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Hyperion by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Part 2 out of 5

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seldom, perhaps," said Flemming. "And yet it is folly to pretend
that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. Such
wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I can never look upon
without emotion. There are names I can never hear spoken without
almost starting!"

"But whom have we here?"

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

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

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

The Baron replied with a smile;

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

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

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

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


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

"What are you doing here, Von Kleist?"

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

"Shall we go in, Flemming?"

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

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

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


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

What comes there from the hill?

What comes there from the hill?

What comes there from the leathery hill?

Ha! Ha!

Leathery hill!

What comes there from the hill?

It is a postilion!

It is a postilion!

It is a leathery postilion!

Ha! Ha!


It is a postilion!

What brings the postilion?

What brings the postilion?

What brings the leathery postilion?

Ha! Ha!


What brings the postilion?

He bringeth us a Fox!

He bringeth us a Fox!

He bringeth us a leathery Fox!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery Fox!

He bringeth us a Fox!

Your servant, Masters mine!

Your servant, Masters mine!

Your servant, much-honored Masters mine!

Ha! Ha!

Much-honored Masters mine!

Your servant, Masters mine!

How does the Herr Papa?

How does the Herr Papa?

How does the leathery Herr Papa?

Ha! Ha!

Herr Papa!

How does the Herr Papa?

He reads in Cicero!

He reads in Cicero!

He reads in leathery Cicero!

Ha! Ha!


He reads in Cicero!

How does the Frau Mama?

How does the Frau Mama?

How does the leathery Frau Mama?

Ha! Ha!

Frau Mama!

How does the Frau Mama?

She makes the Papa tea!

She makes the Papa tea!

She makes the Papa leathery tea!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery tea!

She makes the Papa tea!

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

How does the leathery Mamsell Sœur?

Ha! Ha!

Mamsell Sœur!

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

She knits the Papa stockings!

She knits the Papa stockings!

She knits the Papa leathery stockings!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery stockings!

She knits the Papa stockings!

How does the Herr Rector?

How does the Herr Rector?

How does the leathery Herr Rector?

Ha! Ha!

Herr Rector!

How does the Herr Rector?

He calls the scholar, Boy!

He calls the scholar, Boy!

He calls the scholar, leathery Boy!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery Boy!

He calls the scholar, Boy!

And smokes the Fox tobacco?

And smokes the Fox tobacco?

And smokes the leathery Fox tobacco?

Ha! Ha!

Fox tobacco!

And smokes the Fox tobacco?

A little, Masters mine!

A little, Masters mine!

A little, much-honored Masters mine!

Ha! Ha!

Much-honored Masters mine!

A little, Masters mine!

Then let him fill a pipe!

Then let him fill a pipe!

Then let him fill a leathery pipe!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery pipe!

Then let him fill a pipe!

O Lord! It makes me sick!

O Lord! It makes him sick!

O Lord! It makes me leathery sick!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery sick!

O Lord! It makes me sick!

Then let him throw it off!

Then let him throw it off!

Then let him throw it leathery off!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery off!

Then let him throw it off!

Now I again am well!

Now he again is well!

Now I again am leathery well!

Ha! Ha!

Leathery well!

Now I again am well!

So grows the Fox a Bursch!

So grows the Fox a Bursch!

So grows the leathery Fox a Bursch!

Ha! Ha!

Fox a Bursch!

So grows the Fox a Bursch!

At length the song was finished. Meanwhile large tufts and strips
of paper had been twisted into the hair of the Branders, as those
are called who have been already one semestre at the University, and
then at a given signal were set on fire, and the Branders rode round
the table on sticks, amid roars of laughter. When this ceremony was
completed, the President rose from his chair, and in a solemn voice
pronounced a long discourse, in which old college jokes were mingled
with much parental advice to young men on entering life, and the
whole was profusely garnished with select passages from the Old
Testament. Then they all seated themselves at the table and the
heavy beer-drinking set in, as among the Gods and Heroes of the old
Northern mythology.

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

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

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

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

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


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

"Set to!"

Each set the goblet to his lips.


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


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

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

"Arrogant! Absurd! Impertinent! Dummer Junge!"

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


That night Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber with a heavy
heart, and her dusky eyes were troubled with tears. She was one of
those gentle beings, who seem created only to love and to be loved.
A shade of melancholy softened her character. She shunned the glare
of daylight and of society, and wished to be alone. Like the evening
primrose, her heart opened only after sunset; but bloomed through
the dark night with sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the contrary,
flaunted in the garish light of society. There was no sympathy
between them. Their souls never approached, never understood each
other, and words were often spoken which wounded deeply. And
therefore Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber that night with tears
in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Under the tree-tops is quiet now!

In all the woodlands hearest thou

Not a sound!

The little birds are asleep in the trees,

Wait! wait! and soon like these,

Sleepest thou!"

Emma knew the voice and started. She rushed to the window to
close it. It was a beautiful night, and the stars were shining
peacefully over the mountain of All-Saints. The sound of the Neckar
was soft and low, and nightingales were singing among the brown
shadows of the woods. The large red moon shone, like a ruby, in the
horizon's ample ring; and golden threads of light seemed braided
together with the rippling current of the river. Tall and spectral
stood the white statues on the bridge. The outline of thehills, the
castle, the arches of the bridge, and the spires and roofs of the
town were as strongly marked as if cut out of pasteboard. Amid this
fairy scene, a little boat was floating silently down the stream.
Emma closed the window hastily, and drew the curtains close.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will add no more than this;--there are many speculations in
Literature, Philosophy, and Religion, which, though pleasant to walk
in, and lying under the shadow of great names, yet lead to no
important result. They resemble rather those roads in the western
forests of my native land, which, though broad and pleasant at
first, and lying beneath the shadow of great branches, finally
dwindle to a squirrel track, and run up a tree!"

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

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

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

"I should think it must be near midnight!"

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

`Whoe'er she be,

That not impossible she,

That shall command my heart and me.

Where'er she lie,

Hidden from mortal eye,

In shady leaves of destiny.'"

They started in the afternoon for Frankfort, pursuing their way
slowly along the lovely Bergstrasse, famed throughout Germany for
its beauty. They passed the ruined house where Martin Luther lay
concealed after the Diet of Worms, and through the village of
Handschuhsheimer, as old as the days of King Pepin the Short,--a
hamlet, lying under the hills, half-buried in blossoms and green
leaves. Close on the right rose the mountains of the mysterious
Odenwald; and on the left lay the Neckar, like a steel bow in the
meadow. Farther westward, a thin, smoky vapor betrayed the course of
the Rhine; beyond which, like a troubled sea, ran the blue,
billowy Alsatian hills. Song of birds, and sound of evening bells,
and fragrance of sweet blossoms filled the air; and silent and slow
sank the broad red sun, half-hidden amid folding clouds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`This song was made to be sung at night,

And he who reads it in broad daylight,

Will never read the mystery right;

And yet it is childlike easy!'

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

`I heard a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near,

Down into the valley rushing,

So fresh and wondrous clear.

`I know not what came o'er me,

Nor who the counsel gave;

But I must hasten downward,

All with my pilgrim-stave.

`Downward, and ever farther,

And ever the brook beside;

And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer the tide.

`Is this the way I was going?

Whither, O brooklet, say!

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,

Murmured my senses away.

`What do I say of a murmur?

That can no murmur be;

'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing

Their roundelays under me.

`Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,

And wander merrily near;

The wheels of a mill are going

In every brooklet clear.'"

"There you have the poetic reverie," said Flemming, "and the dull
prose commentary and explanation in matter of fact. The song is
pretty; and was probably suggested by some such scene as this, which
we are now beholding. Doubtless all your old national traditions
sprang up in the popular mind as this song in the poet's."

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

"People always have, who live in mills, and near

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

"How wonderful this is!" exclaimed Flemming, transported by his
feelings. "How the chorus swells and dies, like the wind of summer!
How those passages of mysterious import seem to wave to and fro,
like the swaying branches of trees; from which anon some solitary
sweetvoice darts off like a bird, and floats away and revels in the
bright, warm sunshine! And then mark! how, amid the chorus of a
hundred voices and a hundred instruments,--of flutes, and drums, and
trumpets,--this universal shout and whirl-wind of the vexed air, you
can so clearly distinguish the melancholy vibration of a single
string, touched by the finger,--a mournful, sobbing sound! Ah, this
is indeed human life! where in the rushing, noisy crowd, and amid
sounds of gladness, and a thousand mingling emotions, distinctly
audible to the ear of thought, are the pulsations of some melancholy
string of the heart, touched by an invisible hand."

Then came, in the midst of these excited feelings, the ballet;
drawing its magic net about the soul. And soon, from the tangled yet
harmonious mazes of the dance, came forth a sylph-like form, her
scarf floating behind her, as if she were fanning the air with
gauze-like wings. Noiseless as a feather or a snow-flake falls, did
her feet touch the earth. She seemed to floatin the air, and the
floor to bend and wave under her, as a branch, when a bird alights
upon it, and takes wing again. Loud and rapturous applause followed
each wonderful step, each voluptuous movement; and, with a flushed
cheek and burning eye, and bosom panting to be free, stood the
gracefully majestic figure for a moment still, and then the winged
feet of the swift dancing-girls glanced round her, and she was lost
again in the throng.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

"A good illustration of what the world calls his

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

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

"I confess, he was no saint."

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

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

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

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

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

"He only copies nature."

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

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

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

"And what do you think of Eckermann?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here at the window,--that full-length cast. Excellent, is it
not! He is dressed, as usual, in his long yellow nankeen surtout,
with a white cravat crossed in front. What a magnificent head! and
what a posture! He stands like a tower ofstrength. And, by Heavens!
he was nearly eighty years old, when that was made."

"How do you know?"

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

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

"No, I do not."

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

"Very good!"

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

"And yet the world goes on. It is strange how soon, when a great
man dies, his place is filled; and so completely, that he seems no
longer wanted. But let us step in here. I wish to buy that cast; and
send it home to a friend."


After lingering a day or two in Frankfort, the two friends struck
across through Hochheim to the Rhine, and then up among the hills of
the Rheingau to Schlangenbad, where they tarried only to bathe, and
to dine; and then pursued their way to Langenschwalbach. The town
lies in a valley, with gently-sloping hills around it, and long
avenues of poplars leading forth into the fields. One interminable
street cuts the town in twain, and there are old houses with curious
faces carved upon their fronts, and dates of the olden time.

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

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

"I am hard of hearing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gives him opium."

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

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

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

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

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

"Decidedly a man of genius!"

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

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

"Yes, a most undoubted--copy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And they waxed red, and waxed warm,

And rested, panting, arm in arm,"

and the Strauss-walzes sounded pleasantly in the ears of
Flemming, who, though he never danced, yet, like Henry of
Ofterdingen, in the Romance of Novalis, thought to music. The
wheeling waltz set the wheels of his fancy going. And thus the
moments glided on, and the footsteps of Time were not heard amid the
sound of music and voices.

But suddenly this scene of gayety was interrupted. The door
opened wide; and the short figure of a gray-haired old man presented
itself, with a flushed countenance and wild eyes. He was but
half-dressed, and in his hand held a silver candlestick without a
light. A sheet was wound round his head, like a turban; and he
tottered forward with a vacant, bewildered look, exclaiming;

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

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

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

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

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

"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" said the eldest of the two figures, repeating
an old German popular rhyme,

`Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Tell me true,

Tell me fair and fine,

How long must I unmarried pine!'"

It was the voice of an evil spirit, that spoke in the person of
Madeleine; and the pale and shrinking figure, that walked by her
side, and listened to those words, was Emma of Ilmenau. A young man
joined them, where the path turns into the thick woodlands; and they
disappeared among the shadowy branches. It was the Polish Count.

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


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

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

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

The hour, the scene, and the near-approaching separation of the
two young friends, had filled their hearts with a pleasant, though
at the same time not painless excitement. They had been conversing
about the magnificent old ruin, and the ages in which it had been
built, and the vicissitudesof time and war, that had battered down
its walls, and left it "tenantless, save to the crannying wind."

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

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

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

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

"I confess," said Flemming, "there may be some truth in what you
say. There are times when my soul is restless; and a voice sounds
within me, like the trump of the archangel, and thoughts that were
buried, long ago, come out of their graves. At such times my

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