series of 
 papers on Unknown Saints, before Mr. Churchill 
 had fairly arranged his materials. Before he had 
 written a chapter of his great Romance, another 
 friend and novelist had published one on the same 
 subject. 
 
 Poor Mr. Churchill ! So far as fame and ex- 
 
412 KAVANAGH 
 
 ternal success were concerned, his life certainly 
 was a failure. He was, perhaps, too deeply 
 freighted, too much laden by the head, to ride the 
 waves gracefully. Every sea broke over him, — 
 he was haK the time vinder water ! 
 
 All his defects and mortifications he attributed 
 to the outward circumstances of his life, the exi- 
 gencies of his profession, the accidents of chance. 
 But, in reahty, they lay much deeper than this. 
 They were within himself. He wanted the all- 
 controlling, all-subduing will. He wanted the fixed 
 purpose that sways and bends all circumstances 
 to its uses, as the wind bends the reeds and rushes 
 beneath it. 
 
 In a few minutes, and in that broad style of 
 handling in which nothing is distinctly defined, 
 but everything clearly suggested, Kavanagh 
 sketched to his friends his three years' life in Italy 
 and the East. And then, turning to Mr. Churchill, 
 he said, — 
 
 " And you, my friend, — what have you been 
 doing all this while ? You have written to me so 
 rarely that I have hardly kept pace with you. But 
 I have thought of you constantly. In all the old 
 cathedrals ; in all the lovely landscapes, among 
 the Alps and Apennines ; in looking down on 
 Duomo d'Ossola ; at the Inn of Baveno ; at Gaeta ; 
 at Naples ; in old and mouldy Eome ; in older 
 EgJTt ; in the Holy Land ; in all galleries and 
 churches and ruins ; in our rural retirement at 
 Fiesoli ; — whenever I have seen anything beauti- 
 ful, I have thought of you, and of how much you 
 would have enjoyed it ! " 
 
A TALE 413 
 
 Mr. Churchill sio-hcd ; and then, as if, with a 
 touch as masterly, he would draw a picture that 
 should define nothing, but suggest everything, he 
 said, — 
 
 " You have no children, Kavanagh ; we have 
 five." 
 
 " Ah, so many already ! " exclaimed Kavanagh, 
 " A living Pentateuch ! A beautiful Pentapylon, 
 or five-gated temple of Life ! A charming num- 
 ber ! " 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Churchill, " a beautiful 
 number, Juno's own ; the wedding of the first 
 even and first uneven numbers ; the number sacred 
 to marriage, but having no reference, direct or 
 indirect, to the Pythagorean novitiate of five years 
 of silence." 
 
 " No ; it certainly is not the vocation of children 
 to be silent," said Kavanagh, laughing, "That 
 would be out of nature ; saving always the children 
 of the brain, which do not often make so much 
 noise in the world as we desire. I hope a still 
 larger family of these has grown up around you 
 during my absence." 
 
 " Quite otherwise," answered the schoolmaster, 
 sadly. " My brain has been almost barren of 
 songs. I have only been trifling, and I am 
 afraid, that, if I play any longer with Apollo, 
 the untoward winds will blow the discus of the 
 god against my forehead, and strike me dead with 
 it, as they did Hyacinth of old." 
 
 " And your Romance, — have you been more 
 successful with that? I hope it is finished, or 
 nearly finished ? " 
 
414 KA VAN A Gil 
 
 " Not yet begun," said Mr. Churchill. " The 
 plan and chaiacters still remain vague and indefi- 
 nite in my mind. I have not even found a name 
 for it." 
 
 " That you can determine after the book is 
 written," suggested Kavanagh. " You can name it, 
 for instance, as the old Ileimskringla was named, 
 from the initial word of the first chapter." 
 
 " Ah ! that was very well in the olden time, and 
 in Iceland, when there were no quarterly reviews. 
 It would be called affectation now." 
 
 " I see you still stand a little in awe of opinion. 
 Never fear that. The strength of criticism lies 
 only in the weakness of the thing criticised." 
 
 " That is the truth, Kavanagh ; and I am more 
 afraid of deserving criticism than of receiving it. 
 I stand in awe of my own opinion. The secret 
 demerits of which we alone, perhaps, are con- 
 scious, are often more difficult to bear than those 
 which have been publicly censured in us, and thus 
 in some degree atoned for." 
 
 " I will not say," replied Kavanagh, " that hu- 
 mility is the only road to excellence, but I am sure 
 that it is one road." 
 
 " Yes, humility, but not humiliation," sighed 
 Mr. Churchill, despondingly. " As for excellence, 
 I can only desire it and dream of it ; I cannot at- 
 tain to it, it lies too far from me ; I cannot reach 
 it. These very books about me here, that once 
 stimulated me to action, have now become my ac- 
 cusers. They are my Euraenides, and drive me to 
 despair." 
 
 " My friend," said Kavanagh, after a short 
 
A TALE 415 
 
 pause, during which he had taken note of Mr. 
 Churchill's sadness, " that is not always excellent 
 which lies far away from us. What is remote and 
 difficidt of access we are apt to overrate ; what is 
 really best for us lies always within our reach, 
 though often overlooked. To speak frankly, I am 
 afraid this is the case with your Homance. You 
 are evidently grasping at something which lies be- 
 yond the confines of your own experience, and 
 which, consequently, is only a play of shadows in 
 the realm of fancy. The figures have no vitality ; 
 they are only outward shows, wanting inward life. 
 We can give to others only what we have." 
 
 " And if we have nothing worth giving? " inter- 
 rupted Mr. Churchill. 
 
 " No man is so poor as that. As well might the 
 mountain streamlets say they have nothing worth 
 giving to the sea, because they are not rivers. 
 Give what you have. To some one, it may be 
 better than you dare to think. If you had looked 
 nearer for the materials of your Romance, and had 
 set about it in earnest, it would now have been 
 finished." 
 
 " And burned, perhaps," interposed Mr. 
 Churchill ; " or sunk with the books of Simon 
 Magus to the bottom of the Dead Sea." 
 
 " At all events, you would have had the pleasure 
 of writing it. I remember one of the old traditions 
 of Art, from which you may perhaps draw a moral. 
 When Raphael desired to paint his Holy Family, 
 for a long time he strove in vain to express the 
 idea that filled and possessed his soul. One morn- 
 ing, as he walked beyond the city gates, meditat- 
 
416 KAVANAGH 
 
 ing the sacred theme, he beheld, sitting beneath a 
 vine at her cottage door, a j:)easant woman, hokling 
 a boy in her arms, while another leaned upon her 
 knee, and gazed at the approaching stranger. The 
 painter found here, in real life, what he had so 
 long sought for in vain in the realms of his imag- 
 ination ; and quickly, with his chalk pencil, he 
 sketched, upon the head of a wine-cask that stood 
 near them, the lovely group, which afterwards, 
 when brought into full perfection, became the 
 transcendent Madonna della Seggiola." 
 
 " All this is true," replied Mr. Churchill, " but 
 it gives me no consolation. I now despair of writ- 
 ing anything excellent. I have no time to devote 
 to meditation and study. My life is given to 
 others, and to this destiny I submit without a 
 murmur ; for I have the satisfaction of having 
 labored faithfully in my calling, and of having 
 perhaps trained and incited others to do what I 
 shall never do. Life is still precious to me for its 
 many uses, of which the writing of books is but 
 one. I do not complain, but accept this destiny, 
 and say, with that pleasant author, Marcus An- 
 toninus, ' Whatever is agreeable to thee shall be 
 agreeable to me, O graceful Universe ! nothing 
 shall be to me too early or too late, which is sea- 
 sonable to thee ! Whatever thy seasons bear shall 
 be joyful fruit to me, O Nature ! from thee are all 
 things ; in thee they subsist ; to thee they return. 
 Could one say. Thou dearly beloved city of 
 Cecrops ? and wilt thou not say, Thou dearly be- 
 loved city of God? ' " 
 
 " Amen 1 " said Kavanagh. " And, to follow 
 
A TALE 417 
 
 your quotation with another, ' The gale that blows 
 from God we must endure, toiling but not repin- 
 ing.' " 
 
 Here Mrs. Churchill, who had something of 
 Martha in her, as well as of Mary, and liad left 
 the room when the conversation took a literary 
 turn, came back to announce that dinner was 
 ready, and Kavanagh, though warmly urged to 
 stay, took his leave, having first obtained from the 
 Churcliills the promise of a visit to Cecilia during 
 the evening. 
 
 " Nothing done ! nothing done ! " exclaimed he, 
 as he wended his way homeward, musing and 
 meditating. " And shall all these lofty aspira- 
 tions end in nothing? Shall the arms be thus 
 stretched forth to encircle the universe, and come 
 back empty against a bleeding, aching breast ? " 
 
 And the words of the poet came into his mind, 
 and he thought them worthy to be written in let- 
 ters of gold, and placed above every door in 
 every house, as a warning, a suggestion, an incite- 
 ment : — 
 
 Stay, stay the present instant ! 
 
 Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings ! 
 
 Oh, let it not elude thy grasp, but like • 
 
 The good old patriarch upon record. 
 
 Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee ! 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
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 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
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