BOOK THE SECOND. 
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dren sang of old in Spring, bearing in their hands,
from door to door, a swallow, as herald of the
season;
"The Swallow is come!
The Swallow is come!
O fair are the seasons, and light
Are the days that she brings,
With her dusky wings,
And her bosom snowy white."
A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hunga-
rian boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to the
returning stork in Spring;
"Stork! Stork! poor Stork!
Why is thy foot so bloody?
A Turkish boy hath torn it;-98-
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Hungarian boy will heal it,
With 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
the misty pennon of the East-wind nailed to the
mast! Yet even here, and in the stormy month
of March even, there are bright, warm mornings,
when we open our windows to inhale the balmy
air. The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the
whirring sound of wings. Old flies crawl out of
the cracks, to sun themselves; and think it is sum-
mer. They die in their conceit; and so do our
hearts within us, when the cold sea-breath comes
from the eastern sea; and again,
"The driving hail
Upon the window beats with icy flail."
The red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its
beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight be-
fore 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
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 raptur-
ous notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent
woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs,
make holiday in the neighbouring marshes. They,
too, belong to the orchestra of Nature; whose vast
theatre is again opened, though the doors have been
so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung
with snow and frost, like cobwebs. This is the
prelude, which announces the rising of the broad
green curtain. Already the grass shoots forth.
The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the
veins of the earth; the sap through the veins of the
plants and trees; and the blood through the veins
of man. What a thrill of delight in spring-time!
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
It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg.
"
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 high-
est degree poor and pious."
"Bravo!" exclaimed the Baron. "That is
the best criticism I have heard upon the book.
For my part, I dislike the thing as much as Goethe
did. It was once very popular, and lay about in
every parlour and bed-room. This annoyed the
old gentleman exceedingly; and I do not wonder
at it. He complains, that at one time nothing was
sung or said but this Urania. He believed in
Immortality; but wished to cherish his belief in
"How shocked the good old ladies must have
been," said Flemming.
"No doubt, their nerves suffered a little; but
the young ladies loved him all the better for being
witty and wicked; and thought if they could only
marry him, how they would reform him."
"Bettina Brentano, for instance."
"O no! That happened long afterwards.
Goethe was then a silver-haired old man of sixty.
She had never seen him, and knew him only by
his writings; a romantic girl of seventeen."
"And yet much in love with the Sexagenarian.
And surely a more wild, fantastic, and, excuse me,
German passion never sprang up in woman's
breast. She was a flower, that worshipped the
sun."
"She afterwards married Achim von Arnim,
and is now a widow. And not the least singular
part of the affair, is, that, having grown older, and
I hope colder, she should herself publish the let-
ters 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
"Yes; and he and her brother, Clemens Bren-
tano, published that wondrous book, the Boy's
Wonder-Horn."
"The Boy's Wonder-Horn!" said Flemming,
after a short pause, for the name seemed to have
thrown him into a reverie; -- "I know the book
almost by heart. Of all your German books it is
the one which produces upon my imagination the
most wild and magic influence. I have a passion
for ballads!"
"And who has not?" said the Baron with a
"Why do you say summer-time and not sum-
mer?" inquired Flemming. "The expression re-
minds me of your old Minnesingers; -- of Hein-
rich von Ofterdingen, and Walter von der Vogel-
weide, and Count Kraft von Toggenburg, and
your own ancestor, I dare say, Burkhart von
Hohenfels. They were always singing of the
gentle summer-time. They seem to have lived
poetry, as well as sung it; like the birds who
make their marriage beds in the voluptuous trees."
"Is that from Shakspere?"
"No; from Lope de Vega."
"You are deeply read in the lore of antiquity,
and the Aubades and Watch-Songs of the old
Minnesingers. What do you think of the shoe-
maker poets that came after them, -- with their
guilds and singing-schools? It makes me laugh
to think how the great German Helicon, shrunk to
"O, I entreat you," exclaimed Flemming,
laughing, "do not call those men poets! You
transport me to quaint old Nuremberg, and I see
Hans Sachs making shoes, and Hans Folz shav-
ing the burgomaster."
"By the way," interrupted the Baron, "did
you ever read Hoffmann's beautiful story of Mas-
ter 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 con-
ceive. But look! the sun has already set behind
Flemming looked at the evening sky, and a
shade of sadness stole over his countenance. He
told not to his friend the sorrow, with which his
heart was heavy; but kept it for himself alone.
He knew that the time, which comes to all
men, -- the time to suffer and be silent, -- had
come to him likewise; and he spake no word.
O well has it been said, that there is no grief like
the grief which does not speak.
"There sits the old Frau Himmelhahn, perch- ed up in her owl-tower," said the Baron to Flem- ming, as they passed along the Hauptstrasse. "She looks down through her round-eyed spec- tacles from her nest up there, and watches every one that goes by. I wonder what mischief she is hatching now? Do you know she has nearly ruined your character in town? She says you have a rakish look, because you carry a cane, and your hair curls. Your gloves, also, are a shade too light for a strictly virtuous man."
"It is very kind in her to take such good care
of my character, particularly as I am a stranger in
town. She is doubtless learned in the Clothes-
Philosophy."
"And ignorant of every thing else. She asked
a friend of mine the other day, whether Christ
was a Catholic or a Protestant."
"That is really too absurd!"
"Not too absurd to be true. And, ignorant as
she is, she contrives to do a good deal of mischief
in the course of the year. Why, the ladies already
call you Wilhelm Meister."
"They are at liberty to call me what they
please. But you, who know me better, know that
I am something more than they would imply by
the name."
"She says, moreover, that the American ladies
sit with their feet out of the window, and have no
pocket-handkerchiefs."
"Excellent!"
They crossed the market-place and went up
beneath the grand terrace into the court-yard of
the castle.
"Let us go up and sit under the great linden-
trees, that grow on the summit of the Rent Tow-
er," said Flemming. "From that point as from a
"And amuse ourselves, as old Frau Himmel-
hahn 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.
Here their attention was diverted by a wild-
looking person, who passed with long strides un-
der 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 expres-
sion 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 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 him the spirit-
world is still open. He believes in the transmi-
gration of souls; and I dare say is now follow-
"What a strange hallucination! He lives, I
suppose, in the land of cloud-shadows. And, as
St. Thomas Aquinas was said to be lifted up from
the ground by the fervor of his prayers, so, no
doubt, is he by the fervor of his visions."
"He certainly appears to neglect all sublunary
things; and, to judge from certain appearances,
since you seem fond of holy similitudes, one would
say, that, like St. Serapion the Sindonite, he had
but one shirt. Yet what cares he? he lives in
that poetic dream-land of his thoughts, and clothes
his dream-children in poetry."
"He is a poet, then, as well as a philosopher?"
"Yes; but a poet who never writes a line.
There is nothing in nature to which his imagina-
tion 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
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; -- resem-
bling those trees, which blossom in October, when
the leaves are changing, and whose fruit and blos-
som 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 Bar-
on, "there is the Frau von Ilmenau, with her
pale daughter Emma, and that eternal Polish
Count. He is always hovering about them, play-
ing 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," re-
plied 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. Ac-
cordingly 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 dis-
ease, before she seems threatened with a worse
one; namely, a hopeless passion. However, peo-
ple do not die of love now-a-days."
"Seldom, perhaps," said Flemming. "And
yet it is folly to pretend that one ever wholly re-
covers 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 Wander-
ing Jew."
"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 great admirer of the modern French school
of writers. The tales of Paul de Kock, who is,
"I should say, rather, the fear of ennui," inter-
rupted 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 inhabi-
tants of the champaign fled into the castles, at the
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 gar-
den, 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 bands
"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 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."
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 rec-
ognised as his friend Von Kleist. He was a stu-
dent; and universally acknowledged, among his
young acquaintance, as a "devilish handsome fel-
low"; 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 re-
nowner, and a duellist.
"What are you doing here, Von Kleist?"
"Ah, my dear Baron! Is it you? Come in;
come in. You shall see some sport. A Fox-
Commerce is on foot, and a regular Beer-Scandal."
"Shall we go in, Flemming?"
"Certainly. I should like to see how these
things are managed in Heidelberg. You are a
Baron, and I am a stranger. It is of no conse-
quence what you and I do, as the king's fool An-
geli said to the poet Bautru, urging him to put on
his hat at the royal dinner-table."
William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his Auto-
biography, 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 tobac-
co-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 heav-
en; unless it were a Scandinavian heaven. The
windows were open; and yet so dense was the at-
mosphere 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,
In a large arm-chair, upon the middle table,
sat one of those distinguished individuals, known
among German students as a Senior, or Leader of
a Landsmannschaft. He was booted and spurred,
and wore a very small crimson cap, and a very
tight blue jacket, and very long hair, and a very
dirty shirt. He was President of the night; and,
as Flemming entered the hall with the Baron and
his friend, striking upon the table with a mighty
broadsword, he cried in a loud voice;
"Silentium!"
At the same moment a door at the end of the
hall was thrown open, and a procession of new-
comers, 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 tri-
umph. 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.
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 Uni-
versity, and then at a given signal were set on fire,
"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 Stu-
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 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
a beer-barrel. The other two glasses followed in
quick succession, hardly a long 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 fall out,
"Hit!"
Then, with the greatest coolness, he looked un-
der the table and whistled for his dog. His antag-
onist stopped midway in his third glass. Every
vein in his forehead seemed bursting; his eyes
were wild and bloodshot, his hand gradually loos-
ened its hold upon the table, and he sank and
rolled together like a sheet of lead. He was
drunk.
At this moment a majestic figure came stalking
down the table, ghost-like, through the dim, smoky
atmosphere. His coat was off, his neck bare, his
hair wild, his eyes wide open, and looking right
before him, as if he saw some beckoning hand in
the air, that others could not see. His left hand
was upon his hip, and in his right he held a drawn
sword extended, and pointing downward. 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
"Arrogant! Absurd! Impertinent! Dum-
mer 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 sun- set; but bloomed through the dark night with sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the contrary, flaunted in the garish light of society. There was no sym- pathy between them. Their souls never approach- ed, never understood each other, and words were often spoken which wounded deeply. And there- -134- 
SMALL | MEDIUM fore 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 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-cur-
tains, 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 my-
Alas! poor child! thou too must learn like oth-
ers, 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 at-
tention to her idle gossip. "When I was of your
age -- "
"Do not talk to me now, good Madeleine.
Leave me, I wish to be alone?"
"Well, here is something," continued the maid,
taking a billet from her bosom, "which I hope will
enliven you. When I was of your age -- "
"Hush! hush!" said Emma, taking the billet
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. Tender-
ness, pity, love, offended pride, the weakness
and dignity of woman, were all mingled in her
look, changing and passing over her fine coun-
tenance 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 broken
"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 the
"I hate him; and yet I will pray for him,"
said she, as she laid her weary head upon that pil-
low, 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. 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
"There are many things, which, having no corporeal evidence, can be perceived and com- prehended only by the discursive energies of rea- son. Hence the ambiguous nature of matter can be comprehended only by adulterated opinion. Matter is the principle of all bodies, and is stamp- ed 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 octae- dron was destined to be the figure of air, and the icosaedron of water. The right-angled isos- celes triangle produces from itself a square, and -141- 
SMALL | MEDIUM the square generates from itself the cube, which is the figure peculiar to earth. But the figure of a beautiful and perfect sphere was impart- ed 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 lan- guage, excuse me. As Apuleius says, pardon must be granted to novelty of words, when it serves to illustrate the obscurity of things."
These words came from the lips of the lion-like
philosopher, who has been noticed before in these
pages. He was sitting with Flemming, smoking a
long pipe. As the Baron said, he was indeed a
strange owl; for the owl is a grave bird; a monk,
who chants midnight mass in the great temple of
Nature; -- an anchorite, -- a pillar saint, -- the
very Simeon Stylites of his neighbourhood. Such,
likewise, was the philosophical Professor. Soli-
Such was the Professor, who had been talking
in a half-intelligible strain for two hours or more.
"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 bear-
ing in it and reflecting an image of God's love.
Of all these forms the highest and most perfect in
Flemming would fain have interrupted this dis-
course at times, to answer and inquire, but the
Professor went on, warming and glowing more and
"All these indefinite longings, -- these yearn-
ings after an unknown somewhat, I have felt and
still feel within me; but not yet their fulfilment."
"That is because you have not faith;" an-
swered 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 Walpur-
gis Night, on the Pharsalian Plains, the mocking
Mephistopheles sits down between the solemn an-
tique 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 ei-
ther side, severe, majestic, solemnly serene, we
behold the gigantic forms of the children of Chi-
mæra, half buried in the earth, their mild eyes
gazing fixedly, as if they heard through the mid-
night, the swift-rushing wings of the Stymphalides,
"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-
"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 on-
"You seem to take it for granted," interrupted
"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 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,
"I have;" answered Flemming, and there was
another pause. He then said;
"I have listened to you patiently and without
interruption. Now listen to me. You complain
of the skepticism of the age. This is one form
in which the philosophic spirit of the age presents
itself. Let me tell you, that another form, which
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 rath-
er 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 shad-
ow on the dial, -- the striking of the clock, -- the
running of the sand, -- day and night, -- sum-
The high and animated tone of voice in which
the Professor uttered these words aroused the
Baron from his sleep; and, not distinctly compre-
hending 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 cavalier-
ly. 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 re-
minded of Goethe's Baccalaureus, when he ex-
claims; `The world was not before I created it; I
"Alas! how little veneration we have!" 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
"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 Tran-
scendentalists call a god-intoxicated man; and I
advise him, as Sauteul advised Bossuet, to go to
Patmos and write a new Apocalypse."
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 fashion-
able 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 watering-
places of Nassau. It will drive away the melan-
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
`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 Handschuhshei-
mer, 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
"We shall not pass the night at Weinheim,"
said the Baron to the postilion, who had dis-
mounted 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 Wein-
heim, 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
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 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 laugh. At one
of these mills they stopped for the night.
A mill forms as characteristic a feature in the
romantic German landscape, as in the romantic
German tale. It is not only a mill, but likewise
an ale-house and rural inn; so that the associa-
tions it suggests are not of labor only, but also
of pleasure. It stands in the narrow defile, with
its picturesque, thatched roof; thither throng the
In the twilight of the fast-approaching sum-
mer 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 telling
"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;
He has written a great many pretty songs, in
`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!'
"There you have the poetic reverie," said
Flemming, "and the dull prose commentary and
explanation in matter of fact. The song is pret-
ty; 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-
"People always have, who live in mills, and
near water-falls."
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! what
thrilling, pathetic chimes! what wild, joyous rev-
elry 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 Flem-
ming, 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
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 har-
monious 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 float
"How truly exquisite this is!" exclaimed the
Baron, after joining loudly in the applause.
"What a noble figure! What grace! what at-
titudes! 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 whole
"After all," said Flemming, "the old French
priest was not so far out of the way, when he said,
in his coarse dialect, that the dance is the Devil's
procession; and paint and ornaments, the whetting
of the devil's sword; and the ring that is made
in dancing, the devil's grindstone, whereon he
sharpens his sword; and finally, that a ballet is
the pomp and mass of the Devil, and whosoever
entereth therein, entereth into his pomp and mass;
for the woman who singeth is the prioress of the
Devil, and they that answer are clerks, and they
that look on are parishioners, and the cymbals and
flutes are the bells, and the musicians that play
are the ministers, of the Devil."
"No doubt this good lady near us, thinks so
likewise," answered the Baron laughing; "but she
likes it, for all that."
When the play was over the Baron begged
Flemming to sit still, till the crowd had gone.
"I have a strange fancy," said he, "whenever
I come to the theatre, to see the end of all things.
When the crowd is gone, and the curtain raised
again to air the house, and the lamps are all out,
save here and there one behind the scenes, the
contrast with what has gone before is most impres-
sive. 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 Hoff-
mann'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 des-
olate, solemn, and impressive; and produced upon
the mind the effect we experience, when slumber
is suddenly broken, and dreams and realities min-
"I shall run her six nights at Munich, and then
take her on to Vienna."
Flemming thought he was speaking of some fa-
vorite horse. He was speaking of his beautiful
wife, the ballet-dancer.
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 Maine, with the golden cock on the cross, which the poet be- held 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, -177- 
SMALL | MEDIUM which he annually received as Mayor on Pipers- Doomsday, representing a kind of middle person- age between Alcinous and Laertes. Thus, O Ge- nius! 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 re-
turning 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, stor-
my, impetuous, headlong; -- his romantic man-
hood, in which passion assumes the form of
strength; assiduous, careful, toiling, without haste,
without rest; and his sublime old age, -- the age
of serene and classic repose, where he stands like
Atlas, as Claudian has painted him in the Battle
of the Giants, holding the world aloft upon his
head, the ocean-streams hard frozen in his hoary
locks."
"A good illustration of what the world calls his
indifferentism."
"And do you know I rather like this indiffer-
entism? 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 dig-
nified 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 Poet-
ry upon earth! The Many-sided Master-Mind of
Germany! His enemies rush into the other ex-
treme, and hurl at him the fierce names of Old
Humbug! and Old Heathen! which hit like pis-
tol-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
"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 bronze
"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 por-
trait, and attitudinized accordingly. He works
very hard to make a Saint Peter out of an old Ju-
piter, as the Catholics did at Rome."
"Well; call him Old Humbug, or Old Hea-
"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 ten-
dency of his mind was the same; his love of sci-
ence was the same; his benignant, philosophic spir-
it 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 imperial
"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
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!" exclaim-
ed 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
"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 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 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,
"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
"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."
two friends struck across through Hochheim to the
Rhine, and then up among the hills of the Rhein-
gau to Schlangenbad, where they tarried only to
bathe, and to dine; and then pursued their way
to Langenschwalbach. The town lies in a val-
ley, 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 ho-
tel, impatient to drink the strength-giving waters
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 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. He
"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 sex-
"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 preach-
ing? Do you think the fishes, that heard the ser-
mon of St. Anthony, were any better than those
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 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 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 travellers
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,"
"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 eve-
nings with the old gentleman in the back cham-
ber; -- for being thus chained like a criminal un-
"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 com-
mence, are betrayed into a life of duplicity and
falsehood."
They had now reached the house, and were
ushered into a room gaily lighted and filled with
guests. The hostess came forward to receive them,
dressed in white, and sailing down the room like a
swan. When the customary salutations had pass-
ed and Flemming had been duly presented, the
Baron said, not without a certain degree of malice;
"And, my dear Frau Kranich, how is your good
husband to night?"
This question was about as discreet as a can-
"The same as ever, my dear Baron. It is as-
tonishing 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 chief-
ly 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 on
"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 Eng-
lish, 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;
"You will sup with me to-night. I have some
Rhine-wine, which will be a seduction to you."
Soon after, the Baron stood with an impassioned,
romantic lady leaning on his arm, examining a
copy of Raphael's Fornarina.
"Ach! I wish I had been the Fornarina,"
sighed the impassioned, romantic lady.
"Then, my dear Madam," replied the Baron,
"I wish I had been Raphael."
And so likewise said to himself a very tall man
with fiery red hair, and fancy whiskers, who was
waltzing round and round in one spot, and in a
most extraordinary waistcoat; thus representing a
fiery, floating-light, to warn men of the hidden
rocks, on which the breath of vanity drives them
shipwreck. At length, his partner, tired of spin-
"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 Ro-
mans Choisis!"
And merrily went the dance; and bright eyes
and flushed cheeks were not wanting among the
dancers;
and the Strauss-walzes sounded pleasantly in the
"And they waxed red, and waxed warm,
And rested, panting, arm in arm,"
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
candlestick without a light. A sheet was wound
round his head, like a turban; and he tottered
forward with a vacant, bewildered look, exclaim-
ing;
"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. Flem-
ming looked at the lady of the festival, and she
was deadly pale. For a moment all was confu-
sion; and the dance and the music stopped. The
"Truly," said Flemming, to the Baron, as they
wended their way homeward, "this seems not
like reality; but like one of the sharp contrasts
we find in novels. Who shall say, after this, that
there is not more romance in real life, than we find
written in books!"
"Not more romance," said the Baron, "but a
different romance."
A still more tragic scene had been that evening
enacted in Heidelberg. Just as the sun set,
two female figures walked along the romantic
woodland path-way, leading to the Angel's Mead-
ow, 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.
"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 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 its
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 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 forever. The Baron was going to
Berlin, to join his sister; and Flemming, driven
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 val-
ley of the Rhine fell the purple mist, like the man-
tle 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; trans-
parent 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 linden-
trees in the garden near them, their trunks in
darkness and their summits bronzed with moon-
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-
"How sorrowful and sublime is the face of that
statue yonder," said Flemming. "It reminds me
of the old Danish hero Beowulf; for careful, sor-
rowing, he seeth in his son's bower the wine-
hall deserted, the resort of the wind, noiseless;
the knight sleepeth; the warrior lieth in dark-
ness; 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.
"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," an-
swered the Baron, laughing. "But you deceive
yourself. I never knew a more restless, feverish
"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 occupa-
tions and pursuits no longer charm me. The
quiet face of Nature seems to mock me."
"There certainly are seasons," replied the
Baron, "when Nature seems not to sympathize
"I think we must confess, however," continued
Flemming, "that all this springs from our own im-
perfection, not from hers. How beautiful is this
green world, which we inhabit! See yonder, how
the moonlight mingles with the mist! What a
glorious night is this! Truly every man has a
Paradise around him until he sins, and the angel of
an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.
And even then there are holy hours, when this
angel sleeps, and man comes back, and, with the
innocent eyes of a child, looks into his lost Para-
dise again, -- into the broad gates and rural soli-
tudes of Nature. I feel this often. We have
much to enjoy in the quiet and retirement of our
"Yes," interrupted the Baron; "and presently
you will love the city less and the country more.
Say at once, that you have an undefined longing for
both; and prefer town or country, according to
the mood you are in. I think a man must be of a
very quiet and happy nature, who can long en-
dure the country; and, moreover, very well con-
tented with his own insignificant person, very
self-complacent, to be continually occupied with
himself and his own thoughts. To say the least,
a city life makes one more tolerant and liberal in
his judgment of others. One is not eternally
wrapped up in self-contemplation; which, after all,
is only a more holy kind of vanity."
In conversation like this, the hours glided away;
till at length, from the Giant's Tower, the Castle
Beneath them, in the shadow of the hills, lay
the valley, like a fathomless, black gulf; and above
were the cloistered stars, that, nun-like, walk the
holy aisles of heaven. The city was asleep in the
valley below; all asleep and silent, save the clocks,
that had just struck twelve, and the veering, golden
weathercocks, that were swimming in the moon-
shine, like golden fishes, in a glass vase. And
again the wind of the summer night passed through
the old Castle, and the trees, and the nightingales
recorded under the dark, shadowy leaves, and the
heart of Flemming was full.
When he had retired to his chamber, a feeling
of utter loneliness came over him. The night
before one begins a journey is always a dismal
night; for, as Byron says,
And how much more so when the place and peo-
"In leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple!"
"All things must change," said he to the Baron,
as he embraced him, and held him by the hand.
