HY PER ION.
0 
a 
HYPERION,
A ROMANCE.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
"Look not mournofully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wi.ely improve
the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and
with a manly heart."
THIRTEENTH EDITION.
BOSTON:
TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS.
M DCCC L IJ.
BY 
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1845, by
H. W. LONGFELLOW,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts
CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
METCALF AND COMPANY,
PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 
BOOK THE FIRST.
" Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate,
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours
Weeping upon his bed has sate,
He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers."
1
X n — i.. 
.. 
I 
BOOK THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
THE HERO.
IN John Lyly's "Endymion," Sir Topas is
made to say: "Dost thou know what a poet is?
Why, fool, a poet is as much as one should say, -
a poet!"  And thou, reader, dost thou know what
a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should
say,-a hero!  Some romance-writers, however,
say much more than this.  Nay, the old Lombard, Matteo Maria Bojardo, set all the churchbells in Scandiano ringing, merely because he had
found a name for one of his heroes. Here, also,
shall church-bells be rung, but more solemnly.
The setting of a great hope is like the setting
of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.
Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world
seems but a dim reflection,   itself a broader 
HYPERION,
shadow. We look forward into the coming
lonely night.  The  soul withdraws into itself.
Then stars arise, and the night is holy.
Paul Flemming had experienced this, though
still young. The friend of his youth was dead.
The bough had broken " under the burden of
the unripe fruit." And when, after a season, he
looked up again from the blindness of his sorrow,
all things seemed unreal. Like the man whose
sight had been restored by miracle, he beheld
men, as trees, walking. His household gods
were broken.  He had no home.  His sympathies
cried aloud from his desolate soul, and there
came no answer from the busy, turbulent world
around him. He did not willingly give way to
grief. He struggled to be cheerful,- to be
strong. But he could no longer look into the
familiar faces of his friends. He could no longer
live alone, where he had lived with her. He
went abroad, that the sea might be between him
and the grave. Alas! between him and his sorrow there could be no sea, but that of time.
He had already passed many months in lonely
wandering, and was now pursuing his way along
the Rhine, to the South of Germany. He had
journeyed the same way before, in brighter days
4 
A ROMANCE.
and a brighter season of the year, in the May of
life and in the month of May. He knew the
beauteous river all by heart,- every rock and
ruin, every echo, every legend. The ancient
castles, grim and hoar, that had taken root as it
were on the cliffs, -they were all his; for his
thoughts dwelt in them, and the wind told him
tales.
He had passed a sleepless night at Rolandseck,
and had risen before daybreak. He opened the
window of the balcony to hear the rushing of the
Rhine. It was a damp December morning; and
clouds were passing over the sky, -thin, vapory
clouds, whose snow-white skirts were " often spotted with golden tears, which men callstars."   The
day dawned slowly; and, in the mingling of daylight and starlight, the island and cloister of Nonnenwerth made together but one broad, dark shadow on the silver breast of the river. Beyond,
rose the summits of the Siebengebirg. Solemn
and dark, like a monk, stood the Drachenfels, in
his hood of mist; and rearward extended the curtain of mountains, back to the Wolkenburg, - the
Castle of the Clouds.
But Flemming thought not of the scene before
him. Sorrow unspeakable was upon his spirit in
5
0 
HYPERION,
that lonely hour; and, hiding his face in his hands,
he exclaimed aloud:
" Spirit of the past! look not so mournfully at
me with thy great tearful eyes! Touch me not
with thy cold hand! Breathe not upon me with
the icy breath of the grave! Chant no more
that dirge of sorrow, through the long and silent
watches of the night! "
Mournful voices from afar seemed to answer,
" Treuenfels!" and he remembered how others
had suffered, and his heart grew still.
Slowly the landscape brightened. Down the
rushing stream came a boat, with its white wings
spread, and darted like a swallow through the narrow pass of God's-Help. The boatmen were
singing, - but not the song of Roland the Brave,
which was heard of old by the weeping Hilde.gund, as she sat within the walls of that cloister
which now looked forth in the pale morning from
amid the leafless linden-trees. The dim traditions
of those gray old times rose in the traveller's
memory; for the ruined tower of Rolandseck was
still looking down upon the Kloster Nonnenwerth,
as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed the
faithful paladin to stone, and he were watching still
to see the form of his beloved one come forth, not
6 
A ROMANCE.
from her cloister, but from her grave. Thus the
brazen clasps of the book of legends were opened, and, on the page illuminated by the misty rays
of the rising sun, he read again the tales of Liba, I
and the mournful bride of Argenfels, and Sieg-e
fried, the mighty slayer of the dragon. Meanwhile
the mists had risen from the Rhine, and the whole
air was filled with golden vapor, through which he
beheld the sun, hanging in heaven like a drop of
blood. Even thus shone the sun within him, amid
the wintry vapors uprising from the valley of the
shadow of death, through which flowed the stream
of his life, -sighing, sighing!
7 
IIYPERION,
CHAPTER II.
THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH.
PAUL FLEMMING resumed his solitary journey.
The morning was still misty, but not cold. Across
the Rhine the sun came wading through the reddish vapors; and soft and silver-white outspread
the broad river, without a ripple upon its surface,
or visible motion of the ever-moving current.- A
little vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at anchor, keel to keel with another, that lay beneath
it, its own apparition, - and all was silent, and
calm, and beautiful.
The road was for the most part solitary; for
there are few travellers upon the Rhine in winter. Peasant women were at work in the vineyards; climbing up the slippery hill-sides, like
beasts of burden, with large baskets upon their
backs. And once during the morning, a band of
apprentices, with knapsacks, passed by, singing,
8 
A ROMANCE.
— " The Rhine! the Rhine! a blessing on the
Rhine! "
0, the pride of the German heart in this noble river! And right it is; for, of all the rivers of
this beautiful earth, there is none so beautiful as
this. There is hardly a league of its whole course,
from its cradle in the snowy Alps to its grave in
the sands of Holland, which boasts not its peculiar
charms. By heavens! If I were a German, I
would be proud of it too; and of the clustering
grapes that hang about its temples, as it reels onward through vineyards in a triumphal march,
like Bacchus crowned and drunken.
]t I will not attempt to describe the Rhine; it
would make this chapter much too long. And to
do it well, one should write like a god; and his
language flow onward royally with breaks and
dashes, like the waters of that royal river, and antique, quaint, and Gothic times be reflected in it.
Alas! this evening mine flows not at all. Flow,
then, into this smoke-colored goblet, thou blood of
the Rhine! out of thy prison-house, - out of
thy long-necked, tapering flask, in shape not unlike a church-spire among thy native hills; and
from the crystal belfry loud ring the merry tinkling bells, while I drink a health to my hero, in
9 
HYPERION,.
whose heart is sadness, and in whose ears the bells
of Andernach are ringing noon.
He is threading his way alone through a narrow
alley, and now up a flight of stone steps, and
along the city wall, towards that old round tower
built by the Archbishop Frederick of Cologne in
the twelfth century. It has a romantic interest in
his eyes; for he has still in his mind and heart
that beautiful sketch of Carove, in which is described a day on the tower of Andernach. He
finds the old keeper and his wife still there; and
the old keeper closes the door behind him slowly,
as of yore, lest he should jam too hard the oor
souls in purgatory, whose fate it is to suffer iWthe
cracks of doors and hinges.,But, alas! alas! the
daughter, the maiden with long, dark eyelashes!
she is asleep in her little grave, under  the linden-trees of Feldkirche, with rosemary in her folded hands!
Flemming returned to the hotel disappointed.
As he passed along the narrow streets, he was
dreaming of many things; but mostly of the keeper's daughter, asleep in the churchyard of Feldkirche. Suddenly, on turning the corner of an
ancient, gloomy church, his attention was arrested by a little chapel in an angle of the wall. It
10 
A ROMANCE.
was only a small thatched roof, like a bird's nest;
under which stood a rude wooden image of the
Saviour on the cross. A real crown of thorns was
upon his head, which was bowed downward, as if
in the death agony; and drops of blood were
falling dowvn his cheeks, and from his hands and
feet and side. The face was haggard and ghastly
beyond expression, and wore a look of unutterable bodily anguish. The rude sculptor had given
it this, but his art could go no farther.  The
sublimity of death in a dying Saviour, the expiring
God-likeness of Jesus of Nazareth, was not there.
The artist had caught no heavenly inspiration from
his tlme.  All was coarse, harsh, and revolting
to a sensitive mind; and Flemming turned away
with a shudder, as he saw this fearful image gazing
at him, with its fixed and half-shut eyes.
He soon reached the hotel, but that face of
agony still haunted him. He could not refrain
from speaking of it to a very old woman, who
sat knitting by the window of the dining-room, in
a high-backed, old-fashioned arm-chair. I believe
she was the innkeeper's grandmother. At all
events, she was old enough to be so. She took off
her owl-eyed spectacles, and, as she wiped the
glasses with her handkerchief, said:
1! 
HYPERION,
" Thou dear Heaven! Is it possible? Did you
never hear of the Christ of Andernach?"
Flemming answered in the negative.
" Thou dear Heaven! " continued the old woman.  "It is a very wonderful story; and a true
one, as every good Christian in Andernach will
tell you. And it all happened before the death
of my blessed man, four years ago; let me see,
yes, four years ago, come Christmas."
Here the old woman stopped speaking, but
went on with her knitting. Other thoughts seemed to occupy her mind. She was thinking, no
doubt, of her blessed man, as German widows
call their dead husbands. But Flemming having
expressed an ardent wish to hear the wonderful
story, she told it, in nearly the following words.
" There was once a poor old woman in Andernach whose name was Frau Martha, and she lived
all alone in a house by herself, and loved all the
Saints and the Blessed Virgin, and was as good as
an angel, and sold tarts down by the Rheinkrahn.
But her house was very old, and the roof-tiles
were broken, and she was too poor to get new ones,
and the rain kept coming in, and no Christian soul
in Andernach would help her. But the Frau
Martha was a good woman, and never did any body
12 
A ROMANCE.
any harm, but went to mass every morning, and
sold tarts down by the Rheinkrahn. Now one
dark, windy night, when all the good Christians in
Andernach were asleep in the feathers, Frau
Martha, who lay under the roof, heard a great
noise over her head, and in her chamber, drip!
drip! drip! as if the rain were dropping down
through the broken tiles. Dear soul! and, sure
enough, it was. And then there was a pounding
and hammering overhead, as if somebody were at
work on the roof; and she thought it was PelzNickel tearing the tiles off, because she had not
been to confession often enough. So she began to
pray; and the faster she said her Pater-noster
and her Ave-Maria, the faster Pelz-Nickel pounded and pulled; and drip! drip! drip! it went all
round her in the dark chamber, till the poor
woman was frightened out of her wits, and ran to
the window to call for help. Then in a moment
all was still, - death-still. But she saw a light
streaming through the mist and rain, and a great
shadow on the house opposite. And then somebody came down from the top of her house by a
ladder, and had a lantern in his hand; and he took
the ladder on his shoulder and passed down the
street. But she could not see clearly, because
13 
HYPERION,
the window was streaked with rain. And in the
morning the old broken tiles were found scattered
about the street, and there were new ones on the
roof, and the old house has never leaked to this
blessed day.
" As soon as mass was over, Frau Martha told
the priest what had happened, and he said it was
not Pelz-Nickel, but, without doubt, St. Castor or
St. Florian. Then she went to the market and
told Frau Bridget all about it; and Frau Bridget
said, that, two nights before, Hans Claus, the cooper, had heard a great pounding in his shop, and in
the morning found new hoops on all his hogsheads;
and that a man with a lantern and a ladder had
been seen riding out of town at midnight on a donkey; and that the same night the old windmill, at
Kloster St. Thomas, had been mended, and the
old gate of the churchyard at Feldkirche made as
good as new, though nobody knew how the man
got across the river. Then Frau Martha went
down to the Rheinkrahn and told all these stories
over again; and the old ferryman of Fahr said he
could tell something about it; for, the very night
that the churchyard-gate was mended, he was
lying awake in his bed, because hlie could not
sleep, and he heard a loud knocking at the door,
14 
A ROMANCE.
and somebody calling to him to get up and set
him over the river.  And when he got up, he saw
a man down by the river with a lantern and a ladder; but, as he was going down to him, the man
blew out the light, and it was so dark he could not
see who he was; and his boat was old and leaky,
and he was afraid to set him over in the dark; but
the man said he must be in Andernach that night;
and so he set him over. And after they had
crossed the river, he watched the man, till he
came to an image of the Holy Virgin, and saw
him put the ladder against the wall, and go up and
light his lamp, and then walk along the street.
And in the morning he found his old boat all
caulked, and tight, and painted red, and he could
not for his blessed life tell who did it, unless it were
the man with the lantern. Dear soul! how
strange it was!
" And so it went on for some time; and when ever the man with the lantern had been seen walk ing through the street at night, so sure as the
morning came, some work had been done for the
sake of some good soul; and every body knew he
did it; and yet no body could find out who he was,
nor where he lived;- for, whenever any body
came near him, he blew out his light, turned down
15 
HYPERION,
another street, and suddenly disappeared, no body
could tell how. And some said it was Ruibezahl;
and some, Pelz-Nickel; and some, St. Anthonyon-the-Heath.
" Now one stormy night, a poor, sinful creature
was wandering about the streets, with her babe
m her arms, and she was hungry, and cold, and
no soul in Andernach would take her in. And
when she came to the church, where the great
crucifix stands, she saw no light in the little chapel
at the corner; but she sat down on a stone at the
foot of the cross and began to pray, and prayed,
till she fell asleep with her poor little babe on
her bosom. Btit she did not sleep long; for a
bright light shone full in her face; and when she
opened her eyes, she saw a pale man, with a lantern, standing right before her. He was almost
naked; and there was blood upon his hands and
body, and great tears in his beautiful eyes, and
his face was like the face of the Saviour on the
cross. Not a single word did he say to the poor
woman; but looked at her compassionately, and
gave her a loaf of bread, and took the little babe
in his arms, and kissed it. Then the mother
looked up to the great crucifix, but there was no
image there; and she shrieked and fell down as
16 
A ROMANCE.
if she were dead.  And there she was found with
her child; and a few days after, they both died,
and were buried together in one grave. And no
body would have believed her story, if a woman,
who lived at the corner, had not gone to the window, when she heard the scream, and seen the
figure hang the lantern up in its place, and then
set the ladder against the wall, and go up and nail
itself to the cross. Since that night it has never moved again. Ach! Herr Je! "
Such was the legend of the Christ of Andernach, as ithe old woman in spectacles told it to
Flemming. It made a painful impression on his
sick and morbid soul; and he felt, now for the
first time, how great is the power of popular superstition.
The postchaise being already at the door, Flemming was soon on the road to Coblentz, a town
which stands upon the Rhine, at the mouth of the
Mosel, opposite Ehrenbreitstein. It is by no
means a long drive from Andernach to Coblentz
and the only incident which occurred to enliven
the way was the appearance of a fat, red-faced
man on horseback, trotting slowly towards Andernach. As they met, the mad little postilion gave
him a friendly cut with his whip, and broke out
2
17
0 
'HYPERION,
into an exclamation, which showed he was from
Munster:  " Jesmariosp! my friend! How is the Man in
the Custom-house? "
Now to any candid mind this would seem a fair
question enough; but not so thought the red-faced
man on horseback; for he waxed exceedingly angry, and replied, as the chaise whirled by:  " The devil take you, and your Westphalian
ham, and pumpernickel! "
Flemming called to his servant, and the servant
to the postilion, for an explanation of this short
dialogue; and the explanation was, that on the
belfry of the Kaufhaus in Coblentz is a huge
head with a brazen helmet and a beard; and
whenever the clock strikes, at each stroke of the
hammer, this giant's head opens its great jaws and
smites its teeth together, as if, like the brazen head
of Friar Bacon, it would say, -" Time was;
Time is; Time is past." This figure is known
through all the country round about as " The
Man in the Custom-house "; and when a friend in
the country meets a friend from Coblentz, instead
of saying, " How are all the good people in Coblentz? "-he says, " How is the Man in the
Custom-house? " Thus the giant has a great part
is 
A ROMANCE.
to play in the town. And thus ended the first day
of Flemming's Rhine-journey; and the only good
deed he had done was to give an alms to a poor
beggar woman, who lifted up her trembling hands
and exclaimed: -
" Thou blessed babe! "
1.9 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER III.
;    ~t:   I   HOMUNCULUS.
AFTER all, a journey up the Rhine, in the mists
and solitude of December, is not so unpleasant as
the reader may imagine. You have the whole
road and river to yourself. Nobody is on the
wing; hardly a single traveller. The ruins are the
same; and the river, and the outlines of the hills;
and there are few living figures in the landscape
to waked you from your musings, distract your
thoughts, and cover you with dust.
Thus likewise thought our traveller, as he continued his journey on the morrow. The day is
overcast, and the clouds threaten rain or snow.
Why does he stop at the little village of Capellen?
Because, right above him on the high cliff, the glorious ruin of Stolzenfels is looking at him with its
hollow eyes, and beckoning to him with its gigantic
finger, as if to say,-" Come up hither, and I will
tell thee an old tale."  Therefore he alights, and
20 
A ROMANCE.
goes up the narrow village lane, and up the stone
steps, and up the steep pathway, and throws himself into the arms of that ancient ruin, and holds
his breath, to hear the quick footsteps of the falling snow, like the footsteps of angels descending
upon earth. And that ancient ruin speaks to him
with its hollow voice, and says:   " Beware of dreams! Beware of the illusions
of fancy! Beware of the solemn deceivings of thy
vast desires! Beneath me flows the Rhine, and,
like the stream of Time, it flows amid the ruins of
the Past. I see myself therein, and I know that
I am old.  Thou, too, shalt be old.  Be wise in
season. Like the stream of thy life, runs the
stream beneath us. Down from the distant Alps,
- out into the wide world, it bursts away, like a
youth from the house of his fathers. Broad-breasted and strong, and with earnest endeavours, like
manhood, it makes itself a way through these difficult mountain-passes. And at length, in its old
age, it falters, and its steps are weary and slow,
and it sinks into the sand, and, through its grave,
passes into the great ocean, which is its eternity.
Thus shall it be with thee.
"In ancient times, there dwelt within these halls
a follower of Jesus of Jerusalem, -an Archbish
21 
HYPERION,
op in the church of Christ. lie gave himself up
to dreams, to the illusions of fancy; to the vast
desires of the human soul. He sought after the
impossible. He sought after the Elixir of Life,
- the ]Philosopher's Stene. The wealth, that
should have fed the poor, was melted in his crucibles. Within these walls the Eagle of the clouds
sucked the blood of the Red Lion, and received
the spiritual love of the Green Dragon; but, alas!
was childless. In solitude and utter silence did
the disciple of the Hermetic Philosophy toil from
day to day, from night to night.  From the place
where thou standest, he gazed at evening upon
hills, and vales, and waters spread beneath him;
and saw how the setting sun had changed them all
to gold, by an alchemy more cunning than his
own. He saw the world beneath his feet; and
said in his heart, that he alone was wise. Alas!
he read more willingly in the book of Paracelsus than in the book of Nature; and, believing
that' where reason hath experience, faith hath
no mind,' would fain have made unto himself a
child, not as Nature teaches us, but as the Philosopher taught, - a poor homunculus, in a glass
bottle.  And he died poor and childless!"
Whether it were worth while to climb the Stolz
22
'9
?
~
-4
114 
A ROMANCE.
enfels to hear such a homily as this, some persons
may perhaps doubt. But Paul Flemming doubted not. He laid the lesson to heart; and it would
have saved him many an hour of sorrow, if he had
learned that lesson better, and remembered it
longer.
In ancient times, there stood in the citadel of 
Athens three.statues of Minerva. The first was
of olive-wood, and, according to popular tradition,
had fallen from heaven. The second was of
bronze, commemorating the victory of Marathon;
and the third of gold and ivory, - a great miracle
of art, in the age of Pericles. And thus in the
citadel of Time stands Man himself.  In childhood, shaped of soft and delicate wood, just fallen
from heaven; in manhood, a statue of bronze,
commemorating struggle and victory; and, lastly,
in the maturity of age, perfectly shaped in gold
and ivory, - a miracle of art!
Flemming had already lived through the olive
age. He was passing into the age of bronze, into his early manhood; and in his hands the flowers of Paradise were changing to the sword and
shield.
And this reminds me that I have not yet described my hero. I will do it now, as he stands
23
;..;
I. 
~,,,:
b",: A. >, 
HYPERION,
looking down on the glorious landscape; - but
in few words. Both in person and character he
resembled Harold the Fair-Hair of Norway, who
is described, in the old Icelandic Deaih-Song
of Regner Hairy-Breeches, as " the young chief
so proud of his flowing locks; he who spent his
mornings among the young maidens; he who
loved to converse with the handsome widows. "
This was an amiable weakness; and it sometimes
led him into mischief. Imagination was the ruling power of his mind.  His thoughts were twinborn; the thought itself, and its figurative semblance in the outer world.   Thus, through the
quiet, still waters of his soul each image' floated
double, " swan and shadow."
These traits of character, a good heart and a
poetic imagination, made his life joyous and the
world beautiful; till at length Death cut down the
sweet blue flower that bloomed beside him, and
wounded him with that sharp sickle, so that he,
bowed his head, and would fain have been bound
up in the same sheaf with the sweet blue flower.
Then the world seemed to him less beautiful, and
life became earnest. ( It would have been well,
if he could have forgotten the past; that he might
not so mournfully have lived in it, but might have
24
Iv
t 
A ROMANCE.
enjoyed and improved the present. But this his
heart refused to do; and ever, as he floated upon
the great sea of life, he looked down through the
transparent waters, checkered with sunshine and
shade, into the vast chambers of the mighty deep
in which his happier days had sunk, and wherein they were lying still visible, like golden sands,
and precious stones, and pearls; and, half in despair, half in hope, he grasped downward after
them again, and drew back his hand, filled only
with seaweed, and dripping with briny tears!
And between him and those golden sands a radiant image floated, like the spirit in Dante's Paradise, singing "Ave Maria! " and while it sang,
dow,n-sinking, and slowly vanishing away.
In all things he acted more from impulse than
fiom fixed principle; as is the case with most
young men. ) Indeed, his principles hardly had
time to take root; for he pulled them all up,
every now and then, as children do the flowers
they have planted,- to see if they are growing.
Yet there was much in him which was good; for
underneath the flowers and greensward of poetry,
and the good principles which would have taken
root, had he given them time, there lay a strong
and healthy soil of common sense,- freshened
25
II 
HYPERIONE
by living springs of feeling, (and enriched by
many faded hopes, that had fallen upon it like
dead leaves. )
9
26 
A ROMANCE.
CIdAPTER IV.
THE LANDLADY S DAUGHTER.
"ALLEZ,  zucts! allez, ls."  cried the
impatient postilion to his horses, in accents,
which, like the wild echo of the Lurley Felsen, i
came first from one side of the river, and then
from the other, - that is to say, in words alternately French and German. The truth is, he
was tired of waiting; and when Flemming had at
length resumed his seat in the postchaise, the poor
horses had to make up the time he had lost in
dreams on the mountain. This is far oftener the
case than most people imagine. One half of the
world must sweat and groan, that the other half
may dream. It would have been a difficult task
for the traveller or his postilion to persuade the
horses that these dreams were all for their good.
The next stopping-place was the little tavern
of the Star, an out-of-the-way corner in the town
of Salzig. It stands on the banks of the Rhine;
27 
HYPERIOIT
and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water's
edge, rise the mountains of Liebenstein and Ster nenfels, each with its ruined castle.  These are
the Brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at
each other face to face; and beneath them in
the valley stands a cloister, -meet emblem of
that orphan child they both so passionately loved.
In a small flat-bottomed boat did the land lady's daughter row Flemming " over the Rhine stream, rapid and roaring wide." She was a
beautiful girl of sixteen; with black hair, and
dark, lovely exs, and a face that had a story to
tell.  How  different faces are in this particularI
RSome of them speak not.   They are books in',
which not a line is written, save perhaps a date.:
Others are great Family Bibles, with both the Old
and the New Testament written in them. Others
are  Motheir Goose  and  nursery tales; others,,
'bad tragLedies, or pickle-herring farces; and oth ers, like that of the landlady's daughter at the
Star, sweet love-anthologies, and songs of the
affections.  It was on that account that Flemming said to her, as they glided out into the swift
stream: sc My dear child! do you know the story of the.
Liebenstein? "
28 
A ROMANCE.
C; The story of the Liebenstein," she answered,
" I knew by heart, when I was a little child."
And here her large, dark, passionate eyes
looked into Flemming's, and he doubted  not
that she had learned the story far too soon and
far too well. That story he longed to hear, as
if it were unknown to him; for he knew that the
girl, who had got it by heart when a child, would
tell it as it should be told. So he begged her to
repeat the story, which she was but too glad to
do; for she loved and believed it, as if it had all
been written in the Bible. But before she began,
she rested a moment on her oars, and taking the
crucifix, which hung suspended from her neck,
kissed it, and then let it sink down into her bosom,
as if it were an anchor she was dropping into her
heart. Meanwhile her moist, dark eyes were
turned to heaven. Perhaps her soul was walking with the souls of Cunizza, and Rahab, and
Miary Magdalen. Or perhaps she was thinking
of that nun, of whom St. Gregory says, in his
Dialogues, that, having greedily eaten a lettuce
in a garden, without making the sign of the cross,
she found herself soon after possessed with a
devil.
The probability, however, is, that she was
29 
HYPERION,
lookmg at the ruined castles only, and not to heaven, for she soon began her story, and told Flemming
how, a great, great many years ago, an old man
lived in the Liebenstein with his two sons; and
how both the young men loved the Lady Geraldine, an orphan, under their father's care; and
how the elder brother went away in despair, and
the younger was betrothed to the Lady Geraldine; and how they were as happy as Aschenputtel and the Prince. And then the holy Saint
Bernard came and carried away all the young
men to the war, just as Napoleon did afterwards;
and the young lord went to the Holy Land, and
the Lady Geraldine sat in her tower and wept,
and waited for her lover's return, while the old
father built the Sternenfels for them to live in
when they were married. And when it was
finished, the old man died; and the elder brother came back and lived in the Liebenstein, and
took care of the gentle lady. Ere long there
came news from the Holy Land that the war
was  over; and the heart of the gentle lady
beat with joy, till she heard that her faithless
love was coming back with a Greek wife,- the
wicked man! and then she went into a convent
and became a holy nun. So the young lord of
30 
A ROMANCE.
Sternenfels came home, and lived in his castle
in great splendor with the Greek woman, who
was a wicked woman, and did what she ought
not to do. But the elder brother was angry
for the wrong done the gentle lady, and challenged the lord of Sternenfels to single combat.
And while they were fighting with their great
swords in the valley of Bornhofen behind the
castle, the convent bells began to ring, and the
Lady Geraldine came forth with a train of nuns
all dressed in white, and made the brothers
friends again,.and told them she was the bride
of Heaven, and happier in her convent than she
could haye been in the Liebenstein or the Sternenfels.  And wh   the brothers returned, they
found that the       Greek wife had gone away
with another knight. So they lived together
in peace, and were never married. And when
they died 
" Lisbeth!  Lisbeth! "  cried a sharp voice
from the shore, " Lisbeth! Where are you
taking the gentleman? "
This recalled the poor girl to her senses; and
she saw how fast they were floating down stream.
For in telling the story she had forgotten every
thing else, and the swift current had swept them
31 
HYPERION,
down to the tall walnut-trees of Kamp.   They
landed in front of the Capuchin monastery. Lisbeth led the way through the little village, and
turning to the right pointed up the romantic, lonely valley which leads to the Liebenstein, and
even offered to go with him. But Flemming
patted her cheek and shook his head. He went
up the valley alone.
32
w 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER V.
JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE.
It was already night, when Flemmning crossed
the Roman bridge over the Nahe, and entead
the town of Bingen. He stopped at the White
Horse   and, before going to bed, looked out into
the dim starlight from his window towards the
Rhine, and his heart leaped within him to behold
the bold outline of the neighbouring hills crested
with Gothic ruins;  which in the morning proved
to be only a high,     d roof, with fantastic chimneys.
The morning was bright and frosty; and the
river tinged with gay colors by the rising sun.
A  soft, thin vapor  floated in the air.  In the
sunbeams flashed the hoar-frost, like silver stars;
and through a long avenue of trees, whose dripping branches bent and scattered pearls before 
him, Paul Flemming journeyed on in triumph.
The man in the play, who wished for  some
forty pounds of lovely beef, placed in a Medi
3
33
0 
HYPERION,
terranean sea of brewis," might have seen his
ample desires almost realized at the table d'hote
of the Rheinischen Hof, in Mayence, where
Flemming dined that day. At the head of the
table sat a gentlemnan, with a smooth, broad
forehead,  and large, intelligent eyes.   He  was
from Baireuth in Franconia; and talked about
poetry and Jean Paul to a pale, romantic-lookinf lady on his right. There was music all dinner-time, at the other end of the hall; a harp
and a horn and a voice; so that a great part of
the fat gentleman's conversation with the pale
lady was lost to Flemming, who sat opposite to
her, and could look right into her large, melancholy eyes.  But what he hard  so much interested him,-  indeed, the       name of the beloved Jean Paul would have been enough for
this, -that he ventured to join in the conversation, and asked the Germnan if he had known the
poet personally.
"Yes; I knew him well," replied the stranger.   "I am a native of Baireuth,  where  he
passed the best years of his life.  In my mind
the man and the author are  closely. united.   I
never read a page of his writings without hearing
his voice, and seeing his form before me.   Tlhere
34
F-I 
A ROMANCE.
he sits, with his majestic, mountainous forehead,
his mild blue eyes, and finely cut nose and mouth
his massive frame clad loosely and carelessly in
an old green frock, from the pockets of which
the corners of books project, and perhaps the
end of a loaf of bread and the nose of a bottle
-  a straw hat, lined with green, lying near him;
a huge walking-stick in his hand, and at his feet
a white pood!e, with pink eyes, and a string round
his neck. You would sooner have taken him
for a master-carpenter than for a poet.  Is he a
favorite author of yours?"   Flemming answered
in the affirmative.
" But a foreigner must find it exceedingly
difficult to understand him," said the gentleman.
" It is by no means an easy task for us Germans."
"I have always observed," replied Flemming,
"that the true understanding and appreciation of
a poet depend more upon individual than upon
national character.  If there be a sympathy between the minds of writer and reader, the bounds
and barriers of a foreign tongue are soon overleaped.   If you  once  understand an  author's
character, the comprehension of his writings becomes easy."
i Very true," replied the German, "and the
35 
HYPERION,
character of Richter is too marked to be easily
misunderstood.  Its prominent traits are tenderness and manliness, -qualities  which  are seldom found united in so high a degree as in him.
Over all he sees, over all he writes, are spread
the sunbeams of a cheerful spirit,- the light
of inexhaustible human love. Every sound of
human joy and of human sorrow finds a deepresounding echo in his bosom. In every man,
he loves his humanity only, not his superiority.
The avowed object of all his literary labors was
to raise up again the down-sunken faith in God,
Virtue, and Immortality; and, in an egotistical,
revolutionary age, to warm again our human
sympathies, which have now grown cold. And
not less boundless is his love for nature, -for
this outward, beautiful world.   He embraces it
all in his arms."
"Yes,". answered  Flemming,  almost  taking
the words out of the stranger's mouth, "forin
his mind all things become idealized. He seems
to describe himself when he describes  the hero
'of his Titan, as a child, rocking in a high wind
upon the branches of a full-blossomed apple-tree,
and, as its summit, blown abroad by the wind,
now sunk him in deep green, and now tossed
36 
A ROMANCE.
himn aloft in deep blue and glancing sunshine,
in his imagination stood that tree gigantic;-it
grew alone in the universe, as if it were the tree
of eternal life; its roots struck down into the
abyss; the white and red clouds hung as blossoms
upon it; the moon as fruit; the little stars sparkled like dew, and Albano reposed in its measureless summit; and a storm swayed the summit
out of Day into Niglht, and out of Night into Day."
"Yet the spirit of love," interrupted the F'ranconian, " was not weakness, but strength.  It was
united in him with great manliness.  The sword
of his spirit had been forged and beaten by
poverty.  Its temper had been tried by a thirty
years' war. It was not broken, not even blunted, but rather strengthened and sharpened, by
the blows it gave and received.   And, possessing this noble spirit of humanity, endurance, and
self-denial, he made literature his profession;
as if he had been divinely commissioned to write.
He seems to have cared for nothing else, to
have thought of nothing else, than living quietly
and making books.   He  says that he felt it his
duty, not to enjoy, nor to acquire, but to write
and boasted that he had made as many books
as he had lived years."
37 
HYPERION)
"And  what  do you  Germans  consider  the
prominent characteristics of his genius?"
"Most undoubtedly, his wild imagination and
his playfulness.   He  throws  over all things a
strange  and magic coloring.   You  ares startled
at the boldness and beauty of his figures and illustrations, which are scattered everywhere with
a reckless prodigality; - multitudinous, like the
blossoms of early summer, - and as fragrant
and  beautiful. (With a thousand extravagances
are mingled ten thousand beauties of thought
and expression, which kindle the reader's imagination, and lead it onward in a bold flight,
through the glow of sunrise and sunset, and the
dewy coldness and starlight of summer  nights
He is difficult to understand, - intricate,strange, - drawing his illustrations from every
by-corner of science, art, and nature,-  a comet, among the bright stars of German literature.
When you read his works, it is as if you were
climbing a high mountain, in merry company, to
see thie sun rise. At timnes you are enveloped
in mist, - the morning wind sweeps by you with
a shout, -you hear the far-off muttering thunders. WVide beneath you spreads the landscape,
-field, meadow, town, and winding river.  The
38 
A ROMANCE.
ringing of distant church-bells, or the sound of
solemn village clock, reaches you;- then arises
the sweet and manifold fragrance of flowers, -
the birds begin to sing,-  the vapors roll away,
-up comes the glorious sun, -you revel like
the lark in the sunshine and bright blue heaven,
and all is a delirious dream of soul and sense,when suddenly a friend at your elbow laughs
aloud, and offers you a piece of Bologna sausage.
As in real life, so in his writings, -the serious
and the comic, the sublime and the grotesque,
the pathetic and the ludicrous, are mingled together.  At  times he is sententious,  energetic,
simple; then again, obscure and diffuse. His
thoughts are like mummies embalmed in spices,
and wrapped about with curious envelopments;
but within these the thloughts themselves are
kings.   At  times glad, beautiful  images, airy
forms, move by you, graceful, harmonious; at times the glaring, wild-looking fancies, chained
together by hyphens, brackets, and dashes, brave
and base, high and low, all in their motley dress es, go sweeping down the dusty page, like the
gall]-slaves  that sweep the streets of Rome,
where you may chance to see the nobleman and
the peasant manacled together." 
39 
HYPERION,
Flemming smiled at the German's warmth,
to which the presence of the lady, and the Lau benheimer  wine, seemed  each to have contrib uted something, and then said:   "Better  an  outlaw than not free! -These
are his own words. And thus he changes at
his will Like the God Thor, of the old North ern mythology,  he now holds  forth the seven
bright stars in the bright heaven above us, and
now  hides himself in clouds, and pounds away
with his great hammner."
" And yet this is not affectation in him," rejoined the German.   "It  is his nature, it is
Jean Paul. And the figures and ornaments of
his style, wild, fantastic, and ofttimes startling,
like those in Gothic cathedrals, are not merely
what they seem, but massive coignes and buttresses, which support the fabric.  Remove them,
and  the roof and  walls fall in.  And through
these gargoyles, these wild faces, these images
of beasts and men carved upon spouts and gutters, flow out, like gathered rain, the bright,
abundant thoughts, that have fallen from heaven.
And all he does is done with a kind of sous
playfulness.   He  is a  sea-monster,  disporting
himself on the broad ocean; his very sport is
40 
A ROMANCE.
earnest; there is something majestic and serious
about it. rn every thing there is strength, a
rough good-nature, all sunshine overhead, and
underneath the heavy moaning of the sea. Well
may he be called'Jean Paul, the Only-One.' "
With such discourse the hour of dinner passed; and after dinner Flemming went to the cathedral.   They were singinig vespers.   A beadle,
dressed in blue, with a cocked hat, and a crimson sash and collar, was strutting, like a turkey,
along  the  aisles.   This  important  gentleman
conducted Flemming through the church, and
showed him the choir, with its heavy-sculptured stalls of oak, and the beautiful figures in
brown  stone  over  the  bishops'  tomnbs.   He
then led hin, by a side-door, into the old and
ruined cloisters of St.  Willigis.  Through  the
low Gothic arches the sunshine streamed upon
the pavement of tombstones, whose images and
inscriptions are mostly effaced by the footsteps
of many generations.   There stands the tomb of
Frauenlob, the Minnesinger. His face is sculptured on an entablature in the wall; a fine, strongly-(*ked, and  serious countenance.   Below it
is a bas-relief, representing the poet's funeral.
He is carried to his grave by ladies, whlose praise
he sang, and thereby won the name of Frauenlob.
41
i
I 
HYPERION,
" This, then," said Flemming, " is the grave,
not of Praise-God Bare-bones, but of Praise-theLadies Meissen, who wrote songs' somewhat ot
lust, and somewhat of love.' But where sleeps
the dust of his rival and foe, sweet Master Bartholomew Rainbow?"
He meant this for an aside; but the turkeycock picked it up and answered:  " I do not know. He did not belong to this
parish."
I will not prolong this journey, for I am weary
and way-worn, and would fain be at Heidelberg
with my readers and my hero. It was already
night when he reached the Manheim gate, and
drove down the long Hauptstrasse so slowly,
that it seemed to him endless.  The  shops were
lighted on each side of the street, and he saw
faces at the windows here and there, and figures
passing in the lamp-lighlt, visible for a moment
and then swallowed up in the darkness. The
thoughts that filled his mind were strange; as are
always the thoughts of a traveller who enters for
the first time a strange city.  This little world
had been going on for centuries before he owne;
and would go on for centuries after he was gone.
Of all the thousands who inhabited it he knew
42
l 
A ROMANCE.
nothing; and what knew they, or thought, of the
stranger, who, in that close postchaise, weary
with travel, and chilled by the evening wind, was
slowly rumbling over the paved street? Truly,
this world can go on without us, if we would but
think so. If it had been a hearse instead of a
postchaise, it would have been all the same to
tie people of Heidelberg, - though by no means
the same to Paul Flemming.
But at the farther end of the city, near the
Castle and the Carls-Tlior, one warm heart was
waiting to receive him; and this was the German
heart of his friend, the Baron of Hohenfels, with
whom he was to pass the winter in Heidelberg.
No sooner had the carriage stopped at the irongrated gate, and the postilion blown his horn, to
announce the arrival of a traveller, than the Baron was seen among the servants at the door;
and, a few moments afterwards, the two longabsent friends were in each other's arms, and
Flemming received a kiss upon each cheek, and
another on the mouth, as the pledge and seal
of the German's friendship. They held each
other long by the hand, and lookednto each
other's face, and saw themselves in each other's
eyes, both literally and figuratively; literally, inas
43 
HYPERION,
much as the images were there; and figuratively,
inasmuch as each was imagining what the other
thought of him, after the lapse of some years.
In friendly hopes and questionings and answers,
the evening glided away at the supper-table,
where many more things were discussed than
the roasted hare and the Johannisberger; and
they sat late into the night, conversing of the
thoughts and feelings and delights which fill the
hearts of young men who have already enjoyed
and suffered, and hoped and been disappointed.
44
. 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER VI.
HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON.
HIGH and hoar on the forehead of the Jettenbuihl stands the Castle of Heidelberg. Behind
it rise the oak-crested hills of the Geissberg and
the Kaiserstuhl; and in front, from the wide
terrace of masonry, you can almost throw a stone
upon the roofs of the town, so close do they lie
beneath.  Above  this terrace  rises the broad
front of the chapel of Saint Udalrich.   On the
left stands the slender octagon  tower of the
horologe; and on the right, a huge round tower,
battered and shattered by the mace of war,
shores up with its broad shoulders the beautiful
palace and garden-terrace of Elizabeth, wife of
the Count Palatine Frederick. In the rear are
older palaces and towers, forming a vast, irregular
quadrangle; -Rodolph's ancient castle, with its
Gothic gloriette and fantastic gables; the Giant's
45 
HYPERION,
Tower, guarding the drawbridge over the moat;
the Rent Tower, with the linden-trees growing
on its summit; and the magnificent Rittersaal
of Otho-Henry, Count Palatine of the Rhine
and Grand Seneschal of the Holy Roman Empire.
From the gardens behind the castle, you pass
under the archway of the Giant's Tower into
the great court-yard.   The  diverse architecture
of different ages strikes the eye; and curious
sculptures.  In niches on the wall of Saint Udalrich's chapel stand rows of knights in armor,
broken and dismembered; and on the front of
Otho's Rittersaal, the heroes of Jewish history
and classic fable. You enter the open and desolate chambers of the ruin; and on every side are
medallions and family arms; the Globe of the
Empire and the Golden Fleece, or the Eagle
of the Casars, resting on the escutcheons of
Bavaria and the Palatinate. Over the windows
and door-ways and chimney-pieces are sculptures and mouldings of exquisite workmanship;
and the eye is bewildered by the profusion of
caryatides, and arabesques, and rosettes, and
fan-like flutings, and garlands of fruits and flowers and acorns, and bullocks' heads with draperies of foliage, and muzzles of lions, holding rings
46 
A ROMANCE.
in their teeth. The cunning hand of Art was
busy for six centuries in raising and adorning
these walls; the mailed hands of Time and War
have defaced and overthrown them in less than
two. Next to the Alhambra of Granada, the
Castle of Heidelberg is the most magnificent ruin
of the Middle Agds.
In the valley below flows the rushing stream
of the Neckar. Close from its margin, on the
opposite side, rises the Mountain of All-Saints,
crowned with the ruins of a convent; and up the
valley stretches the mountain-curtain of the Odenwald.  So close and many are the hills which
eastward shut the valley in, that the river seems
a lake. But westward it opens upon the broad
plain of the Rhine, like the mouth of a trumpet;
and like the blast of a trumpet is at times the
wintry wind through this narrow mountain-pass.
The blue Alsatian hills rise beyond; and, on a
platform or strip of level land, between the Neckar and the mountains, right under the castle,
stands the town of Heidelberg; as the old song
says, " a pleasant town, when it' has done raining."
Something otf this did Paul Flemming behold,
when he rose the next morning and looked from
47 
HYPERION,
his window. It was a warm, vapory morning,
and a struggle was going on between the mist
and the rising sun. The sun had taken the hilltops, but the mist still kept possession of the
valley and the town. The steeple of the great
church rose through a dense mass of snow-white
clouds; and eastward, on the hills, the dim vapors were rolling across the windows of the ruined
castle, like the fiery smoke of a fierce conflagration.  It seemed to him an image of the rising
of the sun of Truth on a benighted world; its
light streamed through the ruins of centuries;
and, down in the valley of Time, the cross on
the Christian church caught its rays, though the
priests were singing in mist and darkness below.
In the warm breakfast-room he found the
Baron waiting for him. He was lying upon a
sofa, in morning gown and purple-velvet slippers,
both with flowers upon them. He had a guitar
in his hand, and a pipe in his mouth, at the same
time smoking, playing, and humming his favorite
song from Goethe: —
The water rushed, the water swelled,
A fisher sat thereby."
Flemming could hardly refrain from laughing,
at the sight of his friend; and told him it reminded
48 
A ROMANCE.
him of a street-mrusician he once saw in Aix-laChapelle, who was playing upon six instruments
a    t     once; having a helmet with bells on his head,
a Pan's-reed in his cravat, a fiddle in his hand,
a triangle on his knee, cymbals on his heels, and
on his back a bass-drum, which he played with
his elbows. To tell the truth, the Baron of
Hohenfels was rather a miscellaneous youth,
rather a universal genius. He pursued all things
with eagerness, but for a short time only; music,
poetry, painting, pleasure, even the study of the
Pandects. His feelings were keenly alive to
the enjoyment of life. His great defect was,
that  he was too much in love with human nature.
But by the power of imagination, in him, the
bearded goat was changed to a bright Capricornus; - no longer an animal on earth, but a constellation in heaven. An easy and indolent disposition made him gentle and childlike in his
manners; and, in short, the beauty of his character, like that of the precious opal, was owing to
a defect in its organization. His person was tall
and         slightly built; his hair light; and his eyes
olue, a    nd    as beautiful as those of a girl)  In the
tones of his voice there was something indescribably gentle and winning; and he spoke the Ger                 4
49
l
!i  
HYPERION,
man language with the soft, musical accent of
lis native province of Curland. In his manners,
if he had not " Antinous' easy sway," he had at
least an easy sway of his own. Such, in few
words, was the bosom friend of Flemming.
" And what do you think of Heidelberg and
the old castle? " said he, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table.
' Last night the town seemed very long to
me," replied Flemming; " and as to the castle,
I have as yet had but a glimpse of it through the
mist.  They tell me there is nothing finer in its
way, than this magnificent ruin; and I have
no doubt I shall find it so. Only I wish the
stone were gray, and not red. But, red or gray,
I foresee that I shall waste many a long hour in
its desolate halls. Pray, does any body live there
now-a-days? "
" No body," answered the Baron, " but the
man who shows the Heidelberg Tun, and a
Frenchman, who has been there sketching ever
since the year eighteen hundred and ten. He
has, moreover, written a super-magnificent description of the ruin, in which he says, that during the day only birds of prey disturb it with
their piercing cries, and at night, screech-owls,
50 
A ROMANCE.
and other fallow deer. You must buy his book
and his sketches."
" Yes, the quotation and the tone of your
voice will certainly persuade me so to do."
" Take his or none, my friend, for you will
find no others. And seriously, his sketches are
very good. There is one on the wall there,
which is beautiful, save and except that straddlebug figure among the bushes in the corner."
" But is there no ghost, no haunted chamber
hi the old castle? " asked Flemming, after casting a hasty glance at the picture.
"' 0, certainly," replied the Baron; " there
are two. There is the ghost of the Virgin Mlary
in Ruprecht's Tower, and the Devil in the Dungeon."
" IHa! that is grand! " exclaimed Flemming,
with evident delight. "c Tell me the whole story,
quickly! I am as curious as a child."
" It is a tale of the times of Louis le Debonnaire," said the Baron, with a smile; " a mouldy
tradition of a credulous age. His brother Frederick lived here in the castle with him, and had a
flirtation with Leonore von Luzelstein, a lady of
the court, whom he afterwards despised, and was
consequently most cordially hated by her. From
51 
HYPERION,
political motives, he was equally hateful to certain
petty German tyrants, who, in order to effect his
ruin, accused him of heresy. But his brother
Louis would not deliver him up to their fury,
and they resolved to effect by stratagem what
they could not by intrigue. Accordingly, Leonore von Luzelstein, disguised as the Virgin Mary,
and the father confessor of the Elector, in the
costume of Satan, made their appearance in the
Elector's bed-chamber at midnight, and frightened him so horribly, that he consented to deliver up his brother into the hands of two Black
Knights, who pretended to be ambassadors from
the Vehm-Geri-cht. They proceeded together to
Frederick's chamber; where, luckily, old Gemmingen, a brave soldier, kept guard behind the
arras. The monk went foremost in his Satanic
garb; but, no sooner had he set foot in the prince's
bed-chamber, than the brave Gemmingen drew
his sword, and said quaintly,'Die, wretch!'
and so he died. The rest took to their heels,
and were heard of no more. And now the souls
of Leonore and the monk haunt the scene of
their midnight crime. You will find the story in
the Frenchman's book, worked up with a kind
of red-morocco and burnt-cork sublimity, and
52 
A ROMANCE.
great melo-dramatic clanking of chains, and
hooting of owls, and other fallow deer!"
" After breakfast," said Flemming, "we will
go up to the castle.  I must get acquainted with
this mirror of owls, this modern Till Eulenspiegel. See what a glorious morning we have!
It is truly a wondrous winter! what.       r sunshine! what soft Venetian fogs!       he  wa
ton, treacherous air coquets with the old graybeard trees!  Such  weather  makes  the gras$s
and our beards grow apace! But we have an
old saying in English, that winter never rots in
the sky. So he will come down at last inhis
old-fashioned mealy coat. We shall have snow
in spring; and the blossoms will be all snowflakes. And afterwards a summer, which will
be no summer, but, as Jean Paul says, only a
winter painted green.  Is it not so?
" Unless I am much deceived in the climate
of Heidelberg," replied the Baron, "we shall
not have to wait long for snow. We have sudden changes here; and I should not marvel much,
if it snowed before night."
" The greater reason  for making  good use
of the morning sunshine, then. Let us hasten
to the castle, after which my heart yearns."
53 
4.YP E RIQI,  - 
CHAPTER VII.
~.:...ES OF SCHOLARS.
THE forebodings of the Baron proved true.
(n the afternoon the weather changed.   The
western wind began to blow, and drew a cloudveil over the face of heaven, as a breath does
ov;  the human  face in a mirror.  S;oon  the
snow began to fall. Athwart the distant landscape it swept like a white mist. The storm-wind
came from the Alsatian hills, and struck the
dense clouds aslant through the air. And ever
faster fell the snow, a roaring torrent from those
mountainous  clouds.   The  setting sun glared
wildly from the summit of the hills, and sank
like a burning ship at sea, wrecked in the tempest.   Thus  the evening set in; and winter
stood at the gate wagging his white and shaggy
beard, like an old harper chanting an old rhyme
-" How cold it is!'low cold it is!"
"I like such a storm as this," said Flem
54 
A ROMNCcE.
ming, who stood at the window, looking out
into the tempest and the gathering darkness.
" The silent falling of snow is to me one of the
most solemn things in nature.   The fall of autumnal leaves does not so much affect me. But
the driving storm is grand.  It startles me; it
awakens me. It is wild and woful, like my own
soul.  I cannot help thinking of the sea; how
the waves run and toss their arms about,-  and
the wind plays on those great sonorous harps,
the shrouds and masts of ships. Winter is here
in earnest!  How  the old churl whistles and
threshes the snow!  Sleet and rain are falling
too.  Already the trees are bearded with icicles;
and the two broad branches of yonder pine look
like the white mustache of some old German
baron."
" And to-morrow it will look more wintry
still," said his friend. " We shall wake up and
find that the frost-spirit has been at work all
night building Gothic cathedrals on our windows,
just as the Devil built the Cathedral of Cologne.
So draw the curtains, and come, sit here by the
warm fire."
" And now," said Flemming, having done as
his friend desired, " tell me something of Hei
55 
HYPERION,
delberg and its University.  I suppose we shall
lead about as solitary and studious a life here as
we did of yore in little G6ttingen, with nothing
to amuse us, save our own day-dreams."
" Pretty much so," replied the Baron; " which
cannot fail to please you, since you are in pursuit of tranquillity. As to the University, it
is, as you know, one of the oldest in Germany.
It was founded in the fourteenth century by the
Count Palatine Ruprecht, and had in the first
year more than five hundred students, all busily
committing to memory, after the old scholastic
wise, the rules of grammar versified by Alexander de Villa Dei, and the extracts made by
Peter the Spaniard from Michel Psellus's Synopsis of Aristotle's Organon, and the Categories,
with Porphyry's Commentaries.   Truly,  I do
not much wonder, that Erigena Scotus should
have been put to death by his scholars with their
penknives. They must have been pushed to
the very verge of despair."
" What a strange picture a university presents
to the imagination!  The  lives of scholars in
their cloistered stillness;- literary men of retired habits, and professors who  study sixteen
hours a day, and never see the world but on a
56 
A ROMANCE.
Sunday. Nature has; no doubt, for some wise
purpose, placed in their hearts this love of literary labor and seclusion. ( Otherwise, who would
feed the undying lamp  of thought?  But  for
such men as these, a blast of wind through the
chinks and crannies of this old world, or the
flapping of a conqueror's banner, would blow it
out for ever.  The  light of the soul is easily
extinguished. And whenever I reflect upon
these things, I become aware of the great importance, in a nation's history, of the individual
fame of scholars and literary men. I fear that
it is far greater than the world is willing to acknowledge; or, perhaps I should say, than the
world has thought of acknowledging. Blot out
from England's history the names of Chaucer,
Shakspeare, Spenser, and Milton only, and how
much of her glory would you blot out with them!
Take from Italy such names as Dante, Petrarch,
Boccaccio, MAlichel Angelo, and Raphael, and
how much would be wanting to the completeness
of her glory! HIow would the history of Spain
look, if the leaves were torn out on which are
written the names of Cervantes, Lope de Vega,
and Calderon? What would be the fame of
Portugal, without her Camoens; of France,
57 
HYPERION,
without her Racine, and Rabelais, and Voltaire;
or Germany,  without her Martin  Luther, her
.  Goethe, and her Schiller?  Nay, what were the
nations of old, without their philosophers, poets,
and historians? Tell me, do not these men, in
all ages and in all places, emblazon with bright
colors the armorial bearings of their country?
Yes, and far more than this; for in all ages and
in all places they give humanity assurance of its
greatness, and say,-' Call not this time or peo ple wholly barbarous; for thus much, even then
and there, could the human mind achieve!'  But
the boisterous world has hardly thought of ac knowledging all this. Therein it has shown
itself somewhat ungrateful. Else, whence the
great reproach, the general scorn, the loud de rision, with which, to take a familiar example,
the monks of the Middle Ages are regarded?
That they slept their lives away is most untrue.
For in an age when books were few, - so few,
so precious, that they were often chained to
their oaken shelves with iion chains, like galley  slaves to their benches, - these men, with their
laborious hands, copied upon parchment all the
lore and wisdom of the past, and transmitted it
to us. Perhaps it is not too much to say, that,
58 
A ROMANCE.
but for these monks, not one line of the classics
would have reached our day. Surely, then,
we can pardon something to those superstitious
ages, perhaps even the mysticism of the scholastic philosophy; since, after all, we can find no
harm in it, only the mistaking of the possible for
the real, and the high aspirings of the human
mind after a long-sought and unknown somewhat.
I think the name of Martin Luther, the monk of
Wittemberg, alone sufficient to redeem all monkhood from the reproach of laziness. If this will
not, perhaps the vast folios of Thomas Aquinas
will; -or the countless manuscripts, still treasured in old libraries, whose yellow and wrinkled
pages remind one of the hands that wrote them
and the faces that once bent over them."
" An eloquent homily," said the Baron, laughing; "a most touching appeal in behalf of suffering humanity! For my part, I am no friend
of this entire seclusion from the world.  It has
a very injurious effect on the mind of a scholar.
The Chinese proverb is true; a single conversation across the table with a wise man is better
than ten years' mere study of'books. I have
known some of these literary men who thus
shut themselves up from the world. Their
69 
HYPERION,
minds never come in contact with those of their
fellow-men.   They  read  little.   They  think
much. They are mere dreamers. They know
not what is) new  nor what is old.  They often
strike upon trains of thought, which stand written in good authors some century or so back,
and are even current in the mouths of men around
them. But they know it not; and imagine they
are bringing forward something very original,
when they publish their thoughts."
" It reminds me," replied Flemming,  " of
what Dr. Johnson said of Goldsmith, when he
proposed to travel abroad in ordei to bring home
improvements: -' He will bring home a wheelbarrow, and call that an improvement.' It is
unfortunately the same with some of these scholars."
"And  the worst of it is," said the Baron,
" that, in solitude, some fixed idea will often
take root in the mind, and grow till it overshadow
all one's thoughts.  To this must all opinions
come; no thought can enter there, which shall
not be wedded to the fixed idea.  There it remains, and grows. It is like the watchman's
wife, in the Tower of Waiblingen, who grew to
such a size, that she could not get down the
60 
A ROMANCE.
narrow staircase; and when her husband died,
his successor was forced to marry the fat widow
in the Tower."
"I remember an old English comedy," said
Flemming, laughing, " in which a scholar is described as?a creature that can strike fire in the
morning at his tinder-box, -put on a pair of
lined slippers, -sit ruminating till dinner, and
then go to his meat when the bell rings;- one
that hath a peculiar gift in a cough, and a license
to spit; — or, if you will have him defined by
negatives, he is one that cannot make a good
leg, - one that cannot eat a mess of broth
cleanly.' What think you of that?"
" That is just as people are always represented in English comedy," said the Baron.
" The portrait is overcharged,- caricatured."
"And yet," continued Flemming, " no longer
ago than yesterday, in the preface of a work by
a Professor of Philosophy in the University of
lHalle I read this passage."
He opened a book and read.
"Here in Halle, where  we have no public
garden and no Tivoli, no London Exchange,
no Paris Chamber of Deputies, no Berlin nor
Vienna  theatres,  no  Strasburg  Minster  nor
61 
HYPERION,
Salzburg Alps, no Grecian ruins nor fantastic
Catholicism, - in fine, nothing, which, after one's
daily task is finished, can divert and refresh
him, without his knowing or caring how, -I
consider the sight of a proof-sheet quite as delightful as a walk in the Prater of Vienna. I fill
my pipe very quietly, take out my inkstand and
pens, seat myself in the corner of my sofa, read,
correct, and now for the first time really set
about thinking what I have written. To see
this origin of a book, this metamorphosis of manuscript into print, is a delight to which I give
myself up entirely. Look you, - this melancholy
pleasure, which would have furnished the departed Voss with worthy matter for more than one
blessed Idyl (the more so, as on such occasions I am generally arrayed in a morning gown,
though, I am sorry to say, not a calamanco one,
with great flowers), - this melancholy pleasure
has already growvn here in Halle to a sweet,
pedantic habit. Since I began my hermit's
life here, I have been printing; and so long as
I remain here, I shall keep on printing. In all
probability, I shall die with a proof-sheet in my
hand."
'This,"  said Flemming,  closing the book,
62 
A ROMANCE.
"is no caricature  by a writer of comedy, but
a portrait by a man's own hand. We can see
by it how easily, under certain circumstances,
one may glide into habits of seclusion, and in
a kind of undress, slipshod hardihood, with a
pipe and a proof-sheet, defy the world. Into
this state scholars have too often fallen; thus
giving some ground for the prevalent opinion,
that scholarship and rusticity are inseparable.
To me, I confess, it is painful to see the scholar
and the world assume so often a hostile attitude,
and set each other at defiance.   Surely, it is a
characteristic trait of a great and liberal mind,
that it recogpizes humanity in all its forms and
conditions.   I am  a  student; -and  always,
when I sit alone at night, I recognize the divinity
of the student, as she reveals herself to me in
the flame of the midnight lamp.  ut, because
solitude and books are not unpleasant to me,nay,  vished-for, -  sought  after, -  shall I say
to my brother,' Thou fool!'-Shall I take the
world b.y the beard, and say,' Thou art old, and
mad!'- Shall I look society in the face, and
say,' Thou art heartless!'-    Itless!  Beware of that word!  The good Jean Paul says
very wisely, that'Life in every shape should
63 
HYPERION,
be precious to us, for the same reason that the
Turks carefully collect every scrap of paper that
comes in their way, because the name of God
may be written upon it.' Nothing is more true
than this, yet nothing more neglected! "
" If it be painful to see this misunderstanding
between scholars and the world," said the Baron,
" I think it is still more painful to see the private sufferings of authors by profession. How
many have languished in poverty, how many
died broken-hearted, how many gone mad with
over-excitement and disappointed hopes! How
instructive and painfully interesting are  their
lives! width so many weaknesses, - so much to
pardon, - so much to pity, - so much to admire! I think he was not so far out of the way,
who said, that, next to the Newgate Calendar,
the Biography of Authors is the most sickening
chapter in the history of man."
" It is indeed enough to make one's heart
ache! "  interrupted Flemming.   "Only  think
of Johnson and Savage, rambling about the
streets of London at midnight, without a place
to sleep in; Otway starved to death; Collins
mad, and howling like a dog, through the aisles
of Chichester Cathedral, at the sound of church
64 
A ROMANCE.
N.
music! and Goldsmith, strutting up Fleet Street
in his peach-blossom coat, to knock a bookseller
over the pate with one of his own volumes; and
then, in his poverty, about to marry his landlady
in Green Arbour Court."
" A life of sorrow and privation, a hard life,
indeed, do these poor devil authors have of it,"
replied the Baron; "and then at last must get
them to the workhouse, or creep away into
some hospital to die."
"After all," said Flemming, with a sigh, "poverty is not a crime."
"But something worse," interrupted the Baron;  "as Dufresny said, when he married his
laundress, because he could not pay her bill.
He was the author, as you know, of the opera
of Lot; at whose representation the great pun
was made;-  I say the great pun, as we say
the great Tun of Heidelberg. As one of the performers was singing the line,' L'amour a vaincu
Loth,' (vingt culottes,) a voice from the pit
cried out,' Qu'il en donne une a l'auteur! I a
Flemming laughed at the unseasonable jest;
and then, after a short pause, continued: -
" And yet, if you look closely at the causes
of these calamities of authors, you will find that
5
65 
HYPERION,
many of them spring from false and exaggerated
ideas of poetry and the poetic character; and
from disdain of common sense, upon which all
character, worth having, is founded.- This comes
from keeping aloof from the world, apart from
our fellow-men; disdainful of society, as frivolous. By too much sitting still the body becomes
unhealthy; and soon the mind. This is nature's
law. She will never see her children wronged.
If the mind, which rules the body, ever forgets
itself so far as to trample upon its slave, the
slave is never generous enough to forgive the
injury; but will rise and smite its oppressor.
Thus has many a monarch mind been dethroned."
" After all," said the Baron, " we must pardon much to men of genius. A delicate organization renders them keenly susceptible to pain
and pleasure. And then they idealize every
thing; and, in the moonlight of fancy, even the
deformity of vice seems beautiful."
" And this you think should be forgiven? "
" At all events, it is forgiven. The world
loves a spice of wickedness. Talk as you will
about principle, impulse is more attractive, even
when it goes too far.  The passions of youth,
like unhooded hawks, fly high, with musical
66 
A ROMANCE.
bells upon their jesses; and we forget the cruelty
of the sport in the dauntless bearing of the gallant bird."
"And  thus do the world and society corrupt
the scholar! " exclaimed Flemming.
Here the Baron rang, and ordered a bottle of'
Prince Metternich.  He  then very slowly filled
his pipe, and began to smoke.   Flemming was
lost in a day-dream.
67 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER VIII.
LITERARY FAME.
TIME has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose
pages he is continually recording illustrious names.
But, as often as a new name is written there, an
old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters, never to be effaced.   These
are the high nobility of Nature, - Lords of the
Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall
never question their titles. But those, whose
fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if
they had never been. To this great oblivion
must most men  come.  It is better, therefore,
that they should soon make up their minds to
this; well knowing,' that, as their bodies must
ere long be resolved into dust again, and their
graves tell no tales of them; so must their names
likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most
68 
A ROMANCE.
cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions ha
no longer an individual being among men, but 
resolved and incorporated into the universe o
thought.  If, then, the imagination can trace t
noble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping
beer-barrel, and know that
" Imperial Cesar, dead and turned to clay,
May stop a hole to keep the wind away ";
not less can it trace the noble thoughts of gret
men, till it finds them mouldered into the comm
dust of conversation, and used  to stop  me]
mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out t
flaws of opinion.   Such,  for example, are
popular adages and  wise proverbs, which 
now resolved into the common mass of though
their authors forgotten, and having no more
individual being among men.
It is better, therefore, that men  should so
make up their minds to be forgotten, and lo
about them, or within them, for some higher rr
tive, in what they do, than the approbation
men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; th
they should be constantly and quietly at wo
each in his sphere, regardless of effects, a
leaving their fame to take care of itself.  Dii
cult must this indeed be, in our imperfectio
69
I0. --.. 
HYPERION)
impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet
the resolute, the indomitable will of man can
achieve much, - at times, even this victory over
himself; being persuaded that fame comes only
when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.
It has become a common saying, that men
of genius are always in advance of their age;
which is true. There is something equally true,
yet not so common; namely, that, of these men
of genius, the best and bravest are in advance
not only of their own age, but of every age.
As the German prose-poet says, every possible
future is behind them. We cannot suppose that
a period of time will ever arrive, when the world,
or any considerable portion of it, shall have come
up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to
comprehend them.
And, 0, how majestically they walk in history; some like the sun, " with  all his travelelling glories round  him"; others wrapped  in
gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars!
Through the else silent darkness of the past,
the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps.
Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen
in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise,
70 
A ROMANCE
attendant angels bearing golden lights before
them, and, above and behind, the whole air
painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail
of pencils!
And yet, on earth, these men were not happy, -not all happy, in the outward circumstance
of their lives. They were in want, and in pain,
and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp,
weeping walls of dungeons! 0, I have looked
with wonder upon those, who, in sorrow and
privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness,
which is the shadow of death, have worked right
on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling
much; - and then, with shattered nerves, and
sinews all unstrung, have -laid themselves down
in the grave, and slept the sleep of death, - and
the world talks of them, while they sleep!
It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings
had but sanctified them; as if the death-angel,
in passing, had touched them with the hem of
his garment, and made them holy; as if the
hand of disease had' been stretched out over
them only to make the sign of the cross upon
their souls! And as in the sun's eclipse we can
behold the great stars shining in the heavens,
71 
HYPERION,
so in this life-eclipse have these men beheld the
lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and
forever!
This was Flemming's reverie. It was broken by the voice of the Baron, suddenly exclaiming: -
"An angel is flying over the house!-Here,
in this goblet, fragrant as the honey of Hymettus,
fragrant as the wild flowers in the Angel's Meadow, I drink to the divinity of thy dreams."
" This is all sunshine," said Flemming, as he
drank.   " The  wine  of the Prince, and  the
Prince of wines. By the way, did you ever
read that brilliant Italian dithyrambic, Redi's
Bacchus in Tuscany? an ode which seems to
have been poured out- of the author's soul, as
from a golden pitcher,
' Filled with the wine
Of the vine
Benign,
That flames so red in Sansovine.'
He calls the Montepulciano the king of all wines."
"Prince Metternich,"' said the Baron, "c is
greater than any king in Italy; and I wonder
that this precious wine has never inspired a German poet to write a Bacchus on the Rhine.
72 
A ROMANCE.
Many little songs we have on this theme, but
none very extraordinary. The best are Max
Schenkendorf's Song of the Rhine, and the
Song of Rhine Wine, by Claudius, a poet who
never drank Rhenish without sugar. We will
drink for him a blessing on the Rhine."
And again the crystal lips of the goblets kissed
each other, with a musical chime, as of evening
bells at vintage-time from the villages on the
Rhine. Of a truth, I do not much wonder
that the German poet Schiller loved to write
by candle-light with a bottle of Rhine-wine upon
the table. Nor do I wonder at the worthy
schoolmaster, Roger Ascham, when he says, in
one of his letters from Germany to Mr. John
Raven, of John's College: " Tell Mr.  Maden
I will drink with him now a carouse of wine;
and would to God he had a vessel of Rhenish
wine; and perchance, when I come to Cambridge, I will so provide here, that every year I
will have a little piece of Rhenish wine." Nor,
in fine, do I wonder at the German emperor
of whom he speaks in another letter to the same
John Raven, and says, "The emperor drank
the best that I ever saw; he had his head in
the glass five times as long as any of us, and
73 
HYPERION,
never drank less than a good quart at once of
Rhenish wine."
" But to resume our old theme of scholars
and their whereabouts" said the Baron, with an
unusual glow, caught, no doubt, from the golden
sunshine, imprisoned, like the student Anselmus,
in the glass bottle; " where should the scholar
live? Int solitude, or in society? in the green
stillness of the country, where he can hear the
heart of Nature beat; or in the dark, gray town,
where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart
of man? I will make answer for him, and say,
in the dark, gray town. 0, they do greatly
err, who think that the stars are all the poetry
which cities have; and therefore that the poet's
only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under
the green roof of trees.  Beautiful, no doubt,
are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured
by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets
and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing
ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with
all the sights and sounds of rural life.  But after
all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life?
What are they but the coarse materials of the
poet's song? Glorious indeed is the world of
74 
A ROMANCE.
God around us, but more glorious the world of
God within us.  There lies the Land of Song;
there lies the poet's native land.  The river of
life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks
of humanity;- the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving
round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of
human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass; -and to be in this, and be a part
of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing,
with his fellow-men; - such, such should be the
poet's life. If he would describe the world, he
should live in the world.  The mind of the
scholar, if you would have it large and liberal,
should come in contact with other minds. It
is better that his armor should be somewhat
bruised by rude encounters even, than hang for
ever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be
few or trivial, because apparently shut in between
the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations of street scenery.  A ruined character
is as picturesque as a ruined castle.  There are
dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human
heart, which can be rendered passable only by
bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews,
75 
HYPERION,
as Challey bridged the Sarine in Switzerland,
and Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with chain bridges. These are the great
themes of human thought; not green grass, and
flowers, and moonlight. Besides, the mere external forms of Nature we make our own, and
carry with us everywhere, by the power of memory."
"I  fear, however,"  interrupted  Flemming,
"that in towns the soul of man grows proud. He
needs at times to be sent forth, like the Assyrian
monarch, into green fields,'a wondrous wretch
and weedless,' to eat green herbs, and be wakened and chastised by the rain shower and winter's bitter weather. Moreover, in cities there
is danger of the soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and forgetful of its high vocation. There
have been souls dedicated to heaven from childhood, and guarded by good angels as sweet seclusions for holy thoughts, and prayers, and all
good purposes; wherein pious wishes dwelt like
nuns, and every image was a saint; and yet in
life's vicissitudes, by the treachery of occasion,
by the thronging passions of great cities, have
become soiled and sinful. They resemble those
convents on the river Rhine, which have been
76 
A ROMANCE.
changed to taverns; from whose chambers the
pious inmates have long departed, and in whose
cloisters the footsteps of travellers have effaced
the images of buried saints, and whose walls are
written over with ribaldry and the names of strangers, and resound no more with holy hymns, but
with revelry and loud voices."
" Both town and country have their dangers,"
said the Baron; " and therefore% wherever the
scholar lives, he must never forget his high vocation. Other artists give themselves up wholly
to the study of their art. It becomes with them
almost religion. For the most part, and in their
youth, at least, they dwell in lands where the
whole atmosphere of the soul is beauty; laden
with it, as the air may be with vapor, till their
very nature is saturated with the genius of their
art. Such, for example, is the artist's life in
Italy. "
" I agree with you," exclaimed Flemming;
"C and such should be the poet's everywhere;
for he has his Rome, his Florence, his whole
glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library.
He has in his books the ruins of an antique
world,-  and the glories of a modern one,his Apollo and Transfiguration. He must nei
77 
HYPERION,
ther forget nor undervalue his vocation; but thank
God that he is a poet; and everywhere be true
to himself, and to' the vision and the faculty
divine' he recognizes within him."
" But, at any rate, a town life is most eventful," continued the Baron.   " The  men  who
make, or take, the lives of poets, and scholars,
always complain that these lives are barren of
incidents. Hardly a literary biography begins
without some such apology, unwisely made. I
confess, however, that it is not made without
some show of truth; if, by incidents, we mean
only those startling events which suddenly turn
aside the stream of time, and change the world's
history in an hour. There is certainly a uniformity, pleasing or unpleasing, in literary life, which
for the most part makes to-day seem twin-born
with yesterday. But if, by incidents, you mean
events in the history of the human mind, (and
why not?) noiseless events, that do not scar
the forehead of the world as battles do, yet change
it not the less, then surely the lives of literary
men are most eventful. The complaint and the
apology are both foolish. I do not see why a
successful book is not as great an event as a
successful campaign; only different in kind, and
not easily compared."
78 
A ROMANCE.
"Indeed,"  interrupted  Flemming,  "in  no
sense is the complaint strictly true, though at
times apparently so.  Events enough there are,
were they all set down.   A life, that is worth
writing at all, is worth writing minutely. Besides, all literary men have not lived in silence
and solitude; -not all in stillness, not all in
shadow. For many have lived in troubled times,
in the rude and adverse fortunes of the state and
age, and could say, with Wallenstein,
'Our life was but a battle and a march;
And, like the wind's blast, never-resting, homeless,
We stormed across the war-convulsed earth.'
Many such examples has history recorded; Dante,
Cervantes, Byron, and others; men of iron; men
who have dared to breast the strong breath of
public opinion, and, like spectre-ships, come
sailing right against the wind. Others have been
puffed out by the first adverse wind that blew;
disgraced and sorrowful, because they could not
please others. Had they been men, they would
have made these disappointments their best
friends, and learned from them the needful lesson
of self-reliance."
" To confess the truth," added the Baron,
79 
HYPERION)
"the lives of literary men, with their hopes and
disappointments, and quarrels and calamities,
present a melancholy picture of man's strength
and weakness. On that very account the scholar
can make them profitable for encouragement, consolation, warning."
" And  after all," continued Flemming, " perhaps the greatest lesson, which the lives of literary men teach us, is told in a single word:
Wait! -Every man must patiently bide his
time.   He must  wait.   More  particularly in
lands, like my native land, where the pulse of
life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs,
is the lesson needful.   Our national character
wants the dignity of repose. We seem to live
in the midst of a battle, - there is such a din,
such a hurrying to and fro.  In the streets of a
crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly. You
feel the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it
onward.   In the press of our life it is difficult to
be calm. In this tstress of wind and tide, all
professions seem to drag their anchors, and are
swept out into the main. The voices of the
Present say,' Come!'  But the voices of the
Past say,' Wait!' With calm and solemn
footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing
80 
A ROMANCE.
torrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying
waters. With no less calm and solemn footsteps,
nor less certainly, does a great mind bear up
against public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream. Therefore should every man wait,
-should bide his time. Not in listless idleness,
-not in useless pastime, -not  in querulous
dejection; but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavours, always willing and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, when the occasion comes,
he may be equal to the occasion. And if it
never comes, what matters it? What matters
it to the world, whether I, or you, or another
man did such a deed, or wvrote such a book,
sobeit the deed and book were well done? It
is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome ambition to care toD much about fame, - about
what the world says of us; - to be always looking into the faces of others for approval; to
be always anxious for the effect of what we do
and say; to be always shovting to hear the echo
of our ownn voices.   If you look about you, you
will see men who are wearing life away in feverish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall ever
hear of them will be the funeral bell that tolls
them to their early graves! Unhappy men, and
6
81 
HYPERION,
unsuccessful! because their purpose is, not to
accomplish well their task, but to clutch the
' trick and fantasy of fame'; and they go to their
graves with purposes unaccomplished and wishes
unfulfilled. Better for them, and for the world
in their example, had they known how to wait t
Believe me, the talent of success is nothing more
than doing what you can do well; and doing well
whatever you do, - without a thought of fame.
If it come at all, it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after. And, moreover, there will be no misgivings, no disappointment, no hasty, feverish, exhausting excitement. "
Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion. I
make no record of the winter. Paul Flemming
buried himself in books; in old, dusty books.
He worked his way diligently through the ancient
poetic lore of Germany, from Frankish Legends
of Saint George, and Saxon Rhyme-Chronicles,
and Nibelungen-Lieds, and Helden-Buchs, and
Songs of the Minnesingers and MAlastersingers,
and Ships of Fools, and Reynard the Foxes, and
82 
A ROMANCE.
Death-Dances, and Lamentations of Damned
Souls, into the bright, sunny land of harvests,
where, amid the golden grain and the blue cornflowers, walk the modern bards, and sing.
83  
BOOK THE SECOND.
" Something the heart must have to cherish,
Must love, and joy, and sorrow learn;
Something with passion clasp, or perish,
And in itself to ashes burn."  
BOOK THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
SPRING.
IT was a sweet carol, which the Rhodian children sang of old in Spring, bearing in their hands,
from door to door, a swallow, as herald of the
season: -
"The Swallow is come!
The Swallow is come!
0, fair are the seasons, and light
Are the days that she brings,
With her dusky wings,
And her bosom snowy white!"
A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hungarian boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to
the          returning stork in Spring:          "Stork! Stork! poor Stork!
Why is thy foot so bloody?
A Turkish boy hath torn it;
Hungarian boy will heal it,
With fiddle, fife, and drum." 
HYPERION)
But what child has a heart to sing in this ca   pricious clime of ours, where Spring comes sail ing 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 them   selves; and think it is Summer. They die in
their conceit; and so do our hearts within us,
when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern
sea, and again
The driving hail
Upon the window beats with icy flail."
The red-flowering maple is first in blossom,
its beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight
before the leaves. The moose-wood follows,
with rose-colored buds and leaves; and the
dog-wood, robed in the white of its own pure
blossoms. Then comes the sudden rain-storm;
and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. Where
do they hide themselves in such storms? at what
firesides dry their feathery cloaks? At the fire   side of the great, hospitable sun; to-morrow, not
88 
A ROMANCE.
before;- they must sit in wet garments until
then.
In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the
South it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside
himself.  The birds begin to sing; -  they utter
a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent woods.   Those  green-coated
musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighbouring marshes. They, too, belong to the orchestra of Nature; whose vast theatre is again
opened, though the doors have been so long
b)olted with icicles, and the scenery hung with
snow and frost like cobwebs. This is the prelude which announces the opening of the scene.
Already  tfe grass shoots  forth.  The  waters
leap with thrilling pulse through the veins of
the  earth;  he sap through the veins of the
plants and trees; and the blood through the
veins of man. What a thrill of delight in Springtime! What a joy in being and moving! Men
are at work in gardens; and in the air there is
an odor of the fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin
to swell and blush. The white blossoms of the
cherry hang upon the boughs like snow-flakes;
and ere long our next-door neighbours will be completely hidden from us by the dense green foli
89 
HYPERION,
age.   The  May-flowers  open  the;r soft blue
eyes. Children are let loose in the fields and
gardens.   They  hold  buttercups  under  each
others' chins, to see if they love butter. And
the little girls adorn themselves with chains and
curls of dandelions; pull out the yellow leaves,
to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the
down  from the leafless stalk, to find out if their
mothers want them at home.
And at night so cloudless and so still! Not a
voice of living thing,- not a whisper of leaf or
waving bough, - not a breath of wind, - not a
sound upon the earth nor in the air! And overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like the inverted
bell of some blue flower, sprinkled with golden
dust, and breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and
rain; but clouds that melt and fall in showers.
One does not wish to sleep; but lies awake to
hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain.
It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg.
4
9o 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER II.
A COLLOQUY.
"AND what think you of Tiedge's Urania?"
said the Baron, smiling, as Paul Flemming closed
the book, and laid it upon the table.
"' I think," said Flemming, " that it is very
much like Jean Paul's grandfather, -in the highest degree poor and pious."
" Bravo! " exclaimed the Baron.  " That is
the best criticism I have heard upon the book.
For my part, I dislike it 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 quietness. He once told a friend of his, that
he had, however, learned one thing from all this
91
i 
HYPERION,
talk about Tiedge and his Urania; which was,
that the saints, as well as the nobility, constitute
an aristocracy. He said he found stupid women,
who were proud because they believed in Immor    tality with Tiedge, and had to submit himself to
not a few mysterious catechizings and tea-table
lectures on this point; and that he cut them short
a  by saying, that he had no objection whatever to
-I  enter into another state of existence hereafter,
but prayed only that he might be spared the honor
of meeting there any of those who had believed
in it here; for, if he  did,  they would flock
around him on all sides, exclaiming,' Were we
not in the right? Did we not tell you so? Has
it not all turned out just as we said?' "
"How shocked the good old ladies must have
been!" said Flemming.
" No doubt, their nerves suffered a little; but
the young women loved him all the better for be    ing witty and wicked; and thought, if they could
only marry him, how they would reform him."
" Bettina Brentano, for instance."
"0,  no!  That  happened long afterwards.
Goethe was then an old man of sixty.   She had
never seen him, and knew him only by his writ    ings; a romantic girl of seventeen."
-92 
A ROMANCE.
" And yet much in love with the sexagenarian. And surely, a more wild, fantastic passion
never sprang up in woman's breast. She was a
flower that worshipped the sun."
" She afterwards married Achim  von Arnim,
and is now a widow. And not the least singular
part of the affair is, that, having grown older,
and I hope colder, she should herself publish the
letters which passed between her and Goethe."
" Particularly the letter in which she describes
her first visit to Weimar, and her interview with
the hitherto invisible divinity of her dreams.   The
old gentleman took her upon his knees, and she
fell asleep with her head upon his shoulder.
Oberon must have touched her eyes with the
juice of Love-in-idleness. However, this book
of Goethe's Correspondence with a Child is a
very singular and valuable revelation of the feelings which he excited in female hearts. You
say she afterwards married Achim von Arnim?"
" Yes; and he and her brother, Clemens
Brentano, published that wondrous book, the
Boy's Wonder-Horn."
"The  Boy's  Wonder-Horn!"  said  Flemming, after a short pause, for the name seemed
to have thrown him into a reverie; - " I know
93 
HYPERION,
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
smile. " They are the gypsy-children of song,
born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes
and by-paths of literature, -in the genial Summer-time. "
" Why do you say Summer-time, and not Summer?" inquired Flemming.   " The expression
reminds me of your old Minnesingers; - of
Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and Walther von der
Vogelweide, and Count Kraft von Toggenburg,
and your own ancestor, I dare say, Burkhart von
Hohenfels.  They were always singing  of the
gentle Summer-time. They 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 Shakspeare? "
" 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 shoemaker poets that came after them, -  with their
guilds and singing-schools? It makes me laugh
94 
A ROMANCE.
to think how the great streams of your German
Helicon, shrunk to small rivulets, go bubbling and
gurgling over the pebbly names  of  Zwinger,
Wurgendrussel, Buchenlin, Hellfire, Old Stoll,
Young Stoll, Strong Bopp, Dang Brotscheim,
Batt Spiegel, Peter Pfort, and Martin Gumpel.
And then the Corporation of the Twelve Wise
Masters, with their stumpfe-reime and klingendereime, and their Hans Tindeisen's rosemaryweise, and Joseph Schmierer's flowery-paradise-weise, and Frauenlob's yellow-weise, and
blue-weise, and frog-weise, and looking-glassweise!"
"0, I entreat you," exclaimed  Flemming,
laughing, "do not call those men poets!  You
transport me to quaint old Nuremberg, and I see
Hans Sachs making shoes, and Hans Folz shaving the burgomaster."
"By the way," interrupted the Baron, " did
you ever read Hoffmann's beautiful story of Master Martin, the Cooper of Nuremberg? I will
read it to you this very night.  It is the most
delightful picture of that age, which you can conceive. But look! the sun has already set behind
the Alsatian hills.  Let us go up to the castle
and look for the ghost in Prince Ruprecht's tower. 0, what a glorious sunset! "
95 
HYPER1OON,
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. - 0, well
has it been said, that there is no grief like the
grief which does not speak!
96 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER III.
OWL-TOWERS.
" THERE  sits the old  Frau  Himmelauen,
perched up in her owl-tower," said the Baron
to Flemming, as they passed along the Hauptstrasse. " She looks down through her roundeyed spectacles from her nest there, and watches
every one that goes by. I wonder what mischief she is hatching now. Do you know she
has nearly ruined your character in town? She
says you have a rakish look, because you carry
a cane, and your hair curls. Your gloves, also,
are a shade too light for a strictly virtuous man."
"It is very kind in her to take such good
care of my character, particularly as I am a
stranger in town. She is doubtless learned in
the Clothes-Philosophy."
" And ignorant of every thing else. She
asked a friend of mine, the other day, whether
Christ was a Catholic or a Protestant."
7
97 
HYPERION,
" That is really too absurd! "
" Not too absurd to be true. And, ignorant
as she is, she contrives to do a good deal of
mischief in the course of the year. Why, the
women already call you Wi]helm 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 wfen 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 and sit under the great lindentrees, that grow on the summit of the Rent Tower," said Flemming.   " From that point, as from
a watch-tower, we can look down into the garden,
and see the crowd below us."
" And amuse ourselves, as old Frau Himmelauen does, at her window in the Hauptstrasse,"
added the Baron.
The keeper's daughter unlocked for them the
door of the tower, and, climbing the steep stair
98 
A ROMANCE.
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 dovwn 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 wildlooking person, who passed with long strides under the archway in the fosse, right beneath them,
and disappeared among the bushes.   He was illdressed, his hair flying in the wind, his movements hurried and nervous, and the expression
of his broad countenance wild, strange, and earnest.
99
*"'"!.:i -  I 
HIIYPERION,
"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 His  tory 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
following the spirit of some departed friend, who
has taken the form of yonder pigeon."
" What a strange hallucination! He lives, I
suppose, in the land of cloud-shadows. And, as
St. Thomas Aquinas was said to be lifted up
from the ground by the fervor of his prayers, so,
no doubt, is he by the fervor of his visions."
" He certainly appears to neglect all sublunary
things; and, to judge from certain appearances,
since you seem fond of holy similitudes, one
would say, that, like St. Serapion the Sindonite,
he had but one shirt. Yet what cares he? he
lives in that poetic dream-land of his thoughts,
and clothes himself in poetry."
" He  is a poet, then, as well as a philoso..:pher? ",.
i"!::',!...
loo 
A ROMANCE.
" Yes; but a poet who never writes.   There
is nothing in nature to which his imagination does
not give a poetic hue. But the power to make
others see these objects in the same poetic light
is wanting. Still he is a man of fine powers and
feelings; for next to being a great poet is the
power of understanding one, - of finding one's
self in him, as we Germans say."
Three figures, dressed in black, now came
from one of the green alleys, and stopped on the
brink of a fountain that was playing among the
gay flowers in the garden. The eldest of the
three was a woman 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 nightshade, pale and blue, but
sending forth golden rays.  They were attended
by a tall youth of foreign aspect, who seemed a
101 
HYPERION,
young Antinous, with a mustache  and a nose
ala 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
102 
A ROMANCE.
yet it is folly to pretend that one ever wholly
recovers from a disappointed passion.    Such
wounds always leave a scar.  There are faces I
can never look upon without emotion. There are
names I can never hear spoken without almost
starting."
" But whom have we here?"
" That is the French poet Quinet, with his
fair German wife; one of the most interesting
women I ever knew.   He is the author of a very
wild Mystery, or dramatic prose-poem, in which
the Ocean, Mont-Blanc, and the Cathedral of
Strasburg 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 seem to me like obscene stories told at
dinner-tables. It has been truly said of him,
that he is not only populaire, but populacier;
and rather harshly of George Sand and Victor
103
I,:
I,. 
HYPERION)
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.   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. " Some one has said,
with a great deal of truth, that'the gentry of
France rush into Paris to escape from ennui,
as, in the noble days of chivalry, the defenceless
inhabitants of the champaign fled into the castles,
at the approach of some plundering knight or
lawless baron; 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 gar
104 
A ROMANCE.
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 around 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
105 
HYPERION,
exotics, with their gorgeous flamingo-colored
blossoms, and great flapping leaves, like elephants' 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."
106 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER IV.
A BEER-SCANDAL.
ON their way homeward, Flemming and the
Baron passed through a narrow lane, in which
was a well-known Studenten-Kneipe. At the,
door stood a young man, whom the Baron at
once recognized as his friend Von Kleist. He
was a student; and universally acknowledged,
among his young acquaintance,  as a " devilish
handsome fellow"; notwithstanding a tremendous scar on his cheek, and a cream-colored
mustache, as soft as the silk of Indian corn. In
short, he was a renowner, and a duellist.
" What are you doing here, Von Kleist? "
" Ah, my dear Baron! Is it you? Come
in; come in. You shall see some sport. A
Fox-Commerce is on foot, and a regular BeerScandal."
" Shall we go in, Flemming?"
107
I'' 
HYPERION,
" Certainly. I should like to see how these
things are managed in Heidelberg.  You are a
baron, and I am  a stranger.  It is of no consequence what you and I do, as the king's fool Angeli said to the poet Bautru, urging him to put on
his hat at the royal dinner-table."
William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his
Autobiography, that, when he was committed
to the guard-room in Whitehall, 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 StudentenKneipe, I know not. He certainly would not
have thought himself in heaven; unless it were
a  Scandinavian heaven.   The  windows  were
open; and yet so dense was the atmosphere with
the smoke of tobacco and the fumes of beer, that
the tallow candles burned but dimly. A crowd
of students were sitting at three long tables, in
the large hall; a medley of fellows, known at
German Universities under the cant names of
Old-Ones,  Mossy-Heads, Princes of Twilight,
and Pomatum-Stallions. They were smoking,
108 
A ROMANCE.
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.  H*e was  booted  and
spurred, and wore a very small crimson cap,
and a very tight blue jacket, and very long hair,
and a very dirty shirt. He was President of
the night; and, as Flemming entered the hall
with the Baron and his friend, striking upon the
table with a mighty broadsword, he cried in a
loud voice:  " Silentium!"
At the same moment, a door at the end of the
hall was thrown open, and a procession of newcomers, or Nasty-Foxes, as they are called in the
college dialect, entered two by two, looking
wild, and green, and foolish. As they came
forward, they were obliged to pass under a par
109 
HYPERION,
of naked swords, held crosswise by two OldOnes, who, with pieces of burnt cork, made an
enormous  pair of mustaches on the smooth,
rosy cheeks of each, as he passed beneath this
arch of triumph.   While the procession  was
entering the hall, the President lifted up his
voice again, and began to sing the well-known
Fox-song, in the chorus of which all present
joined lustily.
WHAT comes there from the hill?
What comes there from the hill?
What comes there from the leathery hill?
Sa! Sa!
Leathery hill!
What comes there from the hill?
It is a postilion!
It is a postilion!
It is a leathery postilion!
Sa! Sa!
Postilion!
It is a postilion!
What brings the postilion?
What brings the postilion?
What brings the leathery postilion?
Sa! Sa!
Postilion!
What brings the postilion e
110 
A ROMANCE.
He bringeth us a Fox!
He bringeth us a Fox!
He bringeth us a leathery Fox I
Sa! Sa!
Leathery Fox!
He bringeth us a Fox!
Your servant, Masters mine!
Your servant, Mlasters mine!
Your servant, much-honored Masters mine.
Sa! Sa!
Much-honored Masters mine!
Your servant, Masters mine!
How does the Herr Papa?
How does the Herr Papa?
How does the leathery Herr Papa?
Sa! Sa!
Herr Papa!
How does the Herr Papa?
He reads in Cicero!
He reads in Cicero!
He reads in leathery Cicero!
Sa! Sa!
Cicero!
He reads in Cicero!
How does the Frau Mamma?
How does the Frau Mamma?
How does the leathery Frau Mamma;
Sa! Sa!
Frau Mamma!
How does the Frau Mamma?
ill 
HYPERION,
She makes the Papa tea!
She makes the Papa tea!
She makes the Papa leathery tea!
Sa! Sa!
Leathery tea!
She makes the Papa tea!
How does the Mamsell Sceur?
How does the Mamsell Sceur?
How does the leathery Mamsell Soeur?
Sa! Sa!
Mamsell Soeur!
How does the Mamsell Sceur?
She knits the Papa stockings! 
She knits the Papa stockings!
She knits the Papa leathery stockings!
Sa! Sa!
Leathery stockings!
She knits the Papa stockings!
How does the Herr Rector?
How does the Herr Rector?
How does the leathery Herr Rector?
Sa! Sa!
Herr Rector!
How does the Herr Rector?
He calls the scholar, Boy!
He calls the scholar, Boy!
He calls the scholar, leathery Boy!
Sa! Sa!
Leathery Boy!
He calls the scholar, Boy I
112 
A ROMANCE.
And smokes the Fox tobacco?
And smokes the Fox tobacco?
And smokes the leathery Fox tobacco?
Sa! Sa!
Fox tobacco!
And smokes the Fox tobacco?
A little, Masters mine!
A little, Masters mine!
A little, much-honored Masters mine.
Sa! Sal
Much-honored Masters mine!
A little, Masters mine!
Then let him fill a pipe!
Then let him fill a pipe!
Then let him fill a leathery pipe!
Sa! Sa!
Leathery pipe!
Then let him fill a pipe t
O Lord! It makes me sick!
O Lord! It makes me sick!
O Lord! It makes me leathery sick!
Sa! Sa!
Leathery sick!
0 Lord! It makes me sick!
Then let him throw it off.
Then let him throw it off!
Then let him throw it leathery off.
Sa! Sa!
Leathery off!
Then let him throw it off!
8
113 
HYPERIION,
Now I again am well!
Now he again is well!
Now I again am leathery well!
a! Sa!
Leathery well!
Now I again am well!
So grows the Fox a Bursch!
So grows the Fox a Bursch!
So grows the leathery Fox a Burseci.'
Sa! Sa!
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 term at the University, and then at a given signal were set on
fire, and the Branders rode round the table on
chairs amid roars of laughter. When this ceremony was completed, the President rose 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.
114 
A ROMANCE.
" Brander!  Brander! "   screamed a youth
whose face was hot and flushed with supper and
with beer; " Brander, I say!  Thou art a Doctor! No,-aPope;-thou art a Pope, by-!"
These words were addressed to a pale, quietlooking person, who sat opposite, and was busy
in making a wretched shaved poodle sit on his
hind legs in a chair, by his master's side, and
hold a short clay pipe in his mouth, - a performance to which the poodle seemed no wise
inclined.
" Thou art challenged!" replied the pale student, turning from his dog, who dropped the pipe
from his mouth and leaped under the table.
Seconds were chosen on the spot; and the
arms ordered; namely, six mighty goblets, or
Bassglaser, filled to the brim with foaming beer.
Three were placed before each duellist.
" Take your weapons! " cried one of the seconds, and each of the combatants seized a goblet
in his hand.
" Strike! "
And the glasses rang, with a salutation like
the crossing of swords.
" Set to! "
Each set the goblet to his lips.
115 
HYPERION,
" Out! "
And each poured the contents down his throat,
as if he were pouring them through a tunnel into
a beer-barrel.   The  other two  glasses followed
in quick succession, hardly a long breath drawn
between.    The  pale student  was  victorious.
He was first to drain the third goblet. He held
it for a moment inverted, to let the last drops
fall out, and then placing it quietly on the table,
looked his antagonist in tile face, and said:  "' Hit! "
Then, with the greatest coolness, looking under the table, he whistled for his dog. His antagonist stopped midway in his third glass. Every
vein in his forehead seemed bursting; his eyes
were wild and bloodshot, his hand gradually 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 straight before him, as if he saw some beckoning hand in the air, that others could not see.
His left hand was upon his hip, and in his right
116 
A ROMANCE.
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 every step.  The
students shrunk back at his approach; till at
length one more intoxicated, 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 Schlager.
117 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER V.
LADYrS SLIPPER AND THE PAS  SI ON-FLOWER.
THAT night Emma of Ilmenau went to her
chamber with a heavy heart, and her dusky eyes
were troubled with tears. She was one of those
gentle beings who seem created only to love and
to be loved. A shade of melancholy softened
her character. She shunned the glare of daylight and of society, and wished to be alone.
Like the evening primrose, her heart opened
only after sunset; but bloomed through the dark
night with sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the
contrary, flaunted in the gairish 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.
118
THE WHITE 
A ROMANCE.
She was followed by her French chambermaid, Madeleine, a native of Strasburg, who
had grown old in the family. In her youth, she
had been poor, - and virtuous, because she had
never been 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
personago 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 for ever;-i
devote myself to 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
119 
HYPERION,
desolate, seems the world about me! Why has
Heaven given me these affections, only to fall
and fade? "
Alas! poor child! thou, too, must learn, like
others, that the sublime mystery of Providence
goes on in silence, and gives no explanation
of itself,-  no answer to our impatient questionings!
" Bless me, child, what ails you? " exclaimed
Madeleine, perceiving that Emma paid no attention to her idle gossip.  " When I was of your
age"
" Do not talk to me now, good Madeleine.
Leave me, I wish to be alone."
" Well, here is something," continued the
maid, taking a billet from her bosom, " which
I hope will enliven you. When I was of your
age     "
"Hush! hush!" said Emma, taking the billet
from the hard hand of Madeleine.   " Once mIore
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 gleam
120 
A ROMANCE;
ed 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!  0, never,
never, -never!  And  yet he is so friendless
and alone in this unsympathizing world, - and an
exile, and homeless! I can but pity him; —
yet I hate him, and will see him no more! "
This short reverie of love and hate was broken
by the sound of a clear, mellow voice, which, in
the universal stillness of the hour, seemed almost
like the voice of a spirit. It was a voice, without  the accompaniment of any instrument, singing   those sweet lines of Goethe  -
"Under the tree-tops is quiet now!
In all the woodlands hearest thou
Not a sound!
The little birds are asleep in the trees;
Wait! wait! and soon, like these,
Sleepest thou!"
121 
HYPERION,
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; nightingales were singing among the brown shadows of the woods; the
large red moon shone, like a ruby, in the horizon's ample ring; and golden threads of light
seemed braided together with the rippling current
of the river.  Tall and spectral stood the white
statues on the bridge.   The outlines of the hills,
the castle, the arches of the bridge, and the spires
and roofs of the 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. " O0,
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
122 
A ROMANCE.
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 down
from heaven, and told it not again. This, likewise, the Fraull Himmelauen behleld, looking from
her chamber-window, and was not so discreet as
the silent stars.
123 
HYPERION)
CHAPTER VI.
GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND.
" THERE are many things, which, having no
corporeal evidence, can be perceived and comprehended only by the discursive energies of reason. Hence the ambiguous nature of matter can
be comprehended only by adulterated opinion.
Matter is the principle ofall 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, and the
square generates from itself the cube, which is the
figure peculiar to earth. But the figure of a beau
124 
A ROMANCE.
tifuil and perfect sphere was imparted to the most
beautiful and perfect world, that it might be indigent of nothing, but contain all things, embracing
and comprehending them in itself, and thus might
be excellent and admirable, similar to and in concord with itself, ever moving musically and melodiously. If I use a novel language, excuse me.
As Apuleius says, pardon must be granted to
novelty of words, when it serves to illustrate the
obscurity of things."
These words came from the lips of the lionlike philosopher who has been noticed before
min 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
125 
HYPERION,
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 Flemining sat listenWg 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 Schubert's History of
the Soul.
" Life is one and universal; its forms many
and individual. Throughout this beautiful and
wonderful creation there is never-ceasing motion,
without rest by night or day, ever weaving to and
126
II
i
I 
A ROMANCE.
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
in its 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
127 
HYPERION,
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 heave
en's deep blue and the blush of sunset on their
leaves;- then there awake in Nature, and the
soul of man can see and comprehend them, an
expectation and a longing for a future revelation
of God's majesty. They awake, also, when, in
the fulness of ffe, field and forest rest at noon,
and through the stillness are heard only the song
of the grasshopper and the hum of the bee; and
when at evening the singing lark up from the
128 
A ROMANCE.
sweet-smelling vineyards rises, or in the later
hours of night Orion puts on his shining armors
to walk forth into the fields of heaven.  But in the
soul of man alone is this longing changed to certainty, and fulfilled.  For, lo! the light of the sun
anid the stars shines through the air, and is nowhere visible and seen; the planets hasten with
mnfore than the speed of the storm through infinite
space, and their footsteps are not heard; but
where the sunlight strikes the firm surface of the
planets, where the storm-wind smites the wall
of the mountain cliff, there is the one seen and
the other heard.  Thus  is the glory  of God
made visible, and may be seen, where in the
soul of man it meets its likeness changeless and
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 ~,ould fain have interrupted this discourse at times, to answer and inquire; but the
Professor went on, warming and glowing more
9
II
129 
HYPERION,
and more. At length, there was a short pause,
and Flemming said:' 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," 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 round about,
and shines upon the terrible face of the archscoffer; while on either side, severe, majestic,
solemnly serene, we behold the gigantic forms
of the children of Chimera, 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
130 
A ROMANCE.
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 like the 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 exist
131 
HYPERION,
ences 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
itself new 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 for evermore. "
132 
A ROMANCE.
" 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
connection with the body. It has passed, as it
133
i
I
i
?
.;?1
%H
I
iI 
HYPERION)
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 mist 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 schoolboy's conjugation.   But therein lies a mysterious
meaning. We behold all round about us one
vast union, in which no man can labor for himself,
without laboring at the same time for all others
a glimpse of truth, which, by the universal har
134 
A ROMANCE.
mony 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: I 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 hap- 
pier. I can build forward, where they were 
forced to leave off; and bring nearer to perfec-  {
tion the great edifice which they left uncompleted. And at length I, t6o, must leave it, and
go hence. 0, this is the sublimest thought of
all!  I can never finish the noble task; there
135 
HYPERION)
fore, so sure as this task is my destiny, I can
never cease to work, and consequently never
cease to be.  What men call death cannot break
off this task, which is never-ending; consequently no period is set to my being, and I am eternal.
I lift my head boldly to the threatening mountain-peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and to
the storm-clouds swimming in the fire-sea overhead, and say, - I am eternal, and defy your
power! Break, break over me! and thou Earth,
and thou Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult!
and ye Elements, foam and rage, and 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  recognize it, I likewise  am  eternal!' Tell me, my friend, have you no faith in
this?"
"I  have,"  answered Flemming  and  there
was another pause. {Ie 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
136 
A ROMANCE.
itself. Let me tell you, that another form, which
it 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,
wrapped in beautiful, vague dreams of the real and
the ideal, they live in this green world, like the
little child in the German tale, who sits by the
margin of a woodland lake, and hears the blue
heaven and the branches 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 they cannot
live on air, but must descend to earth for food.
Yet I recognize them as day-dreams only; as
137 
HYPERION,
shad6ws, 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 intrenchments 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
helmnet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic; and
within it, at the farthest corner, is a head no bigger than a walnut.' -Can  you  believe  that
these words ever came from the pen of Thomas
Carlyle? He has himself taken up the uncouth
terminology, of late; and many pure, simple minds
are much offended at it.  They seem to take it as
a personal insult. They are angry, and deny the
138 
A ROMANCE.
just meed of praise. It is, however, hardly
worth while to lose our presence of mind. Let
us rather profit as we may, even from this spectacle, and recognize the monarch in his masquerade. For, hooded and wrapped about with
that strange and antique garb, there walks a
kingly, a most royal soul, even as the Emperor
Charles walked amid solemn cloisters under a
monk's cowl, - a 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,
139 
HYPERION)
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, lay  ing his hand upon Flemnming's arm, he said se  riously: -
"Believe me, my young friend, the time will
come, when you will think more wisely on these
things. And with you, I trust, that time will
soon come; since it moves more speedily with
some  than with others.  For what  is Time?
The shadow on the dial,-  the striking of the
clock, - the running of the sand, - day and
| night, - summer and winter, - months, years,
centuries;-these are but arbitrary and outward
signs, - the measure of Time, not Time itself.
Time is the Life of the Soul. If not this, then
tell me, what is Time?"
The high and animtnated tone of voice in which
the Professor uttered these words aroused the
Baron from his sleep; and, not distinctly com prehending what was said, but thinking the Pro fessor asked what time it was, he innocently ex claimed:
' I should think it must be near midnight! "
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A ROMANCE.
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 philosophy 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 ofa
Goethe's Baccalaureus, when he exclaims:'The.
world was not, before I created it; I brought the 
sun up out of the sea; with me began the 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 Philister-like, contracting thoughts? I, however, emancipated as
my mind assures me I am, gladly pursue my inward light, advance boldly in a transport pecu
liarly my own, the bright before me, and the dark
behind!'- Do you not see a resemblance?
0, 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! "
141 
HYPERION,
" Alas! how little veneration we have! " said
Flemming.   "I could not help closing the dis  cussion 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 open, from which sprang a toad, who
could not be supposed to have any knowledge
of the external world, and consequently his mo tion 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, II 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 thank ful," 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 Santeul advised
Bossuet, to go to Patmos and write a new Apoc alypse."
142 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER VII.
MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS.
A FEW days after this, the Baron received
letters from his sister, telling him that her physicians had prescribed a few weeks at the Baths
of Ems, and urging him to meet her there before
the fashionable season.
" Come,'" said he to Flemming; " make this
short journey with me. We will pass a few
pleasant days at Ems, and visit the other watering-places of Nassau. It will drive away the
melancholy day-dreams that haunt you. Perhaps
some future bride is even now waiting for you,
with dim presentiments and undefined longings, at
the Serpent's Bath."
" Or some widow of Ems, with a cork-leg!"
said Flemming, smiling; and then added, in a tone
of voice half jest, half earnest, " Certainly; let
us go in pursuit of her  --
143 
HYPERION,
' WVhoe'er she be,
That not impossible she,
That shall command my heart and me;
' Vhere'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 va
por 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.
" WVe shall not pass the night at Weinheim,"
said the Baron to the postilion, who had dis
144 
A RUMANCE.
mounted to walk up the hill leading to the town.
" You may drive to the mill in the valley of
Blrkenau."
The postilion seized one of his fat horses by
the tail, and awung himself up to his seat again.
They rattled over 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 owvn inn; and the ruins of Burg Windeck,
above there, on its mountain throne, frowned
at them for hurrying by, without staying to do
him homage.
" The old ruin looks well from the valley,"
said the Baron; "but let us beware of climbing that steep hill.   Most  travellers are like
children; they must needs touch whatever they
behold. They climb up to every old broken
tooth of a castle which they find on their way;
-get a toilsome ascent and hot sunshine for
their pains, and come down wearied and disappointed.  I trust we are wiser."       9
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
10
145 
HYPERION,
poplars, under which rushes the Wechsnitz, a
noisy mountain-brook, that ever and anon puts
its broad shoulder to the wheel of a mill, and
shows that it can labor as well as laugh. At one
of these mills they stopped for the night.
A mill forms as characteristic a feature min the
romantic German landscape as in the romantic
German tale. It is not only a mill, but likewise
an alehouse 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
the peasants, of a holyday; 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 *ieir 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 feel the popu
146 
A ROMANCE.
lar poetry of Germany, one must be familiar
with the German landscape. Many sweet little
poems are the outbreaks of momentary feelings;
-words, to which the song of birds, the rustling
of leaves, and the gurgle of cool waters form
the appropriate music.   Or perhaps  I should
say they are words which man has composed to
the music of nature. Can you not, even now,
hear this brooklet telling you how it is on its way
to the mill, where at daybreak the miller's daugh ter 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? "
"1 A most delightful ballad, truly," said the
Baron. " But, like many others of our little
songs, it requires a poet to feel 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 Miuller
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
147 
HYPERION)
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.
He calls them the Songs of a Wandering Hornplayer. 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,' WhiVther?' 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.
148 
A ROMANCE.
' 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 songis 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 waterfalls."
On the following morning, they emerged unwillingly from the green, dark valley, and jour
149 
HYPERION,
neyed  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 sweet
voice darts off like a bird, and floats away and
revels in the bright, warm sunshine! And then
mark! how, amid the chorus of a hundred voices
and  a  hundred  instruments, -  of flutes,  and
drums, and trumpets,- this universal shout and
whirlwind 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!
150 
A ROMANCE.
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 sylphlike 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
in the air, and the floor to bend and wave under
her, as a branch, when a bird alights upon it and
takes wing again. Loud and rapturous 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
151 
HYPERION,
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 whole magic 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,' 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,
- 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 parishion
152 
A ROMANCE.
ers, 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 I have a strange fancy," said he, "when ever I come to the theatre, to see the end of all
things. When the crowd is gone, and the cur tain 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 dreamlike 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
153 
HYPERION,
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 playhouse:  "I shall run her six nights at Munich, and then
take her on to Vienna."
Flemming thought he was speaking of some
favorite horse. He was speaking of his beautiful wife, the ballet-dancer.
154 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER VIII.
GOETHE.
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 fruittrees and rose-bushes, in long morning-gown,
black velvet cap, and the antique leather gloves,
which he annually received as Mayor on Pipers
155 
HYPERION,
Doomsday, representing a kind of middle personage between Alcinous and Laertes. Thus,
O  Genius! are thy foot-prints hallowed; and
the star shines for. ever 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, Goeihe was a
magnificent old fellow. Only think of his life;
his youth of passion, alternately aspiring and
desponding,  stormy,  impetuous,  headlong; -
his romantic manhood, in which passion assumes
the form of strength; assiduous, careful, toiling,
without haste, without rest; - and his sublime
old age, - the age of serene and classic repose,
where he stands like Atlas, as Claudian has
painted him in the Battle of the Giants, holding
the world aloft upon his head, the ocean-streams
hard frozen in his hoary locks."
" A good illustration of what the world calls
his indifferentism."
" And do you know I rather like this indifferentism? Did you never have the misfortune to
live in a community, where a difficulty in the
parish seemed to announce the end of the world?
IbG 
A ROMANCE.
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 Repre-:
sentative 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 and
concentrated portable form in Horace's beautiful Ode to Thaliarcus. What I most object to i
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
157 
HYPERION,
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
lamps of Pompeii. Would you hang one of
those in your hall? To say that a man is an
artist and copies nature is not enough.  There
are two great schools of art; the imitative and the
imaginative. The latter is the most noble, and
the most enduring; and Goethe belonged rather
to the former.  Have you read Menzel's attack
upon him?"
" It is truly ferocious. The Silesian hews
into him lustily. I hope you do not take sides
with him."
" By no means. He goes too far. He blames
158
l 
A ROMANCE.
the poet for not being a politician. He might as
well blame him for not being a missionary to the
Sandwich Islands."
" And what do you think of Eckermann?"
" I think he is a kind of German Boswell.
Goethe knew he was drawing his portrait, and
sat for it accordingly. He works very hard to
make a Saint Peter out of an old Jupiter, as the
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 soothsayings 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."
6c And every one who passes through Weimar
159 
HIYPERION,
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 Apologet
ic, if I may so call it; in which he says, that
the minor poets, who flourished under the imperial reign of Goethe,' resemble a young forest,
where the trees first show their own magnitude
after the oak of a hundred years, whose branches had towered above and overshadowed them,
has fallen. There was not wanting an opposition that strove against Goethe, this majestic
tree. Men of the most 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 a Liberty Tree, or, at any rate, as a barricade. In
fact, the tree was too high; no one could plant
160 
A ROMANCE.
the red cap upon its summit, or dance the Car magnole beneath its branches. The multitude,
however, venerated this tree for the very reason
that it reared itself with such independent gran deur, and so graciously filled the world with its
odor, while its branches, streaming magnificently
toward heaven, made it appear as if the stars
were only the golden fruit of its wondrous limbs.'
Do you not think that beautiful?"
" Yes, very beautiful.  And I am glad to see
that you can find something to admire in my 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.
"1 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
11
161 
HYPERION,
tower of strength.  And,  by Heavens! he was
nearly eighty years old, when that was made."
" How do you know? "
" You can see by the date on the pedestal."
" You are right. And yet how erect he stands,
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 halfGpen.   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 G6ttingen 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 findings 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, pretending all the
while to read from the book.'That is either
162 
A ROMANCE.
Goethe or the Devil,' said good old father Gleim
to Wieland, who sat near him. To which the
Great I of Osmannstadt' replied,-' It is both,
for he has the Devil in him to-night; and at such
times he is like a wanton colt, that flings out
before and behind, and you will do well not to go
too near him!' "
" Very good! "
" And now that noble figure is but mould.
Only a few months ago, those majestic eyes
looked for the last time on the light of a pleasant
spring morning. Calm, like a god, the old man
sat; and with a smile seemed to bid farewell to
the light of day, on which he had gazed for
more than eighty years.  Books were near him,
and the pen which had just dropped, as it were,
from his dying fingers.' Open the shutters, and
let in'more light!' were the last words that came
from those lips.  Slowly stretching forth his hand,
he seemed to write in the air; and, as it sank
down again and was motionless, the spirit of the
old man 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."
16.3 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER IX.
THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS, AND THE
FALLING STAR.
AFTER lingering a day or two in Frankfort,
the two friends struck across through Hochheim
to the Rhine, and then up among the hills of the
Rheingau to Schlangenbad, where they tarried
only to bathe and to dine, and then pursued
their way to Langenschwalbach. The town lies
in a valley, with gently sloping hills around it,
and long avenues of poplars leading forth into the
ffelds.   One  interminable street cuts the town
in twain, and there are old houses with curious
faces carved upon their fronts, and dates of the
olden time.
Our travellers soon sallied forth from their
hotel, impatient to drink the strength-giving waters of the fountains. They continued their walk
164 
A ROMANCE.
tar up the valley under the poplars. The new
grain was waving in the fields; the birds singing
in the trees and in the air; and every thing seemed glad, save a poor old man, who came tottering out of the woods, with a heavy bundle of
sticks on his shoulders.
Returning upon their steps, they passed down
the valley and through the long street to the
tumble-down old Lutheran church. A flight of
stone steps leads from the street to the green
terrace or platform on which the church stands,
and which, in ancient times, was the church-yard,
or, as the Germans more devoutly say, God'sacre; 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.
Hils teeth were gone; he could hardly articuld'e
a syllable. The Baron asked him how old the
church was.   He gave no answer;  but when
the question was repeated, came close up to
them. and, taking off his cap again, turned Ins
ear attentively, and said:  " I am hard of hearing."
165 
HYPERION,
"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 church-yard. Amid all this ruin, one
thing only stood erect; it was a statue of a knight
in armor, standing in a niche under the pulpit.
" Who is this?" said Flemming to the old
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
166 
A ROMANCE.
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
hymn of Martin Luther.
When he communicated his thoughts to the
Baron, the only answer he received was:  " After all, what is the use of so much preaching? Do you think the fishes, that heard the sermon of St. Anthony, were any better than those
who did not? I commend to your favorable
notice the fish-sermon of this saint, as recorded
by Abraham & Sancta Clara. You will find it in
your favorite Wonder-Horn."
Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach;
and the evening at the  Allee-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 heait of his friend cared little
167 
HYPERION,
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 directly upon
the house-tops of Ems. There it lay, deep
sunk in the hollow beneath them, as if some inhabitant of Sirius, like him spoken of in Voltaire's tale of 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 drove through the one long street
composed entirely of hotels and lodging-houses.
Sick people looked out of the windows, as they
passed. Others were 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 sh6rt, they were
in a fashionable watering-place; as yet sprinkled
only by a few pattering drops of the summer rain
of strangers, which generally follows the first hot
days.
On alighting at the London Hotel, the Baron
found- not his sister, but only a letter from her,
saying she had changed her mind and gone to the
168 
A ROMANCE.
Baths of Franconia. This was a disappointment, which the Baron pocketed with the letter,
and said not a word more about either.  It was
his way, - his philosophy in small things and
great. In the evening, they went to an esthetic
tea, at the house of the Frau Kranich, the wife
of a rich banker of Frankfort.
"I must tell you about this Frau Kranich,"
said the Baron to Flemming, on the way. "She
is a woman of talent and beauty, and just in the
prime of life; but, unfortunately, very ambitious. Her 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 het
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 bedridden. The wife is
a model of virtue, notwithstanding her weakness.
She nurses the old gentleman as if he were a
child. And, to crown all, he hates society, and
will not hear of his wife's receiving or going into
company."
" How, then, can she give soirees?" asked
Flemming.
169 
HYPERION,
" 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
soiree, without his knowing any thing about it.
This course of deception is truly hateful in itself,
and must be particularly so to her, for she is not
a low or an immoral woman; but one of those,
who, not having strength enough to complete the
sacrifice they have had strength enough to commence, are betrayed into a life of duplicity and
falsehood."
They had now reached the house, and were
ushered into a room gaily lighted and filled with
guests.   The hostess came  forward to receive
them, dressed in white, and sailing down the
room like a swan. When the customary salutations had passed and Flemming had been duly
presented, the Baron said, not without a certain
degree of malice: —
" And, my  dear Frau Kranich, how is your
good husband to night? "
170 
A ROMANCE.
This question was about as discreet as a can
non-ball.  But the lady replied, in the simplicity
of her heart, and not in the least disconcerted:  " The same as ever, my dear Baron. It is
astonishing how he holds out.  But let,us not
talk of these things now. I must introduce your
friend to his countryman, the Grand Duke of
Mississippi; alike remarkable for his wealth, his
modesty, and the extreme simplicity of his
manners. He drives only six horses. Besides,
he is known as a man of learning and piety;has his private chapel, and private clergyman,
who always preaches against the vanity of worldly riches.   He  has also a private  secretary,
whose sole duty is to smoke to him, that he may
enjoy the aroma of Spanish cigars, without the
trouble of smoking."
" Decidedly a man of genius! "
Here Flemming was introduced to his illustrious countryman; a person who seemed to consist chiefly of linen, such a display did he make
of collar, bosom, and wristbands.
" Pray,  Mr. Flemming, what do you think
of that Rembrandt?"  said he, pointing to a
picture on the wall.  " Exquisite picture!  The
grandeur of sentiment and splendor of chia
171 
HYPERION)
roscuro are of the first order.  Just observe the
liquidity of the water, and the silveriness of
the clouds! Great power! There is a bravura of handling in that picture, Sir, which
it reqires the eye of the connoisseur to appreciate."
" Yes, a most undoubted -copy!"
And here their conversation ended; for at that
moment the little Moldavian Prince Jerkin made
his way through the crowd, with his snuff-box
as usual in his hand, and hurried up to Flemming, whom he had known in Heidelberg. He
was eager to let every one know that he spoke
English, and in his haste began by making a
mistake.
"Good bye!  Good bye!  Mr. Flemming!"
said he, instead of good evening. " I am ravished to see you in Ems.  Nice place; -all
that there is of most nice. I drink my water and
am good!  Do you not think the Frau Kranich
has a very beautiful leather?"
He meant skin. Flemming laughed outright;
but it was not perceived by the Prince, because
at that moment he was pushed aside, in the rush
of a gallopade, and Flemming beheld his face
no more. At the same moment the Baron in
172 
A ROMANCE.
troduced a friend of his, who also spoke English
and said:  "You  will sup with me  to-night.   I have
some Rhine-wine, which will be a seduction
to you."
Soon after, the Baron stood with an impassioned, romantic lady leaning on his arm, examining a copy of Raphael's Fornarina.
"Ach! I wish I had been the Fornarina,"
sighed the impassioned, romantic lady.
"Then, my dear Madam," replied the Baron,
"I wish I had been Raphael."
And so likewise said to himself a very tall man
with fiery red hair and fancy whiskers, who was
waltzing round and round in one spot, and in a
most extraordinary waistcoat; thus representing
a fiery floating-light, to warn men of the hidden
rocks on which the breath of vanity drives them
shipwreck. At length, his partner, tired of spinning, sank upon a sofa, like a child's top, when it
reels and falls.
" You do not like the waltz? " said an elderly
French gentleman, remarking the expression of
Flemming's countenance.
" 0, yes; among the figurantes of the opera.
But I confess, it sometimes makes me shudder to
173 
HYPERION,
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 Bibliotheque 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-waltzes sounded pleasantly in the
ears of Flemming, who, though he never danced,
yet, like Henry of Ofterdingen, in the romance
of Novalis, thought to music.   The wheeling
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
174 
A ROMANCE.
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 MIahomet, the king of the Jews!"
At the same moment he fell in a swoon, and
was borne out of the room by the servants.
Flemming looked at the lady of the festival, and
she was deadly pale. For a moment, all was confusion; and the dance and the music stopped.
The impression produced on the company was
at once ludicrous and awful. They tried in vain
to rally. The whole society was like a dead
body, from which the spirit has departed. Ere
long, the guests had all dispersed, and left the
lady of the mansion to her mournful, expiring
lamps, and still more mournful reflections.
" Truly," said Flemming to the Baron, as
they wended their way homeward, " this seems
not like reality; but like one of the sharp contrasts we find in novels. Who shall say, after
this, that there is not more romance in real life
than we find written in books? "
"' Not more romance," said the Baron, "' but
a different romance."
A still more tragic scene had been that even
175 
HYPERIONE
ing enacted in Heidelberg. Just as the sun set,
two female figures walked along the romantic
woodland pathway, 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.
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
176 
A ROMANCE.
of its waters was not heard; - there was not a
sigh of the evening wind among the leaves, -not
a sound upon the earth nor in the air;- and yet
that night there fell a star from heaven!
12
17't 
HYPERIOIV,
CHAPTER X.
THE PARTING.
IT was now that season of the year, which an
old English writer calls the amiable month of
June, and at that hour of the day, when, face to
face, the rising moon beholds the setting sun.
As yet the stars were few in heaven. But, after
the heat of the day, the coolness and the twilight
descended like a benediction upon the earth, by
all those gentle sounds attended which are the
meek companions of the night.
Flemming and the Baron had passed the afternoon at the Castle. They had rambled once more
together, and for the last time, over the magnificent ruin. On the morrow they were to part,
perhaps for ever. The Baron was going to Berlin, to join his sister; and Flemming, driven forward by the restless spirit within him, longed once
more for a change of scene, and was to start for
1ts 
A ROMANCE.
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 Elizabeth's Garden.   The  sun had
set beyond the blue Alsatian hills; and on the
valley of the Rhine fell the purple mist, like the
mantle of the departing prophet from his fiery
chariot.  Over the castle walls and the trees of
the garden rose the large moon; and between
the contending daylight and moonlight there were
as yet no 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 linden-trees 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
179
a,  
HYPERION,
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 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 vicissitudes of 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 seekh 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.'"
180 
A ROMANCE.
"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
181 
HIYPERION,
world and I look each other more calmly in the
face. My mind is more self-possessed. It hlas
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, feverish
spirit than yours. Do not think you have gained
the mastery yet. You are only riding at anchor
here in an eddy of the stream; you will' soon be
swept away again in the mighty current and whirl
of accident. Do not trust this momentary 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 tinmes my favorite occupations and pursuits no longer charm me.   The
quiet face of Nature seems to mock me."
182
I I 
A ROMANCE.
" There  certainly are seasons," replied  the
Baron, " when Nature seems not to sympathize
with her beloved children.   She sits there so
eternally calm and self-possessed, so very motherly and serene, and cares so little whether the
heart of her child breaks or not, that at times I
almost lose my patience.   About that, too, she
cares so little, that, out of sheer obstinacy, I become good-humored again, and then she smiles."
" I think we must confess, however," continued Flemming, " that all this springs from our
own imperfection, not from hers. How beautiful
is this green world which we inhabit! See yonder, how the moonlight mingles with the mist!
What a glorious night is this! Truly, every man
has a Paradise around him, until he sins, and the
angel of an accusing conscience drives him from
his Eden.   And even then there are holy hours,
when this angel sleeps, and man comes back,
and, with the innocent eyes of a child, looks into
his lost Paradise again, - into the broad gates
and rural solitudes of Nature.   I feel this often.
We have much to enjoy in the quiet and retirement of our own thoughts. Boisterous mirth and
loud laughter are not my mood. I love that tranquillity of soul, in which we feel the blessing of
183 
HYPERION,
existence, and which in itself is a prayer and a
thanksgiving. I find, however, that, as I grow older, I love the country less, and the town more."
"Yes," interrupted the Baron; " and  presently you will love the town less and the country
more. Say at once, that you have an undefined
longing for both; and prefer town or country,
according to the mood you are in. I think a
man must be of a very qpiet and happy nature,
who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person, very self-complacent, to be continually occupied with himself and his own thoughts.
To say the least, a town life makes one more
tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.
One is not eternally wrapped up in self-contemplation; which, after all, is only a more holy kind
of vanity."
In conversation like this, the hours glided away;
till at length, from the Giant's Tower, the castle
clock struck twelve, with a sound that seemed to
come from the Middle Ages. Like watchmen
from their belfiies, the city clocks answered it,
one by one. Then distant and muffled sounds
were heard. Inarticulate words seemed to blot
the foggy air, as if written on wet paper.   These
184 
A ROM3ANCE.
were the bells of Handschuhsheimer, and of other
villages on the broad plain of the Rhine and
among the hills of the Odenwald; mysterious
sounds, that seemed not of this world.
Beneath them, in the shadow of the hills, lay
the valley, -  fathomless, black, impenetrable.
Above were the cloistered stars, that, nun-like,
walk the holy aisles of heaven.   The  city was
asleep in the valley below; all asleep and silent,
save the clocks, that had just struck twelve, and
the veering, golden weathercocks, that were swimming in the moonlight, like golden fishes in a glass
vase. And again the wind of the summer night
passed through the old castle, and the trees, and
the nightingales recorded under the dark, shadowvy leaves, and the heart of Flemming was full.
When he had retired to his chamber, a feeling
of utter loneliness came over him.   The night
before one begins a journey is always a dismal
night; for, as Byron says,
"In leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple!"
and how much more so when the place and people are pleasant! as was the case with those that
Flemming was now leaving. No wonder he was
sad and sleepless.   Thoughts  came  and went,
185 
HYPERION.
and bright and gloomy fancies, and dreams and
visions, and sweet faces looked under his closed
eyelids, and vanished away, and came again, and
again departed.  He heard the clock strike from
hour to hour, and said, " Another hour is gone."
At length the birds began to sing; and ever and
anon the cock crew. He arose, and looked forth
into the gray dawn; and before him lay the city
he was so soon to leave, all white and ghastly,
like a city that had arisen from its grave.
" All things must change," said he to the
Baron, as he embraced him, and held him by the
hand.   " Friends must  be torn asunder, and
swept along in the current of events, to see each
other seldom, and perchance no more. For ever
and ever in the eddies of time and accident we
whirl away. Besides which, some of us have a
perpetual motion in our wooden heads, as Wodenblock had in his wooden leg; and like him we
travel on, without rest or sleep, and have hardly
time to take a friend by the hand in passing; and
at length are seen hurrying through some distant
land, worn to a skeleton, and all unknown."
186 
BOOK THE THIRD.
" Take away the lights, too;
The moon lends me too much to find my fears,
And those devotions I am now to pay
Are written in my  heart, not in thy book;
And I shall read them there without a taper." 
I 
BOOK THE THIRD.
C'IAPTER I.
SUMMER-TIME.
THEY were right,-those old German Minnesingers, - to  sing the pleasant summer-time!
What a time it is! How June stands illuminated
in the calendar!  The  windows  are all wide
open; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here
and there a long streak of sunshine streams in
through a crevice. We hear the low sound of
the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and
freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden
sound.   The trees are heavy with leaves; and
the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The
whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine.  The birds sing.   The cock struts about,
and crows loftily.  Insects chirp in the grass.
Yellow buttercups stud the green carpet like 
HYPERION,
golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clo    ver like rubies.   The elm-trees reach their long,
pendulous branches almost to the ground. White
clouds sail aloft; and vapors fret the blue sky
with silver threads.   The white village gleams
afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow
winds the river, - careless, indolent.  It seems
to love the country, and is in no haste to reach
the sea.  The  bee only is at work, -the hot
and angry bee.   All things else are at play; he
never plays, and is vexed that any one should.
People drive out from town to breathe, and to
be happy. Most of them have flowers in their
hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still
oftener lilacs.  Ye denizens of the crowded city,
how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry
streets to the open field, fragrant with clover   blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezy coun   try air, dashed with brine from the meadows!
how pleasant, above all. the flowers,-the mani   fold, beautiful flowers!
It is no longer day.  Through the trees rises
the red moon, and the stars are scarcely seen.
In the vast shadow of night, the coolness and the
dews descend. I sit at the open window to enjoy
them; and hear only the voice of the summer
190 
A ROMANCE.
wind. Like black hulks, the shadows of the
great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of
grass. I cannot see the red and blue flowers,
but I know that they are there. Far away in the
meadow gleams the silver Charles.   The tramp
of horses' hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge.
Then all is still, save the continuous wind of the
summer night. Sometimes I know not if it be
the wind or the sound of the neighbouring sea.
The village clock strikes; and I feel that I am
not alone.
Hlow different is it in the city! It is late, and
the crowd is gone. You step out upon the balcony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool,
dewy night, as if you folded her garments about
you.   Beneath lies the public walk with trees,
like a fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent
darkness the spirit plunges and floats away, with
some beloved spirit clasped in its embrace.   The
lamps are still burning up and down the long
street. People go by, with grotesque shadows,
now foreshortened, and now lengthening away into
the darkness and vanishing, while a new one
springs up behind the walker, and seems to pass
him, revolving like the sail of a windmill.   The
iron gates of the park shut with a jangling clang.
191 
HYPERION,
There  are footsteps and loud voices;-a  tumult, -  a drunken brawl, -an alarm of fire;then silence again. And now at length the city
is asleep, and we can see the night. The belated
moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to
welcome  her.   The  moonlight is broken.    It
lies here and there in the squares, and the opening of streets,-angular,  like blocks of white
marble.
Under such a green, triumphal arch, 0 Reader,
with the odor of flowers about thee, and the song
of birds, shalt thou pass onward  into the enchanted land, as through  the  Ivory  Gate  of
dreams! And as a prelude and majestic march,
one sweet human voice, coming from the bosom
of the Alps, sings this sublime ode, whichl the
Alpine echoes repeat afar.
"Come, golden Evening! in the west 
Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun,
And let the triple rainbow rest
O'er all the mountain-tops.'T is done; The tempest ceases; bold and bright,
The rainbow shoots from hill to hill;
Down sinks the sun; on presses night; —
Mont Blanc is lovely still!
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A ROMANCE.
"There take thy stand, my spirit; - spread
The world of shadows at thy feet;
And mark how calmly, overhead,
The stars, like saints in glory, meet.
While hid in solitude sublime,
Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb,
And hear the passing foot of Time
Step through the silent gloom.
"All in a moment, crash on crash,
From precipice to precipice,
An avalanche's ruins dash
Down to the nethermost abyss,
Invisible; the ear alone
Pursues the uproar till it dies;
Echo to echo, groan for groan,
From deep to deep, replies.
"Silence again the darkness seals,
Darkness that may be felt;- but soon
The silver-clouded east reveals
The midnight spectre of the moon;
In half-eclipse she lifts her horn,
Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme
Brings the faint semblance of a morn,
With her awakening beam.
"Ah! at her touch, these Alpine heights
Unreal mockeries appear;
With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights,
Emerging as she climbs the sphere;
13
193 
HYPERION,
A crowd of apparitions pale!
I hold my breath in chill suspense,
They seem so exquisitely frail,
Lest they should vanish hence.
" I breathe again, I freely breathe;
Thee, Leman's Lake, once more I trace,
Like Dian's crescent far beneath,
As beautiful as Dian's face:
Pride of the land that gave me birth!
All that thy waves reflect I love,
Where heaven itself, brought down to earth,
Looks fairer than above.
"Safe on thy banks again I stray;
The trance of poesy is o'er,
And I am here at dawn of day,
Gazing on mountains as before,
Where all the strange mutations wrought
Were magic feats of my own mind;
For, in that fairy land of thougtll,
Whate'er I seek, 1 find."
194 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER II.
FOOT-TRAVELLING.
TELL me, my soul, why art thou restless?
WVhy dost thou look forward to the future with
such  strong desire?  The  present is thine,and the past;.- and the future shall be! 0, that
thou didst look forward to the great hereafter
with half the longing wherewith thou longest for
an earthly future, -which a few days, at most,
will bring thee! to the, mneeting of the dead, as
to the meeting of the absent!  Thou  glorious
spirit-land! 0, that I could behold thee as thou
art,- the region of life, and light, and love, and
the dwelling-place of those beloved ones whose
being has flowed onward, like a silver-clear stream
into the solemn-sounding main, into the ocean of
Eternity!
Such were the thoughts that passed through the
soul of Flemming, as he lay in utter solitude and
195 
HYPERION,
silence on the rounded summit of one of the
mountains of the Furca Pass, and gazed, with
tears in his eyes, and ardent longing in his heart,
into the blue, swimming heaven overhead, and at
the glaciers and snowy mountain-peaks around
him.  Highest and whitest of all stood the peak
of the Jungfrau, which seemed near him, though
it rose afar off from the bosom of the Lauterbrunner Thal. There it stood, holy and high
and pure, the bride of heaven, veiled and clothed
in white, and lifting the thoughts of the beholder
heavenward. 0, he little thought then, as he
gazed at it with longing and delight, how soon a
form was to arise in his own soul, as holy, and
high, and pure as this, and like this point heavenward!
Thus lay the traveller on the mountain summit,
reposing his weary limbs on the short, brown
grass, which more resembled moss than grass.
Hie had sent his guide forward, that he might be
alone. His soul within him was wild with a fierce
and painful delight. The mountain air excited
him; the mountain solitudes enticed, yet maddened him.   Every peak, every sharp, jagged
iceberg, seemed to pierce him. The silence was
awful and sublime. It was like that in the soul
196 
A ROMANCE.
of a dying man, when he hears no more the
sounds of earth. He seemed to be laying aside
his earthly garments. The heavens were near
unto him; but between him and heaven every evil
deed he had done arose gigantic, like those
mountain-peaks, and breathed an icy breath upon
him. 0, let not the soul that suffers dare to
look Nature in the face, where she sits majestically aloft in the solitude of the mountains! for
her face is hard and stern, and turns not in compassion upon her weak and erring child. It is
the countenance of an accusing archangel, who
summons us to judgment.   In the valley she
wears the countenance of a Virgin Mother, looking at us with tearful eyes, and a face of pity
and love!
But yesterday Flemming had come up the valley of the Saint Gothard Pass, through Amsteg,
where the Kerstelenbach comes dashing down
the Maderaner Thai, from its snowy cradle overhead. The road is steep, and runs on zigzag
terraces. The sides of the mountains are barren
cliffs; and from  their cloud-capped summits,
unheard amid the roar of the great torrent below,
come streams of snow-white foam, leaping from
rock to rock, like the mountain chamois. As
197 
IIYPERION,
you advance, the scene grows wilder and more
desolate.  There is not a tree in sight, -  not a
human habitation.   Clouds, black as midnight,
lower upon you from the ravines above; and the
mountain torrent beneath is but a sheet of foam,
and sends up an incessant roar. A sudden turn
in the road brings you in sight of a lofty bridge,
stepping from cliff to cliff with a single stride.
A mighty cataract howls beneath it, like an evil
spirit, and fills the air with mist; and the moun
tain wind claps its hands'and shrieks through the
narrow pass, Ha! ha!  This is the Devil's
Bridge.  It leads the traveller across the fearful chasm, and through a mountain gallery into
the broad, green, silent meadow of Andermath.
Even the sunny morning, which followed this
gloomy day, had not chased the desolate impression firom the soul of Flemming.   His excitement increased as he lost himself more and more
among the mountains; and now, as he lay alone
on the summit of the sunny hill, with only glaciers and snowy peaks about him, his soul, as I
have said, was wild with a fierce and painful
delight.
A human voice broke his reverie. He looked,
and beheld, at a short distance from him, the
198 
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athletic form of a mountain herdsman, who was
approaching the spot where he lay. He was a
young man, clothed in a rutistic garb, and holding
a long staff in his hand. When Flemming rose,
hlie stood still, and gazed at him, as if he loved
the face of man, even of a stranger, and longed
to hear a human voice, though it might speak in
an unknown tongue.   He  answered  Flemming's
salutation in a rude mountain dialect, and in reply
to his questions said:  "c, with two others, have charge of two hundred head of cattle on these mountains. Through
the two summer months, we remain here night and
day; for which we receive each a napoleon."
Flemming gave him half his summer wages.
He was glad to do a good deed in secret, and yet
so near heaven.   The man received it as his due,
like a toll-keeper; and soon after departed, leaving the traveller alone.   And the traveller went
his way down the mountain, as one distraught.
He stopped only to pluck one bright blue flower,
which bloomed alone in the vast desert, and looked
up at him, as if to say, " 0, take me with you!
leave me not here companionless!"
Ere long he reached the magnificent glacier of
the Rhone; a frozen cataract, more than two
199
I
t
I 
HYPERION,
thousand feet in height, and many miles broad at
its base. It fills the whole valley between two
mountains, running back to their summits. At
the base it is arched, like a dome; and above,
jagged and rough, and resembles a mass of gigantic crystals, of a pale emerald tint, mingled with
white.  A snowy crust covers its surface; but at
every rent and crevice the pale green ice shines
clear in the sun.  Its shape is that of a glove,
lying with the palm downwards, and the fingers
crooked and close together.  It is a gauntlet of
ice, which, centuries ago, Winter, the king of
these mountains, threw down in defiance to the
Sun; and year by year the Sun strives in vain
to lift it from the ground on the point of his glittering spear. A feeling of wonder and delight
came over the soul of Flemming when he beheld
it, and he shouted and cried aloud:- -
" How wonderful! how glorious!"
After lingering a few hours in the cold, desolate valley, he climbed in the afternoon the steep
Mayen-Wand, on the Grimsel; passed the Lake
of the Dead, with its ink-black waters; and
through the melting snow, and over slippery stepping-stones in the beds of numberless shallow
brooks, descended to the Grimsel Hospital, where
200 
A ROMANCE.
he passed the night, and thought it the most lone
and desolate spot that man ever slept in.
On the morrow, he rose with the day; and the
rising sun found him already standing on the rus tic bridge which hangs over the verge of the
Falls of the Aar at Handeck, where the river
pitches down a precipice into a narrow and fearful abyss shut in by perpendicular cliffs.   At
right angles with it comes the beautiful Aerlenbach; and half-way down, the double cascade
mingles into one. Thus he pursued his way down
the Hasli Thal into the Bernese Oberland,restless, impatient, he knew not why, - stopping
seldom, and never long, - and then rushing forward again, like the rushing river whose steps he
followed, and in whose ice-cold waters ever and
anon he bathed his wrists, to cool the fever in
his blood; for the noonday sun was hot.
His heart dilated in the dilating valley, that
grew broader and greener at every step.   The
sight of human faces and human dweUllings soothed
him; and through the fields of summer grain, in
the broad meadows of Imgrund, he walked with
a heart that ached no more, but trembled only, as
our eyelids when we have done weeping.  As he
climbed the opposite hill, which hems in this ro
201 
HYPERION,
mantic valley, and, like a heavy yoke, chafes the
neck of the Aar, he believed the ancient tradition,
which says that once the valley was a lake.
From the summit of the hill he looked southward
upon a beautiful landscape of gardens, and fields
of grain, and woodlands, and meadows, and the
ancient castle of Resti, looking down upon Meyringen. And now all around him were the singing of birds, and grateful shadows of the leafy
trees, and sheeted waterfalls dropping from the
woodland cliffs, seen only, but unheard,-the
fluted columnins breaking into mnist,,and fretted with
frequent spires and ornaments of foam, and not
unlike the towers of a Gothic church inverted.
There, in one white sheet of foam, the Riechenbach pours down into its deep beaker, into which
the sun never shines.  Face to face it beholds
the Alpbach falling from the opposite hill, "like
a downward smoke."   When Flemming saw the
innumerable runnels, sliding down the mountainside, and leaping, all life and gladness, hlie would
fain have clasped them in his arms and been their
playmate, and revelled with them in their freedom
and delight. Yet he was weary with the day's
journey, and entered the village of Meyringen,
embowered in cherry-trees, which were then laden
202 
A ROMANCE.
with firuit, more like a wayworn traveller than an
enthusiastic poet.  As  he went up the tavernsteps, he said in his heart, with the Italian Aretino: "'  e who has not been at a tavern knows
not what a paradise it is. 0 holy tavern! 0
miraculous tavern!- holy, because no carking
cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and
miraculous, because of the spits, which of themselves turn round and round! Of a truth, all
courtesy and good manners come from taverns, so
full of bows, and Sig,nor, si! and Signor, nd!"
But even in the tavern he could not rest long.
The same evening at sunset he was floating on
the lake of Brienz, in an open boat, close under the cascade of the Giessbach, hearing the
peasants sing the Ranz des Vaches. He slept
that night at the other extremity of the lake, in a
large house, which, like Saint Peter's at Joppa,
stood by the water's side.  The next day he
wasted in writing letters, musing in this green
nest, and paddling about the lake again; and in
the evening went across the beautiful meadows
to Interlachen, where many things happened to
him, and detained him long.
203 
I YPERION,
CHAPTER III.
INTERLACHEN.
INTERLACHEN!  How  peacefully,  by  the
margin of the swift-rushing Aar, thou liest on
the broad lap of those romantic meadows, all
overshadowed by the wide arms of giant trees!
Only the round towers of thine ancient cloister
rise above their summits; the round towers themselves, but a child's playthings under the great
church-towers of the mountains. Close beside
thee are lakes, which the flowing band of the
river ties together. Before thee opens the magnificent valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  where  the
cloud-hooded Monk and pale Virgin stand like
Saint Francis  and his Bride of  Snow;  and
around thee are fields, and orchards, and hamlets
green, from which the church-bells answer each
other at evening.   The evening sun was setting
when I first beheld thee.   The sun of life will
204 
A ROMANCE.
set ere I forget thee! Surely it was a scene
like this, that inspired the soul of the Swiss poet, in his Song of the Bell!
"Bell! thou soundest merrily,
When the bridal party
To the church doth hie!
Bell! thou soundest solemnly
When, on Sabbath morning,
Fields deserted lie!
"Bell! thou soundest merrily
Tellest thou at evening,
Bed-time draweth nigh
Bell! thou soundest mournfully;
Tellest thou the bitter
Parting hath gone by!
"Say! how canst thou mourn P
How canst thou rejoice?
Art but metal dull!
And yet all our sorrowings,
And all our rejoicings,
Thou dost feel them all!
"God hath wonders many,
Which we cannot fathom,
Placed within thy form!
When the heart is sinking,
Thou alone canst raise it,
Trembling in the storm!"
Paul Flemming alighted at one of the principal hotels. The landlord came out to meet him.
205 
HYPERION,
He had great eyes and a green coat; and reminded Flemming of the innkeeper mentioned in
the Golden Ass, who had been changed by magic into a frog, and croaked to his customers from
the lees of a wine-cask. His house, he said,
was full, and so was every house in Interlachlen;
but, if the gentleman would walk in, he would
procure a chamber for him  in the neighbourhood.
On the sofa sat a gentleman, reading; a stout
gentleman of perhaps forty-five, round, ruddy,
and with a head, which, being a little bald on the
top, looked not unlike a crow's nest with one
egg in it. A good-humored face turned from the
book  as Flemming  entered; and a  good-lumored voice exclaimed:  "Ha! ha! Mr.  Flemming!  Is it you,  or
your apparition? I told you we should meet
again! though you were for taking an eternal
farewell of your fellow-traveller."
Saying these words, the stout gentleman rose
and shook Flemming heartily by the hand. And
Flemming returned the shake as heartily, recognizing ill this ruddy personage a former travellingcomnpanion, Mr. Berkley, whom he had left, a
week or two previous, toiling up the Righi. Mr.
206 
A ROMANCE.
Berkley was an Englishman of fortune; a goodhumored, humane old bachelor; remarkable alike
for his cofnmon sense and his eccentricity.   That
is to say, the basis of his character was good,
sound common sense, trodden down and smoothed by education; but this level groundwork his
strange and whimsical fancy used as a dancingfloor, whereon to exhibit her eccentric tricks.
His ruling passion was cold-bathing; and he
usually ate his breakfast sitting in a tub of cold
water, and reading a newspaper. He kissed every child he met; and to every old man said, in
passing, " God  bless you! " with such  an expression of voice and countenance, that no one
could doubt his sincerity.  He reminded one of
Roger Bontemps, or the Little Alan in Gray;
though with a difference.
" The last time I had the pleasure of seeing
you, Mr. Berkley," said Flemming, " was at
Goldau, just as you were going up the Righi.
I hope you were gratified with a fine sunrise on
the mountain-top."
"'No,  I was not!"  replied  Mr.  Berkley.
"It is all a humbug! a confounded  humbug!
They made such a noise about their sunrise, that
I determined I would not see it. So I lay snug
207 
HYPERION)
in bed; and only peeped through the windowcurtain.   That  was  enough.   Just  above  the
house, on the top of the hill, stood gome fifty
half-dressed, romantic individuals, shivering in
the wet grass; and, a short distance from them,
a miserable wretch, blowing a long, wooden horn.
That's your sunrise on the Righi, is it?' said I;
and went to sleep again.   The  best thing I saw
at the Culm was the advertisement on the bedroom  doors, saying, that, if the women  would
wear the quilts and blankets for shawls, when
they went out to see the sunrise, they must pay
for the washing. Take my word for it, the Righi is a great humbug!"
c Where have you been since?"
" At Zuiricli and Schaffhausen. If you go to
Zurich, beware how you stop at the Raven.
They         will cheat you.   They cheated me; but I
had  m y revenge; for, when we  reached Schaffhausen, I wrote in the Traveller's Book,          Beware of the Raven of Zurich!
'T is a bird of omen ill;
With a noisy and an unclean nest,
And a very, very long bill.
If you go to the Golden Falken, you will find it
there.   I am the author of those lines! "
203 
A ROMANCE.
"Bitter as Juvenal!" exclaimed Flemming:
"Not in the least bitter," said MIr. Berkley.
"It is all true.  Go to the Raven and see.  But
this Interlachen! this Interlachen!  It is the
loveliest spot on the face of the earth," he continued, stretching out both arms, as if to embrace
the object of his affection.  "I There,-only
look out there! "
Here he pointed to the window. Flemming
looked, and beheld a scene of transcendent beauty.   The  plain was  covered already  by the
brown shade of the summer twilight. From the
cottage roofs in Unterseen rose here and there a
thin column of smoke over the tops of the trees,
and mingled with the evening shadows. The
valley of Lauterbrunnen was filled with a blue
haze.  Far above, in the clear, cloudless heaven,
the white forehead of the Jungfrau blushed at the
last kiss of the departing sun.  It was a glorious
Transfiguration of Nature!  And  when the village bells began to ring, and a single voice at a
great distance was heard yodling forth a ballad, it
rather broke than increased the enchantment of a
scene, where silence was more musical than
sound.
For a long time they gazed at the gloaming
14
209 
HYPERION'
landscape,  and  spake not.  At  length people
came in, and laid aside their shawls and hats, and
exchanged a word or two with Berkley. To
Flemming they were all unknown. The conversation turned upon the various excursions of
the  day.   Some had  been  at the  Staubbach,
others at the Grindelwald, others at the Lake of
Thun; and nobody before had ever experienced
half the rapture which they had experienced that
day.  And thus they sat in the twilight, as people love to do, at the close of a summer day.
As yet the lamps had not been lighted, and one
could not distinguish faces; but voices only, and
forms, like shadows.
Presently a female figure, clothed in black, entered the room and sat down by the window.
She rather listened to the conversation, than
joined in it; but the few words she said were
spoken in a voice so musical and full of soul, that
it moved the soul of Flemming, like a whisper
from heaven.
0, how wonderful is the human voice! It is
indeed the organ of the soul!  The intellect of
man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and
in his eye; and the heart of man is written upon
his countenance.   But the soul reveals itself in
210 
- ROMANCE.
the voice only; as God revealed himself to the
prophet of old in the still, small voice, and in a
voice fiom the burning bush. The soul of man
is audible, not visible.  A sound alone betrays
the flowing of the eternal fountain, invisible to
man!
Flemming would fain have sat and listened for
hours to the sound of that unknown voice. He
felt sure, in his secret heart, that the being from
whom it came was beautiful. His imagination
filled up the faint outline which the eye beheld
in the fading twilight, and the figure stood already
in his mind like Raphael's beautiful Madonna in
the Dresden gallery. He was never more mistaken in his life.  The voice belonged to a beautiful being, it is true; but her beauty was different from that of any Madonna which Raphael
ever painted; as he  would have  seen, had he
waited till the lamps were lilgh-ted.   But  in the
midst of his reverie and  saint-painting, the landlord came in, and told him he had found a chamber, which he begged him to go and look at.
Flemming took his leave and departed.  Berkley went with him, to see, he said, what kind of
a nest his young friend was to sleep in.
" The  chlamber is not wl-at I could wish'
211 
HYPERION,
said the landlord, as he led them across the street.
"It is in the old cloister.   But to-morrow or
next day, you can, no doubt, have a room at the
house."
The name of the cloister struck Flemming's
imagination pleasantly.  He was  owl enough to
like ruins and old chambers, where nuns or friars
had slept. And he said to Berkley:  " So, you perceive, my nest is to be in a
cloister. It already makes me think of a bird'snest I once saw on an old tower of Heidelberg
Castle, built in the jaws of a lion, which formerly
served as a spout. But pray tell me, who was
that young lady, with the soft voice?"
" What young lady with the soft voice?"
" The young lady in black, who sat by the
window."
" 0, she is the daughter of an English officer,
who died not long ago at Naples.   She is passing
the summer here with her mother."
" What is her name? "
" Ashburton."
" Is she beautiful?"
"Not  beautiful; but  very  intellectual.  A
woman of genius, I should say."
And now they had reached the walls of the
212 
A ROMANCE.
cloister, and passed uniider an arched gateway,
and close beneath the round towers, which Flermming had already seen, rising with their coneshaped roofs above the trees, like tall tapers,
with extinguishers upon them.
" It is not so bad as it looks," said the landlord, knocking at a small door, in the main building.  " The bailiff lives in one part of it."
A servant girl, with a candle in her hand, opened the door, and conducted Flemming and Berkley to the chamber which had been engaged. It
was a large room on the lower floor, wainscoted
with pine, and unpainted.  Three lofty and narrow  windows,  with leaden  lattices and  small
panes, looked southward towards the valley of
Lauterbrunnen and the mountains. In one corner was a large square bed, with a tester and
checked curtains.  In another, a huge stove of
painted tiles, reaching almost to the ceiling.  An
old sofa, a few high-backed, antique chairs, and a
table, completed the fiurniture of the room.
Thuis Flemrnming took possession of his monkish cell and dormitory. He ordered tea', and began to feel at home.   Berkley passed the evenmg with him.  On going away, he said:  " Good night! I leave you to the care of the
213
0 
HtYPERION,
Virgin and all the Saints.  If the ghost of any
old monk comnes back after his prayer-book, my
compliments to him. If I were a younger man,
you certainly should see a ghost. Good night! "
When he had departed, Flemming opened the
lattice of one of the windows. The moon had
risen, and silvered the dark outline of the nearest hills; while, afar off, the snowy summits of
the Jungfrau and the Silver-Horn shone like a
white cloud in the sky. Close beneath the windows was a flower-garden; and the breath of the
summer night came to him with dewy fragrance.
There was a grateful seclusion about the place.
He blessed the happy accident which gave him
such a lodging, and fell asleep that night thinking
of the nuns who once had slept in the same quiet
cells; but neither wimpled nin nor cowled monk
appeared to him in his dreams;-not even the
face of Mary Ashburton; nor did he hear her
voice.
-014 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER IV.
TIIE EVENING AND THE MORNING STAR.
OLD Froissart tells us, in his Chronicles, that,
when IKing Edward  behleld the Countess of Salisjbury at her castle-gate, hlie thought he had never seen before so noble nor so fair a lady; he
was stricken thereupon to the heart with a sparkle of fine love, that endured  long after; he
thought no lady in the world so worthy to be beloved as she.   And  so likewise thought Paul
Flemining, when he behleld the English lady in
the fair light of a summer morning. I will not
disguise the truth.   She is my  heroine; and I
mean to describe her with great truth and beauty,
so that all shall be in love with her, and I most
of all.
NIary Ashburton was in her twentieth summer.
Like the fair maiden Amoret, she was sitting in
the lap  of womanhood.  They  did her wrong,
who said she was not beautliful; and yet
215 
HYPERION,
" She was not fair,
Nor beautiful; - those words express her not.
But, 0, her looks had something excellent,
That wants a name! "
Her-face had a wonderful fascination in it. It
was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the
rising soul shining so peacefully through it.  At
times it wore an expression of seriousness, - of
sorrow even; and then seemed to make the very
air bright with what the Italian poets so beautifully call the lampeggiar dell' angelico riso, -the
lightning of the angelic smile.
And, 0, those eyes, - those deep unutterable
eyes, with " down-falling eyelids, full of dreams
and slumber," and within them a cold, living
light, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the
river of Paradise, for ever gliding,
"With a brown, brown current,
Under the shade perpetual, that never
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon."
I dislike  an  eye  that  twinkles  like  a  star.
Those only are beautiful, which, like the planets,
have  a  steady, lambent  light, -  are  luminous,
but not sparklin,.   Such  eyes  the Greek poets
give to the Immortals.
The lady's figure was striking. Every step,
216
J
t
I 
A ROMANCE.
every attitude was graceful, and yet lofty, as if
inspired by the soul within. Angels in the old
poetic philosophy have such forms; it was the 
soul itself imprinted on the air. And what a soul
was hers! A temple dedicated to Heaven, and,
like the Pantheon at Rome, lighted only from
above. And earthly passions in the form of gods
were no longer there, but the sweet and thought ful faces of Christ, and the Virgin Mary, and
the Saints.   Thus there was not one discordant
thing in her; but a perfect harmony of figure,
and face, and soul,- in a word, of the whole being. And he who had a soul to comprehend
hers must of necessity love her, and, having
once loved her, could love no other woman for
evermore.
No wonder, then, that Flemming felt his heart
drawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she
passed him, sitting alone under the great walnuttrees near the cloister, and thinking of heaven,
but not of her.  She, too,  was alone.   Her
cheek  was no longer pale; but glowing and
bright, with the inspiration of the summer air.
Flemming gazed after her, till she disappeared,
even as a vision of his dreams, he knew not
whither. He was not yet in love, but very near
217 
HYPERION,
it; for he thanked God that he had made such
beautiful beings to walk the earth.
Last night he had heard a voice to which his
soul responded; and he might have gone on his
way, and taken no farther hleed.  But he would
have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at
evening he thought of this evening at Interlachen.
To-day he had seen more clearly the vision, and
his restless soul grew calm.  The  place seemed
pleasant to him; and he could not go. He did
not ask himself whlence came this calm. He felt
it, and was happy in the feeling; and blessed
the landscape and the summer morning, as if they
possessed the wonder-working power.
" A pleasant morning-dream to you," said a
friendly voice; and at the same moment some
one laid his hand upon Flemming's shoulder. It
was Berkley. He had approached unseen and
unheard.
a I see by the smile on your countenance," he
continued, " that it is no day-incubus."
cc You are right," replied Flemming. " It
wras a pleasant dream, which you have put to
flight."
"' And I am glad to see that you have also
put to flight the gloomy tllhoutghts which used to
213 
A ROMNIANCE.
haunt you. I like to see people cheerful and
llappy.  Why give way to sadness in this beautiful world? "
"Ah! this beautiful world!" said Flemming,
with a smile.  " Indeed,  I know not what to
think of it.  Sometimes it is all gladness anG
sunshine, and heaven itself lies not far off. And
then it changes suddenly, and is dark and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky.  In the lives
of the saddest of us, there are bright days like
thlis, when we feel as if we could take the great
world in  our arms.   Then come  the gloomy
hours, when the fire will neither burn on our
hliearths nor in our hearts; and all without and
within is dismal, cold, and dark.  Believe me,
every heart has its secret sorrows which the
world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man
cold, when he is only sad."
" And who says we do not?" interrupted
Berkley. " Come, come! Let us go to breakfast.  The morning air has given me a rude appetite. I long to say grace over a fresh egg,
and eat salt with my worst enemies; namely, the
Cockneys  at the hotel.  After breakfast  you
must give yourself up wholly to me. I shall
take you to the Grindelwald! "
219 
HYPERIONI
" To-day, then, you do not breakfast like Diogenes, but consent to leave your tub."
" Yes, for the pleasure of your company. I
shall also blow out the light in my lantern, hav
ing found you."
" Thank you."
The breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence. Flemming watched the entrance of
every guest; but she came not, - the guest lihe
most desired to see.
" And now for the Grindelwald!" said Berk
ley.
" Why such haste? We have the whole day
before us.  There is time enough."
" Not a moment to lose, I assure you. The
carriage is at the door."
They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen,
and turned eastward among the mountains of the
GCrindelwald.   There they passed the day; halffrozen by the icy breath of the Great Glacier,
upon whose surface stand pyramids and blocks of
ice, like the tombstones of a cemetery.   It weas
a weary day to Flemming. He wishled himself
at Interlachen; and was glad, when, towards
evening, he saw once more  the cone-roofed towers of the cloister rising above the walnut-trees.
220 
A ROMANCE.
That evening is written in red letters in his
history. It gave him another revelation of the
beauty and excellence of woman's character and
intellect; not wholly new  to him, yet now renewed and fortified.  It was from the lips of Mary Ashburton that the revelation came.    Her
form arose, like a tremulous evening-star, in the
firmament of his soul. He conversed with her,
and with her alone; and knew not when to go.
All others were to him as if they were not there.
He sawv their forms, but saw them as the forms
of inanimate things. At length her mother came;
and Flemnming beheld in her but another Mary
Ashburton, with beauty more mature; -the
same forehead and eyes, the same majestic figure; and, as yet, no trace of age.  He  gazed
upon her with a feeling of delight, not unmingled
with holy awe.   She  was to him  the rich and
glowing Evening, from whose bosom the tremulous star was born.
Berkley took no active part in the conversation, but did what was much more to the purpose, -that is to say, arranged a drive for the
next day with the Ashburtons, and of course invited Flemming, who went home that night with a
halo round his head, and wondering much at a
221 
IIYPERIONI
dandy, lwho stood at the door of the hotel, and
said to his companion, as Flemming passed:  "WVhat do you call this place? I have been
here two hours already, and find it devilish dull! "
222 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER V.
A RAINY DAY.
WHEN Flemming awoke the next morning, he
saw the sky dark and lowering. From the mountain-tops hung a curtain of mist, whose heavy
folds waved to and fro in the valley below.
Over all the landscape the soft summer rain was
falling. No admiring eyes would look up that
day at the Staubbach.
A rainy day in Switzerland puts a sudden stop
to many diversions. The coachman may driive
to the inn, and then back to the stable; but no
farther. The sunburnt guide may sit at the alehouse door, and welcome; and the boatman wlistle and curse the clouds, at his owvn sweet will;
but no foot stirs abroad for all that; no traveller
moves, if hlie has time to stay.   The  rainy day
gives himn time for reflection. He has leisure
now to take cognizance of his impressions,  and
223 
HYPERION,
make up his account with the mountains. He
remembers,  too, that he has friends at home;
and writes up the journal, neglected for a week
or more, and letters neglected longer; or finishes the rough pencil-sketch, begun yesterday in
the open air. On the whole, be is not sorry it
rains, - though disappointed.
Flemming was both sorry and disappointed;
but he did not on that account fail to go over to
the Ashlburtons at the appointed hour. Hie found
them sitting in the parlour.   The  mother was
reading, and the daughter retouching a sketch
of the Lake  of Thun.   After the usual salutations, Flemming seated himself near the daugh
ter, and said: -
" We shall have no  Staubbach to-day, I presume; only this Giessbach from the clouds."
" Nothing more, I suppose.   So we must be
content to stay in-doors, and listen to the sound
of the eaves-dropping rain.  It gives me time to
finish some of these rough sketches."
"I t is a pleasant pastime," said Flemming
"C and I perceive you are very'skilful. I am delighted to see that you  can draw a straight line.
I never before saw a lady's sketch-book in which
all the towers did not resemble the Leaning Tow
224 
A ROMANCE.
er of Pisa.  I always tremble for the little men
under them."
" How absurd! " exclaimed Mary Ashburton,
with a smile that passed through the misty air of
Flemming's thoughts like a sunbeam. " For one,
I succeed much better in straight lines than in any
others.  Here I have been trying a half-hour to
make this water-wheel round; and round it never will be."
" Then let it remain as it is.  It looks uncommonly picturesque, and may pass for a new invention."
The lady continued to sketch, and Flemming
to gaze at her beautiful face; often repeating to
himself those lines in Marlow's Faust: -
"0, thou art fairer than the evening air,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!
He certainly would have betrayed himself to
the maternal eye of sIrs. Ashburton, had she not
been wholly absorbed in the follies of a fashionable novel. Ere long, the fair sketcher had paused
for a moment; and Flemming had taken her sketchbook in his hands and was looking it through from
the beginning with ever-increasing delight, half of
-whichl he dared not express, though he favored her
with some comments and bursts of admiration.
15
225
Ii 
HYPERION,
" This is truly a very beautiful sketch of
Murten and the battle-field! How quietly the
landscape sleeps there by the lake, after the bat\ tle!     Did you ever read the ballad of Veit Weter, the shoemaker, on this subject? He says,
the routed Burgundians jumped into the lake,
and the Swiss Leaguers shot them down like wild
ducks among the reeds. He fought in the battle,
and wrote the ballad afterwards;
' He had himself laid hand on sword,
He who this rhyme did write;
Till evening mowed he with the sword,
And sang the song at night.'"
"You  must give me  the whole ballad," said
Miss Ashburton; "it will serve to illustrate the
sketch."
" And the sketch to illustrate the ballad.
And now we suddenly slide down the Alps into
Italy, and are even in Rome, if I mistake not.
This is surely a head of Homer? "
" Yes," replied the lady, with a little enthusl'asm. " Do you not remember the marble bust
at Rome? When I first beheld that bust, it absolutely inspired me with awe. It is not the face
of a man, but of a god! "
"And  you have done it no injustice in your
226 
A ROMANCE.
copy," said Flemming, catching a new enthusi asm from hers. "With what a classic grace the
fillet, passing round the majestic forehead, con fines his flowing locks, which mingle with his
beard!  The  countenance, too, is calm, majes tic, godlike! Even the fixed and sightless eye balls do not mar the image of the seer! Such
were the sightless eyes of the blind old man of
Chios.   They seem to look with mournful solem nity into the mysterious future; and the marble
lips to repeat that prophetic passage in the Hymn
to Apollo: -' Let me also hope to be remembered in ages to come. And when any one, born of
the tribes of men, comes hither, a weary traveller, and inquires, who is the sweetest of the
singing-men that resort to your feasts, and whom
you most delight to hear, do you make answer
for me: It is the Blind Man who dwells in
Chios; his songs excel all that can ever be
sung!'  But do you really believe that this is
a portrait of Homer?"
" Certainly not! It is only an artist's dream.
It was thus that Homer appeared to him in his
visions of the antique world. Every one, you
know, forms an image in his fancy of persons
and things he has never seen; and the artist reproduces them in marble or on canvass."
227 
HYPERION,
" And what is the image in your fancy? Is it
like this? "
" No; not entirely. I have drawn my impressions from another source. Whenever I think of
Homer, which is not often, he walks before me,
solemn and serene, as in the vision of the great
Italian; in countenance neither  sorrowful nor
glad, followed by other bards, and holding in his
right hand a sword! "
" That is a finer conception than this,"
said Flemming. " And I perceive from your
words, as well as from this book, that you have a
true feeling for Art, and understand what it is.
You have had bright glimpses into the enchanted
land."
" I trust," replied the lady, modestly, " that I
am not wholly without this feeling. Certainly I
have as strong and passionate a love of Art as of
Nature."
" But does it not often offend you to hear people speaking of Art and Nature as opposite and
discordant things?  Surely nothing can be more
false.  Nature is a revelation of God; Art a revelation of man. Indeed, Art signifies no mnore
than this.  Art is Power.   That is the original
meaning of the word.   It is the creative power
.
228 
A ROMANCE.
by which the soul of man  makes itself known,
through some  external manifestation or outward
sign. As we can always hear the voice of God,
walking in the garden, in the cool of the day, or
under the star-light, where, to quote one of this
poet's verses,' high prospects and the brows of
all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves
for shows,'  so under the twilight and the starlight of past ages, do we hear the voice of man,
NValking amid the works of his hands, and city
walls and towers, and the spires of churches,
thrust up themselves for shows."
The lady smiled at his warmth; and he continued  
" This, however, is but a similitude; and Art
and Nature are more nearly allied than by similitudes only.  Art is the revelation of man; and
not merely that, but likewise the revelation of Nature, speaking through man.   Art preexists in
Nature, and Nature is reproduced in Art. As
vapors from the ocean, floating landward and dissolved in rain, are carried back in rivers to the
ocean, so thoughts and the semblances of things
that fall upon the soul of man in showers flow out
again in living streams of Art, and lose themselves in the great ocean, which is Nature.   Art
229 
HYPERION)
and Nature are not, then, discordant, but ever
harmoniously working in each other."
Enthusiasm  begets  enthusiasm.   Flemming
spake with such evident interest in the subject,
that Mliss Ashburton did not fail to manifest some
interest in what he said; and encouraged by this,
he proceeded:  " Thus in this wondrous world wherein we
live, which is the World of Nature, man has
made unto himself another world hardly less wondrous, which is the World of Art. And it lies
infolded and compassed about by the other,
And the clear region where't was born
Round in itself incloses.'
Taking this view of Art, I think we understand
more easily the skill of the artist, and the difference between him and the mere amateur. What
we call miracles and wonders of Art are not so to
him who created them; for they were created
by the natural movements of his own great soul.
Statues, paintings, churches, poems, are but
shadows of himself; -  shadows in marble, colors, stone, words.   He feels and recognizes their
beauty; but he thought these thoughts and produced these things as easily as inferior minds do
thoughts and things inferior; perhaps more easi
230 
A ROMANCE.
ly. Vague images and shapes of beauty floating
through the soul, the semblances of things as yet
indefinite or ill-defined, and perfect only when
put in Art, -this Possible Intellect, as the Scholastic Philosophers have termed it,- the artist
shares in common with us all. The lovers of
Art are many. But the Active Intellect, the creative power, - the power to put these shapes
and images in Art, to inibody the indefinite, and
render perfect, - is his alone. He shares the gift
with few.  He knows not even whence nor how
this is. He knows only that it is; that God has
given him the power, which has been denied to
others. "
"I should have known you were just from
Germany," said the lady, with a smile, " even if
you had not told me so. You are an enthusiast
for the Germans. For my part, I cannot endure
their harsh language."
" You would like it better, if you knew it better," answered  Flemming.   " It is not harsh to
me; but homelike, hearty, and full of feeling,
like the sound of happy voices at a fireside, of a
winter's night, when the wind blows, and the fire
crackles, and hisses, and  snaps.  I do  indeed
love the Germans; the men are so hale and hearty, and the Frauleins so tender and true! "
231
t
I
!
i 
HYPERION,
"I always think of men with pipes and beer,
and women with knitting-work."
" 0, those are English prejudices!" exclaimed 
Flemming.   "Nothing can be more          "
"And  their very literature presents itself to
my imagination under the same forms."
"I see you have read only English criticisms
and have an idea, that all German books smell,
as one of your English critics says,' of groceries, of brown papers filled with greasy cakes and
slices of bacon, and of fryings in frouzy backparlours'; and this shuts you out from a glorious
world of poetry, romance, and dreams!"
Mary Ashburton smiled, and Flemming continued to turn over the leaves of the sketch-book,
with an occasional criticism and witticisfh. At
length he came to a leaf which was written in
pencil. People of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so whep a little in
love.
"Here is a pencil-sketch," said he, with an
entreating look, "which I would  fain examine
with the rest."
"You may do so, if you wish; but you will
find it the poorest sketch irl the book.  I was
trying one day to draw the picture of an artist's
232 
A ROMANCE.
life in Rome, as it presented itself to my imagination; and this is the result.  Perhaps it may
awaken some pleasant recollection in your mind."
Flemming waited no longer; but read with the
eyes of a lover, not of a critic, the following description, which inspired him with a new enthusiasm for Art, and for Mary Ashburton.
" I often reflect with delight upon the young
artist's life in Rome.   A stranger from  the cold
and gloomy North, he has crossed the Alps, and
with the devotion of a pilgrim journeyed to the
Eternal City. He dwells, perhaps, upon the Pincian Hill; and hardly a house there, which is
not inhabited by artists from foreign lands.   The
very room he lives in has been their abode
time out of mind. Their names are written all
over the walls; perhaps some further record of
thein is left in a rough sketch upon the windowshutter, with an inscription and a date.   These
things consecrate the place, in his imagination.
Even these names, though unknown to him, are
not without associations in his mind.
" In that warm latitude he rises with the day.
The night-vapors are already rolling away over
the Campagna seaward.   As he looks from his
window, above  and beyond their white folds he
233
; 
HYPERION,
recognizes the tremulous blue sea at Ostia. Over
Soracte rises the sun, - over his own beloved
mountain; though no longer worshipped there, as
of old. Before him, the antique house of Claude
Lorraine casts its long brown shadow down into
the heart of  modern  Rome.    The  city lies
still asleep and silent. But above its dark roofs,
more than two hundred steeples catch the sunshine
on  their gilded weathercocks.   Presently  the
bells begin to ring, and, as the artist listens to
their pleasant chimes, he knows that in each of
those churches, over the high altar, hangs a painting by some great master's hand, whose beauty
comes hetween him and heaven, so that he cannot pray, but wonder only.
" Among these works of art he passes Ihe day;
but oftenest in St. Peter's and the Vatican. Up
the vast marble staircase, - through the Corridor Chiaramonti, -through vestibules, galleries,
chambers, - he passes, as in a dream. All are
filled with busts and statues, or painted in daring
frescoes. What forms of strength and beauty!
what glorious creations of the human mind! and
in that last chamber of all, standing alone upon
his pedestal, the Apollo found at Actium, - in
such a majestic attitude, - with such a noble
countenance, life-like, god-like!
234 
A ROMANCE.
" Or perhaps he passes into the chambers of
the painters; but goes no further than the second.
For in the middle of that chamber a large painting stands upon the heavy easel, as if unfinished
though more than three hundred years ago the
great artist completed it, and then laid his pencil
away for ever, leaving this last benediction to the
world. It is the Transfiguration of Christ, by Raphael. A child looks not at the stars with greater wonder than the artist at this painting.  He
knows how many studious years are in that picture. He knows the difficult path that leads to
perfection, having himself taken some of the first
steps.   Thus he recalls  the  hour, when  that
broad canvass was first stretched upon its frame,
and Raphael stood before it, and laid the first col
ors upon it, and beheld the figures one by one born
into life, and' looked upon the work of his own
hands with a smile, that it should have succeeded
so well.'  He  recalls, too, the hour, when, the
task accomplished, the pencil dropped from the
master's dying hand, and his eyes closed to open
on a more glorious transfiguration, and at length
the dead Raphael lay in his own studio, before
this wonderful painting, more glorious than any
conqueror under the banners and armorial hatchmnents of his funeral!
&
235 
HYPERION,
' Think you that such sights and thoughts as
these do not move the heart of a young man and
an artist? And when he goes forth into the open
air, the sun is going down, and -the gray ruins of
an antique world receive him. From the Palace
of the Cesars he looks down into the Forum, or
towards the Coliseum; or westward sees the last
sunshine  strike  the  bronze  Archangel'wvlhich
stands upon the Tomb  of Adrian.  He  walks
amid a world of Art in ruins. The very streetlamps, that light him homeward, burn before
some painted or sculptured image of the MAadonna!  What wonder is it, if dreams visit him in
his sleep,-  nay, if his whole life seem to him a
dream? What wonder, if, with a feverish heart
and quick hand, he strive to reproduce those
dreams in marble or on canvass?"
Foolish Paul Flemmning! who both admired
and praised this little sketch, and yet was too
blind to see that it was written from the heart,
and not from the imagination! Foolish Paul
Flemming! who thought that a girl of twenty could
write thus without a reason! Close upon this
followed another pencil sketch, which he lilkewise
read, with her permission.  It was this.
" The whole period of the Middle Ages seems
0
236 
A ROMA  NCE.
very strange to me.  At times I cannot persuade
myself that such things could have been as history tells us; that such a strange world was a
part of our world, - that such a strange life was
a part of the life which seems to us, who are
living it now, so passionless and commonplace.
It is only when I stand amid ruined castles, that
look at me so mournfully, and behold the heavy
armor of old knights, hanging upon the wainscot
of Gothic chamber's; or when I walk amid the
aisles of some  dusky minster, whose walls are
narrative of hoar antiquity, and whose very bells
have been baptized, and see the carved oaken
stalls in the choir, where so many generations of
monks have sat and sung, and the tombs, where
now.they sleep in silence, to awake no more to
their midnight psalms; - it is only at such times
that the history of the Middle Ages is a reality
to me, and not a passage in romance.
" Likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those
age                 s have something of this power of making the
dead Past a living Present in my mind. What
curious figures are emblazoned on the - creaking
parchment, making its yellow leaves laugh with
gay colors! You seem to come upon them una   wares.                     Their faces have an expression  of  won
0
237 
HYPERION,
der. They seem all to be just startled from their
sleep by the sound you made when you unloosed
the brazen clasps, and opened the curiously carved
oaken covers, that turn on hinges, like the great
gates of a city. To the building of that city some
diligent monk gave the whole of a long life.
With what strange denizens he peopled it! Adam and Eve standing under a tree, with apples
in their hands;-the patriarch Abraham, with
a tree growing out of his body, and his descendants sitting like owls upon its branches;-  ladies with flowing locks of gold; knights in armor, with most fantastic, long-toed shoes; jousts
and tournaments; and MIinnesingers, and lovers
whose heads reach to the towers where their ladies sit; - and  all so angular,  so naive,  so
childlike,- all in such simple attitudes, with such
great eyes, and holding up such long, lank fingers! -These things are characteristic of the
3iiddle Ages, and persuade me of the truth of
history."
At this moment Berkley entered, with a Swiss
cottage, which he had bought as a present for
somebody's child in England; and a cane with a
chamois-horn on the end of it, which he had
bought as a present for himself. This was the
e
238
.* 
A RO.IANCE.
first time that Flemming had been sorry to see the
good-natured man, whose presence now interrupt
ed the delightful conversation he was carrying on
"C under four eyes" with Miary Ashburton.  He
really thought him tedious, and wondered it had
never occurred to him before. Mrs. Ashburton,
too, must needs lay down her book; and the conversation became general. Strange to say, the
Swiss dinner-hour, of one o'clock, did not come a
moment too soon for Flemming. It did not even
occur to him that it was early; for he was seated
beside Mary Ashburton; and at dinner one can
say so much, without being overheard.
41
2s9 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER VI.
AFTER DINNER, AND AFTER TItE MANNER OF
THE BEST CRITICS.
WHEN  the learned Thomas Diafoirus wooed
the fair Angelique, he drew from  his pocket a
medical thesis, and presented it to her, as the
first-fruits of his genius; and, at the same time,
invited her, with her father's permission, to attend
the dissection of a woman, upon whom he was to
lecture. Paul Flemming did nearly the same
thing; and so often, that it had become a habit.
He  was continually drawing from  his pocket or
his memory some scrap of song or story; and
inviting some fair Angt':lique, either with her father's permission or without, to attend the dissection of an author upon whom he was to lecture.
He soon gave proofs of this to Mary Ashburton.
" What books  have  we  here  for afternoon
reading? " said Flemming, taking a volume from'
240 
A ROMANC EE.
the table, when they had returned from the din ing-room. "O, it is                                  Uhlland's Poems.  Have
you read any thing of his? He and Tieck are
generally considered the best living poets of Germany. They dispute the palm of superiority.
Let me give vou a lesson in German, this afternoon, Miss Ashburton; so that no one may accuse you of' omitting the sweet benefit of time,
to clothe your age with angel-like perfection.' I
have opened at random upon the ballad of the
Black Knight. Do you repeat the German after
me, and I will translate to you. Pfingsten war,
das Fest der Freude!"
" I should never persuade my unwilling lips to
pronounce such sounds.   So  I beg you not to
perple- me with your German, but read me the
ballad in English."
", Well, then, listen. I will improvise a translation for your own particular benefit.
I
!
I.
'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
When woods and fields put off all sadness.
Thus began the king, and spake:
'So fi'om the halls
Of ancient Hofburg's walls
A luxuriant spring shall break.'
"Drums and trumpets echo loudly,
Wave the crimson banners proudly.
16
24 J 
HYPERIO1N
From balcony the king looked on;
In the play of spears,
Fell all the cavaliers
Before the monarch's stalwart son.
"To the barrier of the fight
Rode at last a sable knight.
' Sir Knight! your name and scutcheoni say!
'Should I speak it here,
Ye would stand aghast with fear;
I'm a prince of mighty sway I'
"When he rode into the lists,
The arch of heaven grew black with mists,
And the castle'gan to rock.
At the first blow,
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, Hardly rises from the shock.
"Pipe and viol call the dances,
Torchlight through the high halls glances,
Waves a mighty shadow in;
With manner bland
Doth ask the maiden's hand,
Doth with her the dance begin:
"Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,
Coldly clasped her limbs around.
From breast and hair
Down fall from her the fair
Flowerets, faded, to the ground.
"To the sumptuous banquet came
Every knight and every dame.
242 
A ROMANCE.
'Twixt son and daughter all distraught,
With mournful mind
The ancient king reclined,
Gazed at them in silent thought.
"Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took:
'Golden wine will make you whole!'
The children drank,
Gave many a courteous thank:
' 0, that draught was very cool!'
" Each the father's breast embraces,
Son and daughter; and their faces
Colorless grow utterly.
Whichever way
Looks the fear-struck father gray,
He beholds his children die.
"' Woe! the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth:
Take me, too, the joyless father!'
Spake the grim guest,
From his hollow, cavernous breast:
'Roses in the spring I gather!'"
" That is indeed a striking ballad!" said Miss 
Ashburton, " but rather too grim and ghostly for
this dull afternoon."  
" It begins joyously enough with the feast of
Pentecost, and the crimson banners at the old
castle. Then the contrast is well managed. The
243 
HYPERION,
knight in black mail, and the waving in of the
mighty shadow in the dance, and the dropping of
the faded flowers, are all strikingly presented to
the imagination. However, it tells its own story,
and needs no explanation. Here is something
in a different vein, though still melancholy. The
Castle by the Sea.   Shall I read it?"
" Yes, if you like."
Flemming read: —
"'Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That castle by the sea?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.
" I And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below;
And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow.'
"' Well have I seen that castle,
That castle by the sea,
And the moon above it standing,
And the mist rise solemnly.'
"' The winds and the waves of ocean,
Had they a merry chime?
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?'
"  The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly;
244 
A ROMANCE.
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to mine eye.'
"' And sawest thou on the turrets
The king and his royal bride,
And the wave of their crimson mantles,
And the golden crown of pride?
"' Led they not forth, in rapture,
A beauteous maiden there,
Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair?'
"' Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride;
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe;
No maiden was by their side!'
" How do you like that?"
" It is very graceful, and pretty. But Uhland
seems to leave a great deal to his reader's imagination. All his readers should be poets themselves, or they will hardly comprehend him. I
confess, I hardly understand the passage where
hlie speaks of the castle's stooping downward to
the mirrored wave' below, and then soaring upward into the gleaming sky. I suppose, however,
he wishes to express the momentary illusion we
experience when beholding a perfect reflection of
an old tower in the sea. We look at it as if it
245 
HYPERION,
were not a mere shadow in the water; and yet
the real tower rises far above, and seems to float
in the crimson evening clouds.'Is that the meaning? "
"I should think it was.  To  me it is all' a
beautiful cloud landscape, which I comprehend
and feel, and yet should find some difficulty perhaps in explaining."
"' And why need one always explain? Some
feelings are quite untranslatable. No language
has yet been found for them. They gleam upon
us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy,
and yet, when we bring them close to us, and
hold them up to the light of reason, lose their
beauty, all at once; as glowworms, which gleam
with such a spiritual light in the shadows of
evening, when brought in where the candles are
lighted, are found to be only worms, like so
many others."
" Very true. We ought sometimes to be content with feeling. Hiere, now, is an exquisite
piece, which soothes one like the fall of evening
shadows, -like the dewy coolness of twilight after a sultry day. I shall not give you a bald
translation of my own, because I have laid up in
my memory another, which, though not very lit
246
..
I. 
A ROMANCE.
eral, equals the original in beauty. Observe how
finely it commences.
" Many a year is in its grave,.
Since I crossed this restless wave;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
"Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
"One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.
"So, whene'er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends, who closed their course before me.
" Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more!
"Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
Take,- I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me!"
"4 0, that is beautiful, -' beautiful exceeding
ly!' Who translated it? "
247 
HYPERION,
" 1 do not know.  I wish I could find him out.
It is certainly admirably done; though in the
measure of the original there is something like
the rocking motion of a boat, which is not pre served in the translation."
" And is Uhland always so soothing and spir itual? "
" Yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world.
I am now trying to find here a little poem on the
Death of a Country Clergyman, in which he introduces a striking picture.   But I cannot turn to
it.  No matter.   He  describes the spirit of the
good old man, returning to earth on a bright summer morning, and standing amid the golden corn
and the red and blue flowers, and mildly greeting
the reapers as of old.  But there is nothing morbid in Uhland's mind. He is always fresh and
invigorating, like a breezy morning. In this he
differs entirely from such writers as Salis and
Matthisson."
" And who are they?"
" Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was
only a Dismal Swamp, upon whose margin they
walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands,
sobbing and sighing, and making signals to Death
to come and ferry them over the lake. And now
248 
A ROMANCE.
their spirits stand in the green fields of German
song like two weeping-willows bending over a
grave. To read their poems is like wandering
through a village church-yard on a summer evening, reading the inscriptions upon the grave-stones,
and recalling sweet images of the departed;
while above you,
Hark! in the holy grove of palms,
Where the stream of life runs free,
Echoes, in the angels' psalms,
~   " Sister spirit! hail to thee! " 
" How musically those lines flow! Are they
Matthisson's? "
" Yes; and they do indeed flow musically.  I
wish I had his poems here. I should like to read
to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient
Castle. It is an imitation of Gray's Elegy. You
have been at Baden-Baden?
" Yes; last summer."
" And have not forgotten        "
" The old castle? Of course not. What a
magnificent ruin it is! "
" That is the scene of Matthisson's poem, and
seems to have filled the melancholy bard with
more than wonted inspiration."
cc I should like very much to see the poem,
I remember that old ruin with so much deiight."
249 
HYPERION,
" I am sorry I have not a translation of it for
you.   Instead of it, I will give you a sweet and
mournful poem from Salis. It is called The Song
of the Silent Land.
"Into the Silent Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither?
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand
Thither, 0, thither,
Into.the Silent Land?
"Into the Silent Land!
To you, ye boundless regions
Of all perfection! Tender mnorning-visions
Of beauteous souls!  The Future's pledge and band!
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land!
"OLand! OLandI
For all the broken-hearted
Thle mildest herald by our fate allotted
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the land of the great departed,
Illto the Silent Land!
Is not that a beautiful poem?"
Mary Ashburton made no answer. She had
turned away to hide her tears.  Flemming won
250 
A ROMANCE.
alered that Berkley could say she was not beautiful. Still he was rather pleased than offended at
it. He felt at that moment how sweet a thing it
would be to possess one who should seem beautiful to him alone, and yet to him be more beautiful than all the world beside! How bright the
world became to him at that thought! It was
like one of those paintings in which all the light
streams from the face of the Virgin.   0, there is
nothing holier, in this life of ours, than the first
consciousness of love, - the first fluttering of its 
silken wings; the first rising sound and breath of,
that wind which is so soon to sweep through the (
soul, to purify or to destroy!
Old histories tell us that the great Emperor
Charlemagne stamped his edicts with the hilt of
his sword. The greater emperor, Death, stamps
his with the blade; and they are signed and ex..
ecuted with the same stroke. Flemming received
that night a letter from Heidelberg, which told
him  that Emma  of Ilmenau  was dead.   The
fate of this poor girl affected him deeply; and he
said in his heart: -
" Father in heaven! Why was the lot of
this weak and erring child so hard? What had
she done, to be so tempted ill her weakness, and
251 
HYPERION,
perish?  Why didst thou suffer her gentle affections to lead her thus astray? "
And, through the silence of the awful midnight,
the voice of an avalanche answered from the distant mountains, and seemed to say: -
" Peace! peace! Why dost thou question
God's providence?"
252 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER ViI.
TAKE CARE!
FAIR is the valley of Lauterbrunnen, with its
green meadows and overhanging cliffs. The ruined castle of Unspunnen stands like an armed
warder at the gate of the enchanted land. In
calm serenity the snowy mountains rise beyond.
Fairer than the Rock of Balmarusa, yon frowning
precipice looks down upon us; and, from the
topmost cliff, the white pennon of the Brook of
Dust shimmers and waves in the sunny air!
It was a bright, beautiful morning after nightrain. Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole
heaven within it; and so had the heart of Paul
Flemming, as, with Mrs. Ashburton and her
dark-eyed daughter, he drove up the Valley of
Lauterbrunnen,- the Valley of Fountains-Only.
" How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this morning! "exclaimed he, looking at Mary Ashburton.
253 
HYPERION,
She thought he meant the mountain, and assented. But he meant her likewise.
" And the mountains beyond," he continued;
" the MAlonk and the Silver-horn, the Wetter-horn,
the Schreck-horn, and the Schwarz-horn, - all
those sublime apostles of Nature, whose sermons
are avalanches! Did you ever behold any thing
more grand?"
" 0, yes! Mont Blanc is more grand, when
you behold it from the hills opposite.  It was
there that I was most moved by the magnificence
of Swiss scenery. It was a morning like this;
and the clouds, that were hovering about on their
huge, shadowy wings, made the scene only the
more magnificent.  Before me lay the whole panorama of the Alps; pine forests standing dark
and solemn at the base of the mountains; and
half-way up a veil of mist; above which rose the
snowy summits and sharp needles of rock, which
seemed to float in the air, like a fairy world.
Then the glaciers stood on either side, winding
down through the mountain ravines; and, high
above all, rose the white, dome-like summit of
MAont  Blanc.   And  ever and anon from the
shroud of mist came the awful sound of an avalanche, and a continual roar, as of the  wind
254 
A ROMANCE.
through a forest of pines, filled the air.  It was
the roar of the Arve and Aveiron, breaking from
their icy fountains.   Then the mists began to
pass away; and it seemed as if the whole firma ment were rolling together. It recalled to my
mind that sublime passage in the Apocalypse:'I saw a great white throne; and him that sat
thereoni; before whose face the heavens and the
earth fled away, and found no place!' I cannot believe that upon this earth there is a more
magnificent scene! "
" It must be grand, indeed," replied Flemming.  " And  those  mighty  glaciers, - huge
monsters with bristling crests, creeping down into
the valley! for it is said they really move."
" Yes; it filled me with a strange sensation of
awe to think of this. They seemed to me like
the dragons of Northern Romance, which come
down from the mountains and devour whole villages.  A  little hamlet in Chamouni was once
abandoned by its inhabitants, terrified at the approach of the icy dragon. But is it possible you
have never been at Chamouni? "
" Never. The great marvel still remains unseen by me."
" Then how can you linger here so long?
Were I in your place, I would not lose an hour."
255
41, 
HYPERION,
These words passed over the opening blossoms
of hope in the soul of Flemming like a cold wind
over the flowers in spring-time. He bore it as
best he could, and changed the subject.
I do not mean to describe the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, nor the bright day passed there. I
know that my gentle reader is blessed with the
divine gift of a poetic fancy; and can see already
how the mountains rise, and the torrents fall, and
the beautiful valley lies between; and how, along
the dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and
travellers come and go in charabans, like Punch
and Judy in a show-box. He knows already how
romantic ladies sketch romantic scenes; and how
cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees; and
how time flies, when we are in love, and the beloved one near. One little incident I must, however, mention, lest his fancy should not suggest it.
Flemming was still sitting with the ladies on
the green slope near the Staubbach, or Brook of
Dust, when a young man clad in green came
down the valley.   It was a German mechanic,
with flaxen ringlets hanging over his shoulders, and
a guitar in his hand. His step was free and elastic, and his countenance wore the joyous expression of youth and health. He approached the
256 
A ROMANCE.
company with a courteous salutation; and, after
the manner of trhvelling apprentices, asked charity with the confident air of one unaccustomed to
refusal.  Nor was he refused in this instance.
The presence of those we love makes us compassionate and generous. Flemming gave him a
piece of gold; and, after a short conversation,
he seated himself, at a little distance, on the grass,
and began to play and sing. WTonderful and many
were the soft accords and plaintive sounds that
came from that little instrument, touched by the
student's hand. Every feeling of the human heart
seemed to find an expression there, and awaken
a kindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard
him. He sang strange German songs, so full of
longing, and of pleasing sadness, and hope, and
fear, and passionate desire, and soul-subduing sorrow, that the tears came into Mary Ashburton's
eyes, though she understood not the  words he
sang. Then his countenance glowed  with  triumph, and he beat the strings like a drum, and
sang:
" 0, how the druim beats so loud!
Close beside me in the fight,
Mly dying brother says, Good Night!
17
257 
HYPERION,
And the cannon's awful breath
Screams the loud halloo of Death!
And the drum,
And the drum,
Beats so loud! "
Many were the  words of praise,  when  the
young musician ended; and, as he rose to depart,
they still entreated for one song more.  Whereupon he played a lively prelude; and, looking full
into Flemming's face, sang, with a pleasant smile
and   still in German, this little song: -
"I know a maiden fair to see;
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be.
Beware!  Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
"She has two eyes, so soft and brown;
Take care!
She gives a side-glance and looks down.
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
"And she has hair of a golden hue;
Take care!
And what she says, it is not true.
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee'
258 
A R03OMANCE.
"She has a bosom as white as snow;
Take care!
She knows how much it is best to show.
Beware! Beware!
Trust hler not,
She is fooling thee!
"She gives thee a garland woven fair;
Take care!'
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear.
Beware!  Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!"
The last stanza he sung in a laughing, triumphant tone, which resounided above the loud clang
of his guitar like the jeering laugh of Till Eulenspiegel. Then, slinging his guitar over his
shoulder, he took off his green cap, and made a
leg to the ladies, in the style of Gil Bias; waved
his hand in the air, and walked quickly down the
valley, singing, " Ad~! Ade! Ad! "
259 
HYPERION,
~
iAPTER VIII.
THE PO TAIN OF OBLIVION.
THE power     magic in the Middle Ages created monsters;   o followed the unhappy magi
cian everywber.  The  power of  love  in all
ages creates ang,-s, who likewise follow the happy
or unhappy lover  verywhere, even in his dreams.
By such an angel ~as Paul Flemming now haunted, both when heb  aked and when he slept.  He
walked as in a  ream, and was hardly conscious
of the presence  f those around him.  A sweet
face looked at him from every page of every
book he read; and it was the face of Mary Ashburton! -a sweet voice spake to him in every
sound he heard; and it was the voice of Mary
Ashburton! Day and night succeeded each other,
with pleasant interchange of light and darkness
but to him the passing of time was only as a dream.
When he arose in the morning, he thought only
260 
A ROMANCE.
of her, and wondered if she were yet awake; and
when he lay down at night, he thought only of
her, and how, like the Lady Christabel,
"Ier gentle limbs she did undress,
And lay down in her loveliness."
And the livelong day he was with her, either in
reality or in day-dreams hardly less real; for, in
each delirious vision of his waking hours, her
beauteous form passed like the form of Beatrice
through Dante's heaven; and, as he lay in the
summer afternoon, and heard at times the sound
of the wind in the trees, and the sound of Sabbath
bells ascending up to heaven, holy wishes and
prayers ascended with them from his inmost soul,
beseeching that he might not love in vain! And
whenever, in silence and alone, he looked into
the silent, lonely countenance of Nighlt, he recalled the impassioned lines of Plato:"Lookest thou at the stars? IfI were heaven,
With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee!"
0, how beautiful it is to love! Even thou, that
sneerest at this page, and laughest in cold indifference or scorn, if others are near thee, - thou,
too, must acknowledge its truth, when thou art
alone; and confess that a foolish world is prone to
laugh in public at what in private it reveres, as
261 
HYPERION,
one of the highest impulses of our nature, namely, Love!
One by one the objects of our affection depart
from us.  But our affections remain, and  like
vines stretch forth their broken, wounded tendrils
for support.   The bleeding heart needs a balm
to heal it; and there is none but the love of its
kind, -  none but the affection of a human heart!
Thus the wounded, broken affections of Flemming
began'to lift themselves from the dust and cling
around this new object.  I)ays and weeks pass ed; and, like the Student Crisostomo, he ceased
to love, because he began to adore. And with
this adoration mingled the prayer, that, in that hour
when the world is still, and the voices that praise
are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight,
and the maiden, in her day-dreams, counted the
/
number of her friends, some voice in the sacred
silence of her thoughts might whisper his name!
They were sitting together one morning, on
the green, flowery meadow, under the ruins of
Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching the ruins.
The birds were singing, one and all, as if there
were no aching hearts, no sin nor sorrow, in the
world.   So motionless was the bright air, that the
shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass.
262
i 
A ROMANCE.
The distant snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and
nothing frowned, save the square tower of the old
ruin above them.
"What  a pity it is," said the lady, as she
stopped to rest her weary fingers, " what a pity
it is, that there is no old tradition connected with
this ruin!'
"I will make you one, if you  wish," said
Flemming.
" Can you make old traditions? "
" 0, yes! I made three, the other day, about
the Rhine, and one very old one about the Black
Forest. A lady with dishevelled hair; a robber
with a horrible slouched hat; and a night storm
among the roaring pines."
" Delightful! Do make one for me."
" With the greatest pleasure. Where will you
have the scene? Here, or in the Black Forest? "
" In the Black Forest, by all means! Begin."
"I will unite this ruin and the forest together.
But first promise not to interrupt me.   If you
snap the golden threads of thought, they will float
away on the air like the film of the gossamer, and
I shall never be able to recover them."
"I promise.
263 
HYP E RI Ol'N,
" Listen, then, to the Tradition of' THE
FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.' "
"Begin."
Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, at
the lady's feet, looking up with dreamy eyes-into
her sweet face, and then into the leaves of the
linden-trees overhead.
" Gentle  Lady!  Dost  thou remember  the
linden-trees of Biilach,- those tall and stately
trees, with velvet down upon their shining leaves,
and rustic benches underneath their overhanging
eaves? A leafy dwelling, fit to be the home of elf
or fairy, where first I told my love to thee, thou
cold and stately Hermione!  A little peasant girl
stood near, and listened all the while, with eyes of
wonder and delight, and an unconscious smile, to
hear the stranger still speak on in accents deep
yet mild,- none else was with us in that hour,
save God and that little child!"
" Why, it is in rhy)me! "
" No, no! the rhyme is only in your imagination. You promised not to interrupt me, and
you have already snapped asunder the gossamer
threads of as sweet a dream as was ever spun fiom
a poet's brain."
" It certainly did rhyme!"
264 
A ROMANCE.
" This was the reverie of the Student Hieronymus, as he sat at midnight in a chamber of this
old tower, with his hands clasped together, and
resting upon an open volume, which he should
have been reading.   His pale face was raised,
and the pupils of his eyes dilated, as if the spiritworld were open before him, and some beauteous vision were standing there, and drawing the
student's soul through his eyes up into heaven,as the evening sun, through parting summer-clouds,
seems to draw into its bosom the vapors of the
earth. 0, it was a lovely vision! I can see it
before me now!
"Near the student stood an antique bronze
lamp, with strange figures carved  upon it.  It
was a magic lamp, which once belonged to the
Arabian astrologer El Geber, in Spain.  Its light
was beautiful as the light of stars; and, night
after night, as the lonely wight sat alone and read
in this lofty tower, through the mist, and mirk,
and dropping rain, it streamed out into the darkness, and was seen by many wakeful eyes. To
the poor Student Hieronymus it was a wonderful
Aladdin's Lamp; for in its flame a Divinity revealed herself unto him, and showed him treasures.
Whenever  he opened  a ponderous, antiquated
265 
HYPERION,
tome, it seemed as if some angel opened for him
the gates of Paradise; and already he was known
in the land as Hieronymus the Learned.
" But, alas! he could read no more.   The
charm was broken. Hour after hour he passed
with his hands clasped before him, and his fair
eyes gazing at vacancy.   What could so disturb
the studies of this melancholy wight? Lady, he
was in love! Have you ever been in love? He
had seen the face of the beautiful Hermione; and
as, when we have thoughtlessly looked at the sun,
our dazzled eyes, though closed, behold it still;
so he beheld by day and by night the radiant
image of her upon whom he had too rashly gazed.
Alas! he was unhappy; for the proud Hermione disdained the love of a poor student, whose
only wealth was a magic lamp. In marble halls,
and amid the gay crowd that worshipped her, she
had almost forgotten that such a being lived as the
Student Hieronymus. The adoration of his
heart had been to her only as the perfume of a
wild-flower which  she had carelessly crushed
with her foot, in passing.  But he had lost all;
for he had lost the quiet of his thoughts; and his
agitated soul reflected only broken and distorted
images of things.   The world laughed at the poor
266 
A ROMANCE.
student, who, in his threadbare cassock, dared to
lift his eyes to the Lady Hermione; while he sat
alone, in his desolate chamber, and suffered in
silence. He remembered many things which he
would fain have forgotten; but which, if he had
forgotten them, hlie would have wished again to
remember.   Such were the linden-trees of Builach, under whose pleasant shades he had told his
love to Hermione. This was the scene which he
wished most to forget, yet loved most to remember; and of this he was now dreaming, with his
nands clasped upon his book, and that music in
his thoughts, which you, Lady, mistook for
rhyme.
"Suddenly, with a melancholy clang, the convent clock struck twelve.  It roused the Student
Hieronymus from his dream; and rang in his
ears, like the iron hoofs of the steeds of Time.
The magoic hour had come, when the Divinity
of the lamp most willingly revealed herself to
her votary.   The bronze figures seemed alive;
a white cloud rose from the flame and spread
itself through the chamber, whose four walls
dilated into magnificent cloud-vistas; a fragrance, as of wild-flowers, filled the air; and a
dreamy music, like distant, sweet-chiming bells,
267 
HYPERION,
announced the approach of the midnight Divinity.
Through his streaming tears the heart-broken
Student beheld her once more descending a pass
in the snowy cloud-mountains, as, at evening, the
dewy Hesperus comes from the bosom of the
mist, and assumes his station in the sky.  At her
approach, his spirit grew more calm; for her
presence was, to his feverish heart, like a tropical
night, -beautiful and soothing and invigorating.
At length she stood before him, revealed in all her
beauty; and he comprehended the visible language
of her sweet but silent lips, which seemed to say,
-' What would the Student Hieronymus tonight?'-' Peace!' he answered, raising his
clasped hands, and smiling through his tears.
The  Student Hieronymus  imploreth peace!'
Then go,' said the spirit,' go to the Fountain
of Oblivion in the deepest solitude of the Black
Forest, and cast this scroll into its waters; and
thou shalt be at peace once more.' Hieronymus
opened his arms to embrace the Divinity, for her
countenance assumed the features of Hermione;
but she vanished away; the music ceased; the
gorgeous cloud-land sank and fell asunder; and
the student was alone within the four bare walls
of his chamber. As he bowed his head down
268 
A ROMANCE.
ward, his eye fell upon a parchment scroll, which
was lying beside the lamp.   Upon it was written
only the name of Hermione!
" The next morning Hieronymus put the scroll
into his bosom, and went his way in search of the
Fountain of Oblivion. A few days brought him
to the skirts of the Black Forest.   He  entered,
not without a feeling of dread, that land of
shadows; and passed onward under melancholy
pines and cedars, whose branches grew abroad
and mingled together, and, as they swayed up and
down, filled the air with solemn twilight and a
sound of sorrow.   As he advanced into the forest, the waving moss  hung, like curtains, from
the branches overhead, and more and more shut
out the light of heaven;  and he knew that the
Fountain of Oblivion was not far off. Even
then the sound of falling waters was mingling with
the roar of the pines above him; and ere long
he came to a river, moving in solemn majesty
through the forest, and falling with a dull, leaden
sound into a motionless and stagnant lake, above
which the branches of the forest met and mingled,
forming perpetual night.   This was the Fountain
of Oblivion.
" Upon its brink the Student paused, and gazed
269 
IIYPERION,
into the dark waters with a steadfast look.  They
were limpid waters, dark with shadows only.
And as he gazed, he beheld, far down in their
silent depths, dim and ill-defined outlines, wavering to and fro, like the folds of a white garment
in the twilight.   Then more distinct and permanent shapes arose, -shapes familiar to his mind,
yet forgotten and remembered again, as the fragments of a dream; till at length, far, far below
him he beheld the great City of the Past, with
silent marble streets, and moss-grown walls, and
spires uprising with a wave-like, flickering motion.
And, amid the crowd that thronged those streets,
he beheld faces once familiar and dear to him
and heard sorrowful, sweet voices singing,,O.
forget us not! forget us not!' and then the distant, mournful sound of funeral bells, that were
tolling below, in the City of the Past. But in the
gardens of that city there were children playing,
and among them one who wore his features, as
they had been in childhood. He was leading a
little girl by the hand, and caressed her often, and
adorned her with flowers. Then, like a dream,
the scene changed, and the boy had grown older,
and stood alone, gazing into the sky; and, as he
gazed, his countenance changed again, and Hie
270 
A ROMANCE.
ronymus beheld him, as if it had been his own
image in the clear water; and before himn stood a
beauteous maiden, whose face was like the face
of Hermione, and he feared lest the scroll had
fallen into the water, as he bent over it.  Start
ing, as from a dream, he put his hand into his
bosom, and breathed freely again, when he found
the scroll still there. He drew it forth, and read
the blessed name of Hermione, and the city
beneath him vanished away, and the air grew
fragrant as with the breath of May-flowers, and a
light streamed through the shadowy forest and
gleamed upon the lake; and the Student Hieronymus pressed the dear name to his lips and exclaimed, with streaming eyes:' 0, scorn me as
thou wilt, still, still will I love thee; and thy
name shall irradiate the gloom of my  life, and
make the waters of Oblivion smile!'  And the 
name was no longer Hermione, but was changed
to AIary; and the Student  Hieronymus -is
lying at your feet. O gentle Lady!
' I did hear you talk
Far above singing; after you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
AVhat stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.' "
271 
IHYPERION,
CHAPTER IX.
A TALK ON THE STAIRS.
No! I will not describe that scene; nor how
pale the stately lady sat on the border of the
green,  sunny  meadow!  The  hearts of some
women tremble like leaves at every breath of
love which reaches them, and then are still
again.  Others, like the ocean, are moved only
by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled
to rest. And such was the proud heart of Mary
Ashburton. It had remained unmoved by the
presence of this stranger; and the sound of his
footsteps and his voice excited in it no emotion.
He had deceived himself! Silently they walked homeward through the green meadow. The
very sunshine was sad, and the rising wind,
through the old ruin above them, sounded in his
ears like a hollow laugh!
Flemming went straight to his chamber. On
the w-ay, he passed the walnut-trees under" which
272 
A ROMAiNCE.
he had first seen the face of Mary Ashburton.
Involuntarily he closed his eyes.   They  were
full of tears.  0, there are places in this fair
world, which we never wish to see again, however dear they may be to us! The towers of
the old Franciscan convent never looked so
gloomily as then, though the bright summer sun
was shining full upon them.
In his chamber he found Berkley.  He  was
looking out of the window, whistling.
"This evening I leave Interlachen for ever,"
said Flemming, rather abruptly. Berkley star
ed.
"Indeed!  Pray, what is the matter?  You
look as pale as a ghost! "
" And have good reason to look pale," replied
Flemming bitterly. " Hoffrnann says, in one of
his note-books, that, on the eleventh of March,
at half past eight o'clock, precisely, he was an
ass.  That is what I was this morning, at half past
ten o'clock, precisely, and am now, and I suppose always shall be."
He tried to laugh, but could not. He then related to Berkley the whole story, from beginning
to end.
" This is a miserable piece of business!" ex
18
273
II
'I 
HYPERI ON,
claimed Berkley, when he had finished. " Strange
enough!  And yet I have long ceased to marvel
at the caprices of women. Did not Pan captivate the chaste Diana? Did not Titania love
Nick Bottom, with his ass's head. Do you think
that maidens' eyes are no longer touched with the
juice of love-in-idleness? Take my word for it,
she is in love with somebody else. There must
be some reason for this. No; women never have
any reasons, except their will. But never mind.
Keep a stout heart.  Care killed a cat.  After
all,-what is she? Who is she?  Only a — "
" Hush! hush," exclaimed Flemming, in great
excitement. " Not one word more, I beseech
you. Do not think to console me, by depreciating her.   She is very dear to me still; a beautiful, high-minded, noble woman."
" Yes," answered Berkley;  " that is the way
with you all, you young men. You see a sweet
face, or a something, you know not what, and
flickering reason says, Good night; amen to common sense! The imagination invests the beloved
object with a thousand superlative charms; adorns
her with all the purple and fine linen, all the rich
apparel and furniture, of human nature. I did
the same, when I was young. I was once as des
274 
A ROMANCE.
perately in love as you are now; and went through
all the
' Delicious deaths, soft exhalations
Of soul, dear and divine annihilations;
A thousand unknown rites
Of joys, and rarefied delights.'
I adored, and was rejected.'You are in love
with certain attributes,' said the lady.' Damn
your attributes, Madam,' said I;' I know nothing of attributes.'' Sir,' said she, with dignity,
'you have been drinking.'  So we parted.   She
was married afterwards to another, who knew
something about attributes, I suppose.   I have
seen her once since, and only once.   She had a
baby in a yellow gown. I hate a baby in a yellow gown.   How glad I am  she did not marry
me! One of these days, you will be glad you
have been rejected. Take my word for it."
" All that does not prevent my lot from being
a very melancholy one! " said Flemming sadly.
" 0, never mind the lot," cried Berkley laughing, " so long as you do n't get Lot's wife.  If
the cucumber is bitter, throw it away, as the philosopher Marcus Antoninus says, in his MAIeditations. Forget her, and all will be as if you had
not known her."
275 
HYPERION)
"I shall never forget her," replied Flemming,
rather solemnly. " Not my pride, but my affections, are wounded; and the wound is too deep
ever to hleal. I shall carry it with me always. 1
enter no more into the world, but will dwell only
in the world of my own thoughts. All great and
unusual occurrences, whether of joy or sorrow,
lift us above this earth; and we should do well
always  to preserve this elevation.  Hitherto  I
have not done so. But now I will no more descend; I will sit apart and above the world, with
my mournful, yet holy thoughts."
" Whew! You had better go into society; the
whirl and delirium will cure you in a week. If
you find a lady who pleases you very much, and
you wish to marry her, and she will not listen to
such a horrid thing, I see but one remedy, which
is to find another, who pleases you more, and
who will listen to it."
" No, my friend; you do not understand my
character," said Flemming, shaking his hlead. " I
love this woman with a deep and lasting affection.   I shall never  cease to love her.  This
may be madness in me; but so it is. Alas aid
alas! Paracelsus of old wasted life in trying to
discover its elixir, which after all turned out to be
276 
A ROMANCE.
alcohol; and  instead  of being  made  immortal 
upon earth, he died drunk on the floor of a tav- 
ern. The like happens to many of us. We 
waste our best years in distilling the sweetest
flowers of life into love-potions, which after all
do not immortalize, but only intoxicate us.   By
Heaven! we are all of us mad."
" But are you sure the case is utterly hopeless?"
"Utterly! utterly!"
"And yet I perceive you have not laid aside
all hope. You still flatter yourself that the lady's
heart may change.   The great secret of happiness consists not in enjoying, but in renouncing. ii
But it is hard, very hard. Hope has as many
lives as a cat or a king. I dare say you have
heard the old proverb,' The king never dies.'
But perhaps you have never heard, that, at the
court of Naples, when the dead body of a monarch lies in state, his dinner is carried up to him
as usual, and the court physician tastes it, to see
that it be not poisoned, and then the servants bear
it out again, saying,' The king does not dine today.' Hope in our souls is king; and we also
say,' The king never dies.' Even when in reality he lies dead within us, in solemn mockery
277 
HYPERION,
we offer him his accustomed food, but are constrained to say,' The king does not dine to-day.'
It must be an evil day, indeed, when a king of
Naples has no heart for his dinner! but you yourself are a proof that the king never dies. You
are feeding your king, although you say he is
dead."
" To show you that I do not wish to cherish
hope," replied Flemming, " I shall leave Interlachen to-morrow morning. I am going to the
Tyrol."
" You  are right," said Berkley; " there is
nothing so good for sorrow as rapid motion in
the open  air.   I shall go  with you;  though
probably your conversation will not be very
various; nothing but Edward and Kunigunde.1"
" What do you mean by that?"
c Go to Berlin, and you will find out.  However, jesting apart, I will do all I can to cheer
you, and make you forget the Dark Ladie, and
this untoward accident."
" Accident!" said Flemming.   " This is no
accident, but God's providence, which brought
us together, to punish me for my sins."
" 0, my  friend," interrupted  Berkley,  " if
you see the finger of Providence so distinctly in
every act of your life, you will end by thinking
278 
A ROMANCE.
yourself an Apostle and Envoy Extraordinary.
I see nothing so very uncommon in what has
happened to you."
" What! not when our souls are so akin to
each other? when we seemed so formed to be
together,-  to be one?"
"I have often observed," replied Berkley
coldly, "that those who  are of kindred souls
rarely wed together; almost as rarely as those
who are akin by blood. Therefore, mad lover,
do not think to persuade thyself and thy scornful
lady that you have kindred souls; but rather
the contrary, - that you are much unlike, and
each wanting in those qualities which most mark
and distinguish the other. Trust me, thy courtship will then be more prosperous.  But good
morning. I must prepare for this sudden journey."
On the following morning, Flemming and Berkley started on their way to Innsbruck, like Huon of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their way
to Babylon. Berkley's self-assumed duty was
to console his companion; a duty which he performed like an  ancient  Spanish  Despenadora
whose business was to attend the sick, and put
her elbow into the stomach of the dying to shorten their agony.
279
11 y7ILt.s,, t.,
II 
j 
BOOK THE FOURTH.
" Mortal, they softly say,
Peace to thy heart!
We too, yes, mortal,
Have  been as thou art;
Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed,
Seeing in part,
Tried, troubled, tempted,
Sustained, - as thou art."  
BOOK THE FOURTH.
CHAPTER I.
A MISERERE.
IN the Orlando Innamorato, Malagigi, the necromancer, puts all the company to sleep by reading to them from a book. Some books have this
power of themselves and need no necromancer.
Fearing, Gentle Reader, that mine may be of this
kind, I have provided these introductory chapters
from time to time, like stalls or Misereres in a
church, with flowery canopies and poppy-heads
over them, where thou mayest sit down and sleep.
No, -the figure is not a bad one. This book
does somewhat resemble a minster, in the Romanesque style, with pinnacles, and flying buttresses, and roofs,
"Gargoyled with greyhounds, and with many lions
Mlade of fne gold, with divers sundry dragons." 
HYPERION,
You step into its shade and coolness out of the
hot streets of life; a mysterious light streams
through the painted glass of the marigold windows, staining the cusps and crumpled leaves of
the window-shafts, and the cherubs and holy-water-stoups below. Here and there is an image,
of the Virgin MAary; and other images, " in divestures, called weepers, stand in housings made
about the tomb "; and, above all, swells the vast
dome of heaven, with its star-mouldings, and the
flaming constellations, like the mosaics in the
dome of St. Peter's. Have you not heard funeral psalms from  the  chantry?   Have  you not
heard the sound of church-bells, as I promised, -
mysterious sounds from the Past and Future, as
from the belfries outside the cathedral, - even
such a mournful, mellow, watery peal of bells,
as is heard sometimes at sea, from cities afar off
below the horizon?
I know not how this Romanesque, and at times
flamboyant, style of architecture may please the
critics.  They  may  wish, perhaps, that I had
omitted some of my many ornaments, my arabesques, and roses, and fantastic spouts, and HolyRoods and Galilee-steeples. But would it then
have been Romanesque?
284
II 
A ROMANCE.
But perhaps, gentle reader, thou art one of
those who think the days of romance gone forever. Believe it not! 0, believe it not! Thou
hast at this moment in thy heart as sweet a
romance as was ever written.   Thou art not less
a woman, because thou dost not sit aloft in a
tower, with a tassel-gentle on thy wrist.   Thou
art not less a man, because thou wearest no
hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest not on horseback after foolish adventures. Every one has a
romance in his own heart. All that has blessed
or awed the world lies there; and
"The oracle within him, that which lives,
He must invoke and question, -not dead books,
Not ordinances, not mould-rotten papers."
Sooner or later, some passages of every one's
romance must be written, either in words or
actions.   They  will  proclaim  the truth;  for
Truth is thought which has assumed its appropriate garments, either of words or actions;
while Falsehood is thought which, disguised in
words or actions not its own, comes bef6ire the
blind old world, as Jacob came before the patriarch Isaac, clothed in the goodly raiment of his
brother Esau. And the world, like the patriarch,
is often deceived; for, though the voice is Jacob's
It
285 
HYP E RI ON
voice, yet the hands are the hands of Esau, and
the  False takes away the birthright and  the
blessing from the True.   Hence it is that the
world so often lifts up its voice and weeps.
That very pleasing and fanciful Chinese romance, the Shadow in the Water, ends with the
hero's marrying both the heroines. I hope my
gentle reader feels curious to know the end of
this romance, which is a shadow upon the earth;
and see whether there be any marriage at all in
it.
That is the very point I am now thinking of,
as I sit here at my pleasant chamber-window,
and enjoy the balmy air of a bright  summer
morning, and watch the motions of the golden
robin, that sits on its swinging nest on the outermost pendulous branch of yonder elmn. The
broad meadows and the steel-blue river remind
me of the meadows of Unterseen and the river
Aar;  and beyond them rise magnificent  snowwhite clouds, piled up like Alps. Thus the
shades of Washington and William Tell seem to
walk together on these Elysian Fields; for it was
here, that, in days long gonre, our great patriot
dwelt; and yonder clouds so much resemble the
snowy Alps, that they remind me irresistibly of
286 
A ROMANCE.
tile Swiss. Noble examples of a high purpose
and a fixed will! Do they not move, Hyperion like, on high? Were they not, likewise, sons of
Heaven and Earth?
Nothing can be more lovely than these summer
mornings; nor than the southern window at which
I sit and write, in this old mansion, which is like
an Italian villa.  But,  0, this lassitude, - this
weariness, - when all around me is so bright!
I have this morning a singular longing for flowers
a wish to stroll among the roses and carnations,
and inhale their breath, as if it would revive me.
I wish I knew the man who called flowers " the
fugitive poetry of Nature."   From this distance,
from  these scholastic shades, -from this leafy,
blossoming, and beautiful Cambridge, -  I stretch
forth my hand to grasp his, as the hand'of a
poet! -Yes; this morning I would rather stroll
with him among the gay flowers, than sit here and
write.   I feel so weary!
Old men with their staves, says the Spanish
poet, are ever knocking at the door of the grave.
But I am not old. The Spanish poet might
have included the young also. -No matter
Courage, and forward! The romance must be
finished, and finished soon.
287 
HYPEERION,
0 thou poor authorling! Reach a little deeper into the human heart! Touch those strings,touch those deeper strings, and more boldly, or
the notes will die away like whispers, and no ear
shall hear them,  save  thine own!  And,  to
cheer  thy solitary  labor, remember  that  the
secret studies of an author are the sunken piers
upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame,
spanning the dark waters of Oblivion. They
are out of sight; but without then{ no superstructure can stand secure!
And now, Reader, since the sermon is over,
and we are still sitting here in this Miserere, let
us read aloud a page from the old parchment
manuscript on the lettern bef:re us; let us sing
it through these dusky aisle, like a Gregorian
chant, and startle the sleeping congregation
" I have r     ead of theay river Euripus, which
ebbhth and floweth seven /imes a day, and with
such violence, that it  car eth ships upon it with
full sail directly against the wind.   Seven times
in an hour ebbeth and floweth rash opinion in
the torrent of indiscreet and troublesome apprehensions, carrying critic calumny and squinteyed detraction mainly against the wind of wisdom and judgment."
In secula seculorum t Amen!
288 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER II.
CURFEW BELLS.
WELCOME, Disappointment!  Thy  hand is
cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend!
Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice
of a friend! 0, there is something sublime in
calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success!
The Emperor Isaac Angelus made a treaty
with Saladin, and tried to purchase the Holy
Sepulchre with gold.  Richard Lion-heart scorned such alliance, and sought to recover it by
battle. Thus do weak minds make treaties with
the passions they cannot overcome, and try to
purchase happiness at the expense of principle.
But the resolute will of a strong man scorns such
means; and struggles nobly with his foe, to
achieve great deeds.   Therefore, whosoever thou
19
289 
HYPERION,
art that sufferest, try not to dissipate thy sorrow
by the breath of the world, nor drown its voice
in thoughtless merriment.   It is a treacherous
peace that is purchased by indulgence.  Rather
take this sorrow to thy heart, and make it a part
of thee, and it shall nourish thee till thou art
strong again.
The shadows of the mind are like those of the
body. In the morning of life, they all lie behind
us; at noon, we trample them under foot; and
in the evening, they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us.  Are not, then, the sorrows
of childhood as dark as those of age? Are not
the morning shadows of life as deep and broad as
those of its evening? Yes; but morning shadows
soon fade away, while those of evening reach
forward into the night and mingle with the coming
darkness.   Man is begotten in delight and born
in pain; and in these are the rapture and labor
of his life foreshadowed  from the b,ginnin.
But the life of man upon this fair eah is made up,
for the most part, of little pains and little pleasures.
The great wonder-flowers bloom but once in a
lifetime.
A week had already elapsed since the events
recorded in the last chapter. Paul Flemming
290 
A ROMANCE.
went his way, a melancholy man, "drinking the
sweet wormwood of his sorrow."   He  did not
rail at Providence and call it fate, but suffered
and  was  silent.  It is a beautiful trait in  the
lover's character, that he thinks no evil of the
object loved. What he suffered was no swift
storm of feeling, that passes away with a noise,
and leaves the heart clearer; but a dark phantom
had risen up in the clear night, and, like that of
Adarnastor, hid the stars; and if it ever vanished
away for a season, still the deep sound of the
moaning main would be heard afar, through many
a dark and lonely hour. And thus he journeyed
on, wrapped in desponding gloom, and mainly
heedless of all things around him. His mind was
distempered.   That one face was always before
him; that one voice forever saying:    "You are not the Magician."
/< Painful, indeed, it is to be misunderstood and
undervalued by those we Jove.  But this, too, in
our life, must we learn to bear without a murmur;
for it is a tale often repeated.,.      _
There are persons in this world to whom all
local associations are naught.   The genius of the
place speaks not to them.   Even on battle-fields,
whiere the voice of this genius is loudest, they
291
tOk. I.
12* 
HYPERION,
hear only the sound of their own voices; they
meet there only their own  dull and pedantic
thoughts, as the old grammarian Brunetto Latini
met on the plain of Roncesvalles a poor student
riding on a bay mule. This was not always the
case with Paul Flemming, but it had become so
now.   He felt no interest in the scenery around
him. He hardly looked at it. Even the difficult
mountain-passes, where, from his rocky eyrie the
eagle-eyed Tyrolese peasant had watched his foe,
and the roaring, turbid torrent underneath, which
had swallowed up the bloody corse, that fell from
the rocks like a crushed worm, awakened no
lively emotion in his breast. All around him
seemed dreamy and vague; all within dim, as in a
sun's eclipse. As the moon, whether visible or
invisible, has power over the tides of the ocean,
so the face of that lady, whether present or absent,
had power over the tides of his soul; both by day
and night, both waking and sleeping. )In every
pale face and dark eye he saw a resemblance to
her; and what the day denied him in reality the
night gave him in dreams.
" This is a strange, fantastic world,'> said
Berkley, after a very long silence, during which
the two travellers had been sitting each in his
292 
A ROMANCE.
corner of the travelling carriage, wrapped in his
own  reflections.   " A  very  strange, fantastic
world; where each one pursues his own golden
bubble, and laughs at his neighbour for doing the
same. I have been thinking how a moral Linneus would classify our race.   I think he would
divide it, - not as Lord Byron did, into two great
classes, the bores and those who are bored, - but
into three, namely: Happy Men, Lucky Dogs,
and Miserable Wretches. This is more true
and philosophical, though perhaps not quite so
comprehensive.   He  is the Happy  Man, who,
blessed with modest ease, a wife and children,
sits enthroned in the hearts of his family, and
knows no other ambition than that of making
those around him happy. But the Lucky Dog
is he, who, free from all domestic cares, saunters
up and dowvn his room, in morning gown and
slippers; drums on the window, of a rainy day;
arid, as he stirs his evening fire, snaps his fingers
at the world, and says,' I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for.' I had a
friend who is now no more. He was taken
away in the bloom of life, by a very rapid
widow. He was by birth and by profession a
beau, -born with a quizzing-glass and a cane.
293
0 
HYPERION,
Cock of the walk, he flapped his wings, and crowed among the feathered tribe.  But, alas! a fair,
white partlet has torn his crest out, and he shall
crow no more. In the evening he rocks the
cradle, and gets up in the night when the child
cries.   Like a Goth of the Dark Ages, he consults his wife on all mighty matters, and looks
upon her as a being of more than human goodness and wisdom. In short, the women all say
he is a very domestic man, and makes a good
husband; which, under the rose, is only a more
polite way  of saying  he  is henpecked.   He
is a Happy  Man.   I have another dear friend,
who is a sexagenary bachelor. He has one of
those well-oiled dispositions which turn upon the
hinges of the world without creaking.   The heyday of life is over with him; but his old age is
sunny  and  chirping;  and  a  merry  heart still
nestles in his tottering frame, like a swallow that
builds in a tumrble-down chimney. He is.a professed Squire of Dames.   The rustle of a silk
gown is music to his ears, and his inmagination is
continually lantern-led by some will-with-a-wisp) in
the shape of a lady's stomacher.   In his devotion
to the fair sex,-Ithe muslin, as he calls it,he is the gentle flower of chivalry.  It is amusing
294 
A ROMANCE.
to see how quick he strikes into the scent of a
lady's handkerchief. When once fairly in pursuit,
there is no such thing as throwing himn out.   His
heart looks out at his eye; and his inward delight
tingles down to the tail of his coat.  He loves to
bask in the sunshine of a smile; when he can
breathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves and
cambric handkerchiefs, his soul is in its element;
and his supreme delight is to pass the morning, to
use his own quaint language,' in making dodging
calls, and wriggling round among the ladies!
He is a Lucky Dog."
"' And as a specimen of the class of Miserable
Wretches, I suppose you will take me," said
Flemining, making an effort to enter into his
friend's  humor.   " Certainly  I am  Fretched
enough. You may make me the stuffed bear,the specimen of this class."
" By no means," replied Berkley; " you are
not reduced so low.   He only is utterly wretched,
who is the slave of his own passions, or those of
others.   This, I trust, will never be your condition.  Why so wan and pale, fond lover?  Do
you remember Sir John Suckling's song?
Why so wan and pale, fond lover?
Pr'ythee whiy so pale?
295 
HYPERION,
Will, if looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Pr'ythee why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Pr'ythee why so mute?
Will, if speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Pr'ythee why so mute?
' Quit, quit, for shame! this cannot move,
This cannot take her!
If of herself she do not love,
Nothing will make her!
The devil take her!'
How do you like that? "
" To you I say quit, quit for shame!" replied
Flemming. " Why quote the songs of that witty
and licentious age? Have you no better consolation to offer me? How many, many times
must I tell you, that I bear the lady no ill-will?
I do not blame her for not loving me.   I desire
her happiness, even at the sacrifice of my own."
" That  is generous  in you, and deserves a
better fate.  But you are so figurative in all you
say, that a stranger would think you had no real
feeling, and only fancied yourself in love."
Expression of feeling is different with different  minds. j It is not always  simple.   Some
296 
A.ROMANCE.
minds, when excited, naturally speak in figuires
and similitudes.  They do not on that account
feel less deeply. This is obvious in our most
common modes of speech. It depends upon the
individual."
" Kyrie Eleyson!"
" Well, abuse my figures of speech as much
as you  please.   What  I insist upon  is, that
you shall not abuse the lady. When did you
ever hear me breathe.q whisper against her?"
"Oho! Now you speak like Launce to his
dog!"
Their conversation, which had begun so merrily, was here suddenly interrupted by a rattling
peal of thunder, that announced a near-approaching storm.  It wvas late in the afternoon, and the
whole heaven black with low, trailing clouds.
Still blacker the storm came sailing up majestically from the southwest, with almost unbroken volleys of distant thunder.   The wind seemed to be
storming a cloud redoubt; and marched onward
with dust, and the green banners of the trees flapping in the air, and heavy cannonading, and occasionally an explosion, like the blowing up of a
powder-wagon.   Mingled with this was the sound
of thunder-bells from a village not far off.   They
297 
HYPERION,
were all ringing dolefully to ward off the thunderbolt. At the entrance of the village stood a large
wvooden crucifix, around which was a crowd of
priests and peasants, kneeling in the wet grass, by
the roadside, with their hands and eyes lifted to
heaven, and praying for rain. Their prayer was
soon answered.
The travellers drove on with the driving wind
and rain. They had come from Landeck, and
hoped to reach Innsbruck before midnight. Night
closed in, and Flemming fell asleep with the loud
storm overhead, and at his feet the roaring Inn, a
mountain torrent leaping onward as wild and restless as when it first sprang from its cradle in the
solitudes of Engaddin; meet emblem of himself,
thus rushing through thle night. His slumber was
long, but broken; and at length he awoke in terror; for he heard a voice pronounce in his ear
distinctly these words: -
" They have brought the dead body."
They were driving by a churchyard at the entrance of a town; and  among the tombs a dim
lamp was burning before an image of the Virgin.
It had a most unearthly appearance.   Flemming
almost feared to see the congregation of the dead
go into the church and sing their midnight mass.
295
,. 
A ROMANCE.
He spoke to Berkley, but received no answer;
he was in a deep sleep.
" Then it was only a dream," said he to him self; " yet how  distinct the voice was!  0, if
we had spiritual organs, to see and hear things
now invisible and inaudible to us, we should behold the whole air filled with the departing souls
of that vast multitude which every moment dies,
- should behold them streaming up like thin vapors heavenward, and hear the startling blast of
the archangel's trump sounding incessant through
the universe and proclaiming the awful judgmentday! Truly, the soul departs not alone on its last
journey, but spirits of its kind attend it, when not
ministering angels; and they go in families to the
unknown land! Neither in life nor in death are
we alone."
He  slept again  at intervals; and at length,
though long after midnight, reached Innsbruck between sleeping and waking; his mind filled with
dim-n recollections of the unspeakably dismal nightjourney;-  the climbing of hills, and plunging into dark ravines; the momentary rattling of the
wheels over paved streets of towns, and the succeeding hollow rolling and tramping on the wet
earth; the blackness of the night;  the thunder
299 
HYPERION,
and lightning and rain; the roar of waters, leaping through deep chasms by the roadside; and
the wind through the mnountain-passes, sounding
loud and long, like the inextinguishable laughter
of the gods.
The travellers on the morrow lingered not long
in Innsbruck. They did not fail, however, to
visit the tomb of Maximilian in the Franciscan
Church of the Holy Cross, and gaze with some
admiration upon the twenty-eight gigantic bronze
statues of Godfrey of Bouillon, and King Arthur,
and Ernest the Iron-man, and Frederick of the
Empty Pockets, kings and heroes, and others,
which stand leaning on their swords between the
columns of the church, as if guarding the tomb
of the dead. These statues reminded Flemming
of the bronze giants which strike the hours on
the belfry of San Basso, in Venice, and of the
flail-armed monsters that guarded the gateway of
Angulaffer's  castle  in Oberon.   After  gazing
awhile at these mnotionless sentinels, they went
forth, and strolled through the public gardens,
with the jagged mountains right over their heads,
and all around them tall, melancholy pines, like
Tyrolese peasants, with shaggy hair; and at their
feet the mad torrent of the Inn, sweeping with
300 
A ROMANCE.
turbid waves through the midst of the town. In
the afternoon, they drove on towards Salzburg,
through the magnificent mountain-passes of Waidering and Unken.
301 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER III.
SHADOWS ON THE WALL.
ON the following morning, Flemming awoke in
a chamber of the Golden Ship at Salzburg, just
as the clock in the Dome-church opposite was
striking ten.  The window-shutters were closed,
and the room was nearly dark. HIe was lying
with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his
eyes looking up at the white curtains overhead.
He thought them the white marble canopy of a
tomb, and himself the marble statue lying beneath
When the clock ceased striking, the eight-andtwenty gigantic bronze statues from the Church
of Holy Rood in Innsbruck stalked into the
chamber, and arranged themselves along the walls,
which spread into dimly lighted aisles and arche~.
On the painted windows he saw Interlachen, with
its Franciscan cloister, and the Square Tower of
the ruins.  In a pendent, overhead,  stood the
302 
A ROMANCE.
German mechanic, as Saint Vitus; and on a lavatory, or basin of holy-water, below, sat a cherub,
with the form and features of Berkley.  Then
the organ-pipes began to blow, and he heard the
voices of an invisible choir chanting. And anon
the gilded gates in the bronze screen before the
chancel opened, and a bridal procession passed
through.  The bride was clothed in the garb of
the Middle Ages; and held a book in her hand,
with velvet covers, and golden clasps.  It was
Mary Ashburton.   She looked at him, as she
passed. Her face was pale; and there were
tears in her sweet eyes.  Then  the gates closed
again; and one of the oaken poppy-heads over a
carved stall, in the shape of an owl, flapped its
broad wings, and hooted, " To-whit! to-whoo!"
Then the whole scene changed; and he thought
himself a monk's-head on a gutter-spout; and it
rained dismally; and Berkley was standing underneath with an umbrella, laughing!
In other words, Flemming was in a raging fever, and delirious. He remained in this state for
a week. The first thing he was conscious of was
hearing the doctor say to Berkley:
" The crisis is passed. I now conisidertim out
of danger."
303 
HYPERION,
iHe then fell into a sweet sleep; the wild fever
had swept away like an angry, red cloud, and tile
refreshing summer rain began to fall like dew upon the parched earth.  Still another week, and
Flemming was " sitting clothed, and in his right
mind." Berkley had been reading to him; and
still held the book in his hand, with his fore-finger
between the leaves. It was a volume of Hoffmann's writings.
" How very strange it is,"' said he, " that you
can hardly open the biography of any German author, but you will find it begin with an account of
his grandfather! It will tell you how the venerable old man walked up and down the garden
among the gay flowers, wrapped in his morning
gown, which is likewise covered with flowers, and
perhaps wearing on his head a little velvet cap.
Or you will find him sitting by the chl)imney-corner in the great chair, smoking his ancestral pipe,
with shaggy eyebrows, and eyes like birdnests under the eaves of a house, and a mouth like a Nuremberg nutcracker's.   The  future poet climbs
upon the old man's knees. His genius is not recognized yet.  He  is thought for the most part a
dull bay. His father is an austere man, or perhaps dead.  But the mother is still there, a sick
304 
A ROMANCE.
ly, saint-like woman, with knitting-work; and an
elder sister, who has already been in love, ana
wears rings on her fingers;' Death's heads, and such mementoes,
Her grandmother and worm-eaten aunts left to hert
To tell her what her beauty must arrive at.'"
" But this is not the case with the life of Hoffmann, if I recollect right."
" No,  not precisely.  Instead of the  grandfather, we have the grandmother, a stately dame,
who has long since shaken hands with the vanities
of life. The mother, separated from her husband, is sick in mind and body, and flits to and
fro like a shadow.   Then there is an affectionate
maiden aunt; and an uncle, a retired judge, the
terror of little boys,- the Giant Despair of this
Doubting Castle in Konigsberg; and occasionally the benign countenance of a venerable granduncle, whom Lamotte Fouque6 called a hero of
the olden time in morning gown and slippers,
looks in at the door and smiles. In the upper
story of the same house lived a poor boy with
his mother, who was so far crazed as to believe
herself to be the Virgin MAary, and her son the
Saviour of the world. Wild fancies, likewise,
were to sweep through the brain of that child.
20
.05
0 
HYPERION,
He was to meet Hoffinann elsewhere and be his
friend in after years, though as yet they knew
nothing of each other. This was Werner, who
has made some noise in German literature as the
author of many wild Destiny-Dramas."
" Hoffimann died, I believe, in Berlin."
" Yes. He left.IKonigsberg at twenty years
of age, and passed the next eight years of his
life in the Prussian-Polish provinces, where he
held some petty office utinder government, and
took to himself many bad habits and a Polish
wife.  After this he was Mlusic-Director at various German theatres, and led a wandering,
wretched life for ten years.   He  then went to
Berlin as Clerk of the Exchange, and there remained till his death, which took place some seven or eight years afterward."
" Did you ever see him? "
"I was in Berlin during his lifetime, and saw
him frequently.  I shall never forget the first time.
It was at one of the Esthetic Teas given by a
literary lady unter den Linden, where the lions
were fed with convenient food, fromn tea and
bread and butter up to oysters and Rhine-wine.
During the evening, my attention was arrested by
the entrance of a strange little figure, with a wild
306 
A ROMA ANCE.
head of brown hair.  His eyes were bright gray;
and his thin lips closely pressed together with an
expression of not unpleasing irony. This strangelooking personage began to bow his way through
the crowd, with quick, nervous, hinge-like motions,
much resembling those of a marionnette.  He had
a hoarse voice, and such a rapid utterance, that,
althoughl  I understand  German well enough for
ordinary purposes, I could not make out one
half he saidl.  Ere long he had seated himself at
the piano-forte, and was improvising such wild,
sweet fancies, that the music of one's dreams is
not more sweet and wild. Then suddenly some
painful thought seemed to pass over his mind, as
if he imagined that he was there to amuse  the
company. He rose from the piano-forte, and
seated himself in another part of the room; where
he began to make grimaces, and talk loud while
others were singing.  Finally he disappeared like
a hobgoblin, laughing,' Ho! ho! ho!'  I asked a person beside me who this strange being
was.' That was Hoffmann,' was the answer.
' The Devil!' said I.' Yes,' continued my informant;' and if you should follow him now, you
would see him plunge into an obscure and unfreqiented wine-cel!ar, and there, amid boon com
I') 0 7 
HYPERION,
panions, with wine and tobacco-smoke, and quirks
and quibbles, and quaint, witty sayings, turn the
dim night into glorious day.'"
" WVhat a strange being! "
" I once saw him at one of his night-carouses.
He was sitting in his glory, at the head of the table; not stupidly drunk, but warmed with wine,
which made him madly eloquent, as the Devil's
Elixir did the monk  Medardus.   There, in the
full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his gray
hawk-eye flashing from beneath his matted hair,
and taking note of all that was grotesque in the
company round him, sat this unfortunate genius,
til the day began to dawn.   Then he found  his
way homeward, having, like the souls of the envious in Purgatory, his'eyelids sewed togetlritt
iron wire;-  though  his was  fro  c.l-.
bottles.   At such hours he wrote his  -ils      n"
tic tales.  To his excited fai'n jery  lingassunmed a spectral look..., The  iha,dows of familiar
things about him staked like ghosts through the
haunted chambers of his soul; and the old portraits on the walls winked at him, and seemed stepping down from their frames; till, aghast at the
spectral throng about him, he would call his wife
from her bed, to sit by him while he wrote."'
308 
A ROMANCE.
" No wonder he died in the prime of life! "
"No. The only wonder is, that he could
have followed this course of life for six years.
I am astonished that it did not kill him sooner."
"But death came at last in an appalling shape."
"Yes; his forty-sixth birthday found him sitting at home in his arm-chair, with his friends
ar'o/nd him. But the rare old wine- he always drank the best - touched not the sick
man's lips that night. His wonted humor was
gone.   Of all his'jibes, his gambols, his songs,
his flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the
table on a roar, not one now, to mock his own
grinning! -quite  chap-fallen.'  The conversation was of death and the grave.   And when one
of his friends said that life was not the highest
good, Hoffmann interrupted him, exclaiming, with
a startling earnestness, -' No, no! Life, life,
only life! on any condition whatsoever!'  Five
months after this he had ceased to stiffer, because
he  had  ceased  to live.   He  died  piecemeal.
His feet and hands, his legs and arms, gradually,
and in succession, became motionless, dead. But
his spirit was not dead, nor motionless; and,
through the solitary day or sleepless night, lying
in his bed,  he  dicetated  to an amanuensis  his
309 
]HYPERION)
last stories.  Strange stories, indeed, were  they
for a dying man to write! Yet such delight did
he take in dictating them, that he said to his
friend Hitzig, that, upon the whole, he was willing
to give up for ever the use of his hands, if he
could but preserve the power of writing by dictation.   Such was his love of life, -of what he
called the sweet habitude of being! "
Was it not he, who in his last hours expressed such a longing to behold file green fields once
more, and exclaimed, -' Heaven I it is already
summer, and I have not yet seen a single green
tree'?"
"Yes, that was Hoffmann. Soon afterwards
he died.   The closing scene was striking.  He
gradually lost all sensation, though his mind remained vigorous. Peeling no more pain, he said
to his physician,' It will soon be over now.   I
fee] no more pain.' He thought himself well
again; but the physician knew that he was dying,
and said, -' Yes, it will soon be over!' The
next morning he called his wife to his bedside, and
begged her to fold his motionless hands together.
Then, as he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard
him say,' WVe must, thenji, th'k of God,. 
.More sorrowful words than these have seldom
3i0 
A  ROMANCE.
fallen from the lips of man.   Shortly afterwards
the flame of life glared up within him; he said he
was well again; that in the evening he should go
on with the story he was writing; and wished that
the last sentence might be read over to him.
Shortly after this they turned his face to the wall,
and he died."
" And thus passed to its account a human soul,
after much self-inflicted suffering.   Let us tread
lightly upon the poet's ashes.   For  my part, I
confess that I have not the heart to take him
from the general crowd of erring, sinful men, and
judge him harshly. The little I have seen of the \
world, and know of the history of mankind,
teaches me to look upon the errors of others in
sorrow; not in anger. WVhen I take the  history
of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered,
and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed,- the brief pulsations of joy,
-  the feverish inquietude of hope and fear, -  the
tears of regret, -the feebleness of purpose, -the
pressure of want, - the desertion of friends,the scorn of a world that has little charity,- the
desolation of the soul's sanctuary, - and threatening voices within, -  health gone, -  happiness
gone,   even hope, that stays longest with us,
811 
HYPERION,
gone, - I have little heart for aught else than
thankfulness that it is not so with me, and would
fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with
Him from whose hands it came,
' Even as a little girl,
Weeping and laughing inherchildish sport.'"
" You are right.  And it is worth a student's
while to observe calmly how tobacco, wine, and
midnight did their work like fiends upon the delicate frame of Hoifmann; and no less thoroughly
upon his delie te mind.  /He who  drinks  beer
thinks beer;, and he who drinks wine thinks
wine;  and he who  drinks midnight thinks midnight.   He was a man of rare intellect.  He was
endowed with racy humor, and sarcastic wit, and
a glorious imagination.   But the fire of his genius
burned not peacefully and with a steady flame
upon the hearth of his home.   It was a glaring
and irregularflame; -for the xbranches that he
fed it with were not branches from the Tree of
Life,-  but from another tree that grew in Paradise, -and they were wet with the unhealthy
dews of night, and more  unhealthy  wine; and
thus, amid smoke and ashes, the fire burned fitfully, and went out with a'tlare which leaves the
beholder blind."
312
4,,  
A ROIMANCE.
i This fire within him was a Meleager's firebrand; and, when it burned out, he died.  And,
as you say, marks of all this are clearly visible in
Hoffmann's writings. Indeed, when I read his
strange fancies, it is with me as when in the summer night I hear the rising wind among the trees,
and the branches bow, and beckon with their long
fingers, and voices go gibbering and mocking
through the air.  A feeling of awe and mysterious
dread comes over me.   I wish to hear the sound
of living voice or footstep near me, -to see a
friendly and familiar face.  In truth, if it be late
at night, the reader as well as the writer of these
unearthly fancies would fain have a patient, meekeyed wife, with her knitting-work, at his elbow."
Berkley smiled; but Flemming continued without noticing the smile, though he knew what was
passing in the mind of his friend:  " The life and writings of this singular being
interest me in a high degree.   Sometimes we may
learn more from a man's errors than from his
virtues.   Iorieover, froni the common  sy)mpathies of our nature, souls that have struggled and
suffered are dear to me. Willingly do I recognize their brotherhood.   Scars upon their foreheads do not so deform them that they cease to
313
Iy 
HYPERION)
interest. They are always signs of struggle
though, alas! too often, likewise, of defeat.
Seasons of unhealthy, dreamy, vague delight are
followed by seasons of weariness and darkness.
Where are then the bright fancies, that, amid the
great stillness of the night, arise like stars in the
firmament of our souls?  T''hIe morning dawns,
the light of common day shines in upon us, and
the heavens are without a star!  From the lives
of such men we learn that mere pleasant sensations are not happiness; that sensual pleasures
are to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, firom
the palm of the hand; and that those who bow
down upon their knees to drink of these bright
streams that water life are not chosen of God
either to overthrow or to overcome! "
" I think you are very lenient in your judgment.
This  is not the usual defect of critics.   Like
Shakspeare's  Samphire-gatherer,  they have  a
dreadful trade! and, to make the simile complete,
they ought to hang for it! "
' Methinks, it would be hard to hang a man for
the sake of a simile. But now go on with the
Piiantasy-Pieces in Callot's manner."
" By the way, who was this Callot? "
" He was a Loraine painter, of the seventeenth
314 
A ROMANCE.
century, celebrated for his wild and grotesque
conceptions.   These sketches of Holfinann ate
imitations of his style."
" And which of them shall I read to you next?
The Ritter Gluick; or the Musical Sufferings of
John Kreisler; or that exquisite story of the
Golden Jar, wherein is depicted the life of Poesy
is this commonplace world of ours?" "
" Read the Golden Jar."
And thereupon Berkley began to read the story
of the Student Anselmus, and his adventures with
the gold-green snakes, the bronzed apple-woman,
and Veronica's blue eyes; together with whatsoever more is written in that incomprehensible tale
of wonders. But long ere lie had made an end,
Flemnming was lapped in the Elysium of sleep.
315 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER IV.
SAINT GILGEN.
TT was a bright Sunday morning when Flemming and Berkley left behind them the cloud-capped hills of Salzburg, and journeyed eastward
towards the lakes.   The landscape around them
was one to attune their souls to holy nmusings.
Field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the perfume of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birds
singing, and the sound of village bells, and the
moving breeze among the branches, - no laborers
in the fields, but peasants on their way to church,
coming across the green pastures, with roses in
their hats, - the beauty and quiet of the holy day
of rest,- all, all in earth and air, breathed upon
the soul like a benediction.
They stopped to change horses at Hof, a handfuil of houses on the brow of a breezy lhill, the
church and inn standing opposite to each other,
and nothing between them but the dusty road,
316 
A ROMANCE.
and the churchyard, with its iron crosses, and the
fluttering tinsel of the funeral garlands.   In the
churchyard, and at the inn-door, were groups of
peasants, waiting for divine service to begin.
They  were  clothed  in their holyday dresses.
The men wore breeches and long boots, and
frock-coats with large metal buttons; the women,
straw hats, and gay calico gowns with short waists
and scant folds. They were adorned with a profusion of great trumpery ornaments, and reminded Flemming of the Indians in the frontier villages
of America. Near the churchyard-gate was a
booth, filled with flaunting calicoes; and opposite
sat an old woman behind a table, which was loaded with gingerbread.   She had a roulette at her
elbow, where the peasants risked a kreutzer for a
cake.   On other tables, cases of knives, scythes,
reapinghooks, and other implements of husbandry
were offered for sale.
The travellers continued their journey, without
stopping to hear mass.   In the course of the forenoon, they came suddenly in sight of the beautiful
lake of Saint Wolfgang, lying deep beneath
them  in the valley.   On its shore, under them,
sat the white village of Saint Gilgen, like a swan
upon its reedy nest.  They seemed to have taken
317 
HYPERION,
it unawares, and as it were clapped their hands
upon it in its sleep, and almost expected to see it
spread its broad snow-white wings and fly away.
The whole scene was one of surpassing beauty.
They drove leisurely down the steep hill, and
stopped at the village inn.  Before the door was
a magnificent broad-armed tree, with benches and
tables beneath its shadow.   On  the front of the
house was written in large letters, " Post-Tavern
by Franz Schobndorfer"; and over this was a
large sundial, and a half-effaced painting of a
bear-hunt, covering the whole side of the house,
and mostly red. As they drove up, a procession
of priests with banners, and peasants with their
hats in their hands, passed by towards the church.
They were singing a solemn psalm. At the same
moment, a smart servant girl, with a black straw
hat set coquettishly on her flaxen hair, and a large
silver spoon in her girdle, came out of the inn, and
asked Flemming what he would please to order
for breakfast.
Breakfast was soon ready, and was served at
the head of the stairs, on an old-fashioned oaken
table in the great hall, into which the chambers
opened. Berkley ordered at the same time a tub
of cold water, in which he seated himself, with
318 
A ROMNIANCE.
his coat on, and a bed-quilt thrown round his
knees.   Thus he sat for an hour; ate his break fast, and smoked a pipe, and laughed a good deal.
He then went to bed and slept till dinner-time.
Meanwhile Flemming sat in his chamber and read.
It was a large room in the front of the house,
looking upon the village and the lake.   The windows  were latticed, with small panes, and  the
window-sills filled with fragrant flowers.
At length the heat of noon was over. Day,
like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western
gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down  to
unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon.   Flemming and Berkley sallied forth to ramble by the
borders of the lake.  Down the cool green glades
and alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of the
forest, over the rising grounds in the glimmering
fretwork of sunshine and leaf-shadow, -an exlilarating walk!  The cool evening air by the lake
was like a bath.  They drank the freshness of the
hour in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved
rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long confinement of the sultry summer day.   And there,
too, lay thie lake, so beautiful and still! Did it
not recall, think ye, the lake of Thutn?
On their return homeward, they passed near the
village churchyard.
319 
HYPERION,
" Let us go in and see how the dead rest,"
said Flemming, as they passed beneath the belfry
of the church; and they went in, and lingered
among the tombs and the evening shadows.
How  peaceful is the dwelling-place of those
w ho inhabit the green hamlets and populous cities
of the dead! They need no antidote for care, no armor against fate.  No  morning sun shines
in at the closed windows and awakens them, nor
shall until the last great day.   At most, a strag gling sunbeam creeps in through the crumbling
wall of an old, neglected tonlb, - a strange visiter,
that stays not long.  And  there they all sleep,
the holy ones, with their arms crossed upon their
breasts, or lying motionless by their sides,- not
carved in marble by the hand of man, but formed
in dust by the hand of God. God's peace be
with them! No one comes to them now, to hold
them  by  the hand,  and  with delicate  fingers
to smooth their hair. They heed no more the
blandishments of earthly friendship.   They need
us not, however much we may need them. And
yet they silently await our coming.
Beautiful is that season of life, when we can
say, in the language of Scripture,' Thou hast
the dew of thy youth."' But of these flowers
320 
A ROMANCE.
Death gathers many. He places them upon his
bosom, and he is transformed into something less
terrific than before.   We learn to gaze and shudder not; for he carries in his arms the sweet blossoms of our earthly hopes. We shall see them
all again, blooming in a happier land.
Yes, Death brings us again to our friends.
They are waiting for us, and we shall not long
delay.   They have gone before us, and are like
the angels in heaven.   They stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection which they wore on earth;
yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual!
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels!
Death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the
dew of thy youth. He has placed thee upon his
bosom, and his stern countenance wears a smile.
The far country, toward which we journey, seems
nearer to us, and the way less dark; for thou hast
gone before, passing so quietly to thy rest, that
day itself dies not more calmly!
It was in an hour of blessed communion with
the souls of the departed, that the sweet poet
Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines which
have made death lovely.
21
321 
HYPERION,
"They are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
"It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed,
After the sun's remove.
"I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days,
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmerings and decays.
"0 holy hope, and high humility,
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and ye have showed them me,
To kindle my cold love.
"Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
"He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair field or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
"And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep!
322 
A ROMANCE.
"If a star were confined into a tomb,
Her captive flame must needs burn there;
But when the hand that locked her up gave room,
She'd shine through all the sphere.
' O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
'Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective, still as they pass,
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass."
Such were Flemming's thoughts, as he stood
among the tombs at evening in the churchyard of
Saint Gilgen. A holy calm stole over him. The
fever of his heart was  allayed.   He had a moinent's rest from pain; and went back to his chamber in peace. Whence came this holy calm, this,
long-desired tranquillity? He knew not; yet the
place seemed consecrated. He resolved to linger
there, beside the lake, which was a Pool of Bethesda for hini; and let Berkley go on alone to the
baths of Ischel. He would wait for him there
in the solitude of Saint Gilgen.   Long after they
had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber,
and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyed
the silence within and without. Ho-ur after hour
323 
HYPERION)
slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie.
At length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one
flickering gleam, and expired with a sob. This
aroused him.
He went to the window, and peered out into
the dark night. It was very late. Twice already
since midnight had the great pulpit-orator Time,
like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned
the hourglass on his high pulpit, the church belfry, and still went on with his sermon, thundering
downward to the congregation in the churchyard
and in the village. But they heard him not.
They were all asleep in their narrow pews, namely, in their beds and in their graves. Soon afterward the cock crew; and the cloudy heaven, like
the apostle who denied his Lord, wept bitterly.
324 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER V.
SAINT WOLFGANG.
THE morning is lovely beyond expression.
The heat of the sun is great; but a gentle wind
cools the air.  Birds never sang more  loud and
clear.   The flowers, too, on the window-sill, and
on the table, rose, geranium, and the delicate
crimson cactus, are all so beautiful, that we think
the German poet right, when he calls the flowers
C stars in the firmament of the earth."   Out of
doors all is quiet. Opposite the window stands
the village schoolhouse.   There are two parasite
trees, with their outspread branches nailed against
the white walls, like the wings of culprit kites.
There the rods grow. Under them, on a bench
at the door, sit school-girls; and barefoot urchins
in breeches are spelling out their lessons. The
clock strikes twelve, and one by one they disappear, and go into the hive, like bees at the sound
of a brass pan. At the door of the next house
325 
HYPERION',
sits a poor woman, knitting in the shade; and in
front of her is an aqueduct, pouring its cool, clear
water into a rough wooden trough.   A travelling
carriage, without horses, stands at the inn-door,
and a postilion in red jacket is talking with a
blacksmith, who wears blue woollen stockings and
a leather apron. Beyond is a stable, and still farther a cluster of houses and the village church.
They are repairing the belfry and the bulbous
steeple. A little farther, over the roofs of the
houses, you can see Saint Wolfgang's lake.
Water so bright and beautiful hardly flows elsewhere.   Green and blue and silver-white run into each other, with almost imperceptible change.
And above are the pinnacles of the mountains;
some bald, and rocky, and cone-shaped, and others bold, and broad, and dark with pines.
Such was the scene which Paul Flemming beheld from his window a few mornings after Berkley's departure.   The  quiet of the place had
soothed him.   He had become more calm.   His
heart complained less loudly in the holy village
silence, as we are wont to lower our voices when
those around us speak in whispers. He began to
feel at times an interest in the lowly things about
him. The face of the landscape pleased him,
326 
A ROMANCE.
but more than this the face of the' poor woman
who sat knitting in the shade. It was a pale,
meek countenance, with more delicacy in its features than is usual among peasantry.  It wore also an expression of patient suffering.  As he was
looking at her, a deformed child came out of the
door and hung upon her knees.   She caressed
him affectionately. It was her child, in whom
she beheld her own fair features distorted and
hardly to be recognized, as one sometimes sees
one's face reflected from the bowl of a spoon.
The child's deformity and the mother's tenderness interested the feelings of Flemming. The
landlady told him something of the poor woman's
history. She was the widow of a blacksmith,
who had died soon after their marriage. But she
sutrvived to become a mother, as, in oaks, imnmediately after fecundation, the male flower fades
and falls, while the female continues and ripens
into perfect fruit. Alas! her child was deformed.
Yet she looked upon him with eyes of maternal
fondness and pity, loving him still more for his
deformity.   And  in -her heart she said, as the
MAexicans say to their new-born offspring, "Child,
thou art come into the world to suffer. Endure,
and hold thy peace." Though poor, she was not
327 
HYPERION)
entirely destitute; for her husband had left her,
besides the deformed child, a life estate in a tomb
in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen. During the
week she labored for other people, and on Sun days for herself, by going to church and reading
the Bible. On one of the blank leaves she had
recorded the day of her birth, and that of her
child's, likewise her marriage and her husband's
death. Thus she lived, poor, patient, and resigned.   Her  heart was a passion-flower, bearing
within it the crown of thorns and the cross of
Christ. Her ideas of heaven were few and simple. She rejected the doctrine that it was a place
of constant activity, and not of repose, and believed, that, when she at length reached it, she
should work no more, but sit always in a clean
white apron, and sing psalms.
As Flemming sat meditating on these things, he
paid new homage in his heart to the beauty and
excellence of the female character.  He thought
of the absent and the dead; and said, with tears
in his eyes:
" Shall I thank God for the green summer, and
the mild air, and the flowers, and the stars, and
all that makes this world so beautiful, and not for
the good and beautiful beings I have known in it?
328 
A ROMAINCE.
Has not their presence been sweeter to me than
flowers? Are they not higher and holier than
the stars? Are they not more to me than all
things else? "
Thus the morning passed away in musings;
and in the afternoon, when Flemming was preparing to go down to the lake, as his custom was, a
carriage drew up before the door, and, to his
great astonishment, out jumped Berkley. The
first thing he did was to give the postmaster, who
stood near the door, a smart cut with his whip.
The sufferer gently expostulated, saying,  "Pray, Sir, don't; I am lame."
Whereupon Berkley desisted, and began instead to shake the postmaster's wife by the
shoulders, and order his dinner in English.   But
all this was done so good-naturedy, and with such
a rosy, laughing face, that no offence was taken.
" So you have returned much sooner than you
intended," said Flemming, after the first fliendly
salutations.
" Yes," replied Berkley; "I became tired of
Ischel, -very tired.  I did not find there the
friends I expected. Now I am going back to
Salzburg, and then to Gastein.   There I shall
certainly find them. You must go with me."
329 
HYPERION,
Flemming declined the invitation; and proposed to Berkley that he should join him in his excursion on the lake.
" You shall hear the grand echo of the Falkenstein," said he, " and behold the scene of the
Bridal  Tragedy; and then we  will go on as
far as the village of Saint Wolfgang, which you
have not yet seen, except across the lake."
" Well, this afternoon I devote to you; for
to-morrow we part once more, and who knows
when we shall meet again? "
They went down to the water's side without
farther delay; and, taking a boat with two oars,
struck across an elbow of the lake towards a barren rock by the eastern shore, from which a small
white monument shone in the sun.
" That monument," said one of the boatmen,
a stout young lad in leather breeches, " was built
by a butcher, to the glory of Saint Wolfgang, who
savedhim from drowning. He was one day riding an ox to market along the opposite bank; when
the animal, taking fright, sprang into the water, and
swam over to this place, with the butcher on his
back."
" And do you think he could have done this,"
asked  Berkley,' if Saint Wolfgang had not
helped him? "
330 
A ROMANCE.
"Of course not!" answered leather-breeches;
and the Englishman laughed.
From this point they rowed along under the
shore to a low promontory, upon which stood
another monument, commemorating a more tragical event.
"This is the place I was speaking of," said
Flemming, as the boatmen rested on their oars.
" The melancholy and singular event it commemorates happened more than two centuries
ago.  There was a bridal party here upon the
ice, one winter; and in the midst of the dance the
ice broke, and the whole merry company were
drowned together, except the fiddlers, who were
sitting on the shore."
They looked in silence at the monument, and
at the blue quiet water, under which the bones of
the dancers lay buried, hand in hand. The monument is of stone,- painted white, with an overhanging roof to shelter it from  storms.  In a
niche in front is a small image of the Saviour, in
a sitting posture; and an inscription upon a marble tablet below says that it was placed there by
Longinus Walther, and his wife, Barbara Juliana
von Hainberg; themselves long since peacefully
crumbled to dust, side by side, in some churchyard.
:331 
HYPERION,
" That was breaking the ice with a vengeance!" said Berkley, as they pushed out into
the lake again; and ere long they were floating
beneath the mighty precipice of Falkenstein; a
steep wall of rock, crowned with a chapel and a
hermitage, where in days of old lived the holy
Saint Wolfgang. It is now haunted only by an
echo, so distinct and loud, that one might imagine
the ghost of the departed saint to be sitting there,
and repeating the voices from below,- not word
by word, but sentence by sentence, as if he were
passing them up to the recording angel.
"Ho! ho! ho!" shouted Berkley; and the
sound seemed to strike the wall of stone, like the
flapping of steel plates; -" Ho! ho! ho! How
are you to-day, Saint Wolfgang? You infernal
old rascal! How is the Frau von Wolfgang? God save great George, our king! Damn your
eyes! Hold your tongue!  Ho! ho! ha! ha!
hi!"
And the words were recorded above; and a
voice repeated them with awful distinctness in the
blue depths overhead; and Flemming felt in his
inmost soul the contrast between the holy heavens,
and the mockery of laughter, and the idle words,
which fall back from the sky above us and soil
not its purity.
332 
A ROMANCE.
In half an hour they were at the village of
Saint Wolfgang, threading a narrow street, above
which the roofs of quaint, picturesque old houses
almost met.  It led them to a Gothic church;
a magnificent one for a village; -in front of
which was a small court, shut in by Italian-looking houses, with balconies, and flowers at the
windows.   Here a bronze fountain of elaborate
workmanship was playing in the shade. On its
summit stood an image of the patron saint of the
village; and, running round the under lip of the
water-basin below, they read this inscription in old
German rhymes:   "I am in the honor of Saint Wolfgang raised.
Abbot  Wolfgang  Habel of Emensee, he hath
made me for the use and delight of poor pilgrim
wight. Neither gold nor wine hathli he; at this
water shall he merry be.  In the year of the
Lord fifteen hundred and fifteen hath the work
completed been. God be praised! "
As they were deciphering the rude characters
of this pious inscription, a village priest came
down a high flight of steps from the parsonage near
the church, and courteously saluted the strangers.
After returning the salutation, the mad Englishman, without preface, asked him how many nat
333 
HYPERION,
ural children were annually born in the parish.
The question seemed to astonish the good father;
but he answered it civilly, as he did several
other questions, which Flemming thought rather
indiscreet, to say the least.
" You will excuse our curiosity," said he to
the priest, by way of apology. " We are stran       gers from distant countries.   My  friend is an
Englishman, and I an American."
Berkley, however, was not so easily silenced.
After a few moments' conversation, he broke out
into most audacious Latin, in which the only
words clearly intelligible were:..- "     Plurimum reverende, in Christo religiosis:: (;/sime, ac clarissime Domine, necnon et amice ob:  servandissime!  Petrus sic  est locutus:'Nec
o   argentum mihi, nec aurum est; sed quod habeo,
oc tibi do; surge et ambula.'    -
iHe seemed to be speaking of the fountain.
The priest answered meekly,         " Non intellexi, Domine!"
But Berkley continued with great volubility to
speak of his being a stranger in the land, and all
men being strangers upon earth, and hoping to
meet the good priest hereafter in the kingdom of
heaven.   The  priest seeemed  confounded and
334 
A ROMANCE.
abashed.   Through the mist of a strange pronunciation, he could recognize only here and there a
familiar word. He took out his snuff-box; and
tried to q e a passage from Saint Paul:  QU.t dixit Sanctus Paulus:'Qui bene facit )
Here his memory failed him, or, as the French
say, he was at the end of his Latin, and, stretching forth his long forefinger, he concluded in
German: -
"Yes; -  I don't-  so  clearly remember -
what he did say."
The Englishman helped him through with a
moral phrase; and then, pulling off his hat, exclaimed very solemnly:  " Vale, Domnine doctissime et reverendissime!
And the Dominie, as if pursued by a demon,
made a sudden and precipitate retreat down a
flight of steps in the street.
" There!" said Berkley, laughing, " I beat
him at his own weapons. What do you say of
my I,Latin?"
" I say of it," replied Flemming, " what Holofernes said of Sir Nathaniel's:' Priscian a
little scratched't will serve.'  I think I have
1335 
HYPERION)
heard better.  But what a whim! I thought I
should have laughed aloud."
They were still sitting by the bronze fountain,
when the priest returned, accompanied by a short
man, with large feet, and a long blue surtout, so
greasy, that it reminded one of Polilla's in the
Spanish play, which was lined with slices of
pork. His countenance was broad and placid,
but his blue eyes gleamed with a wild, mysterious,
sorrowful  expression.   Flemming  thought  the
Latin contest was to be renewed, with more powder and heavier guns.  He was mistaken.   The
stranger saluted him in German, and said, that,
having heard he was  from  America, he had
come to question him about that distant country,
for which he was on the point of embarking.
There was nothing peculiar in his manner, nor in
the questions he asked, nor the remarks he made.
They were the usual questions and remarks about
cities and climate and sailing the sea. At length
Flemming asked him the object of his journey to
America. The stranger came close to him, and,
lowering his voice, said very solemnly:  " That holy man, Frederick Baraga, missionary among the Indians at Lacroix, on Lake Superior, has returned to his fatherland, Krain; and
336 
A PROMIANCE.
I am chosen by Heaven to go forth as Minister
Extraordinary of Christ, to unite all nations and
people in one church!"
Flemming almost started at the singular ear
nestness with which he uttered these words; and
looked at him attentively, thinking to see the face
of a madman. But the modest, unassuming look
of that placid countenance was unchanged; only
in the eyes burned a mysterious light, as if candles
had been  lighted in the brain,  to magnify  the
daylight there.
" It is truly a high vocation," said hlie, in reply.
" But are you sure that this is no hallucination?
Are you certain that you have been chosen by
Heaven for this great work? "
"I am certain," replied the Germnan, in a tone
of great calmness and sincerity; " and, if Saint
Peter and Saint Paul should come down from
heaven to assure me of it, my faith would be no
stronger than it now is.  It has been declared to
me by many signs and wonders.   I can no longer
doubt  nor hesitate.  I have  already heard the
voice of the Spirit, speaking to me at night; and
I know that I am all apostle, and chosen for this
work."
Such was the calm enthusiasm with which he
22
337 
HYPERIONI
spoke, that Flemming could not choose but listen.
He felt interested in this strange being.  There
was something awe-inspiring in the spirit that
possessed him.   After a short pause, he  continued: -
" If you wish to know who I am, I can tell
you in few words. I think you will not find the
story without interest."
He  then went on to relate the circumstances
recorded in the following chapter.
359 
A ROMANCE.
CHAPTER VI.
THE STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS.
"I WAS born in the city of Stein, in the land
of IKrain. Mty pious mother, Gertrude, sang me
psalms and spiritual songs in childhood; and often,
when I awoke in the night, I saw her still sitting
patiently at her work by the stove, and heard her
singing those hymns of heaven, or praying in the
midnight darkness when her work was done.  It
was for me she prayed. Thus, from my earliest
childhood, I breathed the breath of pious aspirations. Afterwards I went to Laybach, as a student of theology; and, after the usual course of
study, was ordained a priest.  I went forth to the
care of souls; my own soul filled with the faith
that ere long all people would be united in one
church. Yet at times my heart was heavy, to
behold how many nations there are who have not
heard of Christ; and how those, who are called
Christians, are divided into numberless sects, and
339
6 
HYPERION,:
how among these are many who are Christians in
name only.  I determined to devote myself to
the great work of the one church universal, and,
for this purpose, to give myself wholly up to the
study of the Evangelists and the Fathers.   I retired to the Benedictine cloister of Saint Paul in
the valley of Lavant.   The father-confessor in
the nunnery of Laak, where I then lived, strengthened me in this resolve. I had long walked with
this angel of God in a human form, and his parting benediction sank deep into my soul.  The
Prince-Abbot Berthold, of blessed memory, was
then head of the Benedictine convent.   He received me kindly, and led me to the library;
where I gazed with secret rapture on the vast
folios of the Christian Fathers, from which, as
from an arsenal, I was to draw the weapons of
holy warfare.   In the study of these the year of
m.y  novitiate passed.   I became  a Franciscan
friar, and took the name of Brother Bernarduis.
Yet my course of life remained unchanged. I
seldom left the cloister; but sat in my cell, and
pored over those tomes of holy wisdom.  About
this time the aged confessor in Laak departed
this liife. His death was made known to me
in a dream. It must have been after midnight,
340 
A ROMANCE.
when I thought that I came into the church,
which  was brilliantly lighted  utip.   The  dead
body of the venerable saint was brought in, attended by a great crowd.   It seemed to me that
I must go up into the pulpit and pronounce his
funeral oration; and, as I ascended the stairs,
the words of my text came into my mind:' Blessed in the sight of the Lord is the death of
his saints.',My funeral sermon ended  in a strain
of exultation; and I awoke with' Amen!' upon
my lips. A few days afterwards, I heard that
on that night the old man died. After this event,
I became  restless and melancholy.   I strove in
vain to drive from me my gloomy thoughts.   I
could no longer study.   I was no longer contented in the cloister. I even thought of leaving it.
"One night, I had gone to bed early, according
to my custom, and had fallen asleep. Suddenly
I was awakened by a bright and wonderful light,
which shone all about me, and filled me with
heavenly rapture. Shortly after, I heard a voice,
which pronounced distinctly these words, in the
Sclavonian tongue: -' Remain in the cloister!'
It was the voice of my departed mother.   I was
fully awake; yet saw nothing but the bright light,
which  disappeared  when  the  words  had been
341 
HYPERION,
spoken.   Still it was broad daylight in my chamber. I thought I had slept beyond my usual
hour. I looked at my watch. It was just one
o'clock after midnight.  Suddenly  the daylight
vanished, and it was dark.  In the morning I
arose, as if new-born, through the wonderful light
and the words of my mnother's voice.  It was no
dream. I knew it was the will of God that I
should stay; and I could again give myself up
to quiet study. I read the whole Bible through
once more in the original text; and went on with
the Fathers in chronological order. Often, after the apparition of the light, I awoke at the
same hour; and though I heard no voice and saw
no light, yet was refreshed with heavenly consolation.
" Not long after this, an important event happened in the  cloister.   In the absence  of the
deacon of the abbey, I was to preach the
Thanksgiving sermon of Harvest-home. During
the week, the Prince-Abbot Berthold gave up the
ghost; and my sermon became at once a thanksgiving and funeral sermon. Perhaps it may not
be unworthy of notice, that I was thus called to
pronounce the burial discourse over the body of
the last reigning spiritual Prince-Abbot in Ger
342 
A ROMAN.CE.
many. He was a man of God, and worthy of
this honor.
"One year after this event, I was appointed
Professor of Biblical Hermeneutics in Klagenfilrt, and left the abbey for ever. In Klagenfurt
I remained ten years, dwelling in the same house,
and eating at the same table, with seventeen other
professors.   Their conversation naturally suggested new topics of study, and brought to my notice books which I had never before seen.  One
day I heard at table, that Maurus Cappellari, a
monk of Camaldoli, had been elected Pope, under the name of Gregory  Sixteenth.  He  was
spoken of as a very learned man, who had written many books. At this time I was a firm believer in the Pope's infallibility; and when I
heard these books mentioned, there arose in me
an irresistible longing to read them.  I inquired
for them; but they were nowhere to be had. At
length I heard that his most important work, The
Triumph of the Holy See and of the Church,
had been translated into German and published in
Augsburg. Ere long the precious volume was in
my hands. I began to read it with the profoundest awe.   The farther I read, the more my wonder grew. The subject was of the deepest inter
343 
HYPERION,
est to me.   I could not lay the book out of my
hand, till I had read it through with the closest
attention. Now at length my eyes were opened.
I saw before me a monk who had been educated
in an Italian cloister; who, indeed, had read
much, and yet only what was calculated to
strengthen him in the prejudices of his childhood,
and who had entirely neglected those studies upon which a bishop should most rely, in order to
work out the salvation of man.   I perceived, at
the same time, that this was the strongest instrument for battering down the walls which separate Christian from Christian.  I saw, though  as
yet dimly, the way in which the union of Christians in the one true church was to be accomplished I knew not whether to be most astonished at my own blindness, that, in all my previous studies, I had not perceived what the reading of this single book made manifest to me; or
at the blindness of the Pope, who had undertaken to justify such follies, without perceiving that
at the same moment he was himself lying in fatal
error.  But since I have learned more thoroughly the ways of the Lord, I am now no more astonished at this, but pray only to Divine Providence, who so mysteriously prepares all people
344 
A  ROMANCI.'E. NCE.
to be united in one true church.   I no longer believed in the Pope's infallibility; niay, I believed
even, that, to the great injury of humanity, he
lay in fatal error.  I felt, moreover, that now the
timne had fully come, when I should publicly show
myself, and found in America a parish and a
school, and become the spiritual guide of men
and the schoolmaster of children.
" It was then, and on that account, that I
wrote in the Latin tongue my great work on Biblical Hermeneutics. But in Germany it cannot
be published.   The Austrian censor of the press
cannot find time to read it; though I think, that,
if I have spent so many laborious days and sleepless nights in writing it, this manail ought likewise to
find time enough not only to read it, but to examine all the grounds of my reasoning, and point out
to me any errors, if he can find any.   Notwithstanding, the Spirit gave me no repose, but urged
me ever mightily on to the perfection of my great
work.
" One morning I sat writing, under peculiar influences of the Spirit, upon the Confusion of
Tongues, the Division of the People, and the
importance of the study of Comparative Phlilology, in reference to their union in one church.
345 
HYPERION)
So wrapped was I in the thought, that I came
late into my lecture-room; and after lecture returned to my chamber, where I wrote till the
clock struck twelve. At dinner, one of the Professors asked if any one had seen the star
about which so much was said.   The  Professor of Physics said that the student Johannes
Schminke had come to him in the greatest haste,
and besought him to go out and see the wonderful star; but, being incredulous about it, he ma(le
no haste, and, when they came into the street,
the star had disappeared. When I heard the star
spoken of, my soul was filled with rapture; and
a voice within me seemed to say,' The great
time  is approaching; labor unweariedly in thy
work.' I sought out the student, and, like Herod, inquired diligently at what time the star appeared. He informed me, that, just as the clock
was striking eight, in the morning, he went out of
his house to go to the college, and saw on the
square a crowd looking at a bright star.  It was
the very hour, when I was writing alone in my
chamber on the importance of Comparative Philology in bringing about the union of all nations.
I felt that my hour had come. Strangely moved,
I walked up and down mv chamber. The even
346 
A ROMANCE.
ing twilight came on. I lighted my lamp, and
drew the green curtains before the windows, and
sat down to read.  But hardly had I taken the
book into my hand, when the Spirit began to
move me, and urge me then to make my last decision and resolve.  I made a secret vow that 1
would undertake the voyage to America. Suddenly my troubled thoughts were still. An unwonted rapture filled my heart. I sat and read
till the supper-bell rang.  They  were speaking
at table of a red, glaring meteor, which had just
been seen in the air, southeast from Klagenfurt,
and had suddenly disappeared with a dull, hollow
sound. It was the very moment at which I had
taken my final resolution to leave my native land.
Every great purpose and event of my life seemed
heralded and attended by divine mnessengers;the voices of the dead; the bright morning star,
shining in the clear sunshine; and the red meteor
in the evening twilight.
"I now began seriously to prepare for my departure.   The  chamber I occupied had once
been the library of a Franciscan convent.  Only
a thick wall separated it from the church.  In
this wall was a niche, with heavy folding-doors,
which had served the Franciscans as a repository
347 
HYPERION,
for prohibited books. Here also I kept my papers, and my great work on Biblical Hermeneutics.  The inside of the doors was covered
with horrible caricatures of Luther, Melancthon,
Calvin, and other great mnen.   I used often to
look at them with the deepest melancholy, when
I thought that these great men likewise had labored upon earth, and fought with Satan in the
church.   But they were persecuted, denounced,
condemned to die.   So perhaps will it be with
me.   I thought of this often, and armed myself
against the fear of death.  I was in constant apprehension, lest the police should search my
chamber during my absence, and, by examining
my papers, discover my doctrine and designs.
But the Spirit said to me: -' Be of good cheer;
I will so blind the eyes of thy enemies, that it
shall not once occur to them to think of thy writings.'
" At length, after many difficulties and temptations of the Devil, I am on my way to America. Yesterday I took leave of my dearest friend,
G(regory Kuscher, in Hallstadt. Hie seemed
filled with the Spirit of God, and has wonderfully strengthened me in my purpose.  All the hosts
of heaven looked on, and were glad. The old
348 
A ROMANCE.
man kissed me, at parting; and I ascended the
mountain as if angels bore me up in their arms.
Near the summit lay a newly fallen avalanche,
over which, as yet, no footsteps had passed.
This  was my  last temptation.' Ha!' cried
I aloud,' Satan has prepared a snare for me; but
I will conquer  him  with  godly  weapons.'   I
sprang over the treacherous snow, with greater
faith than St. Peter walked the waters of the
Lake of Galilee; and came down the valley,
while the mountain peaks yet shone in the setting
sun. God smiles upon me. I go forth full of
hopeful courage. On Christmas next, I shall excommunicate the Pope."
Saying these words, he slowly and solemnly
took his leave, like one conscious of the great
events which awaited him, and withdrew with the
other priest into the church. Flemming could
not smile as Berkley did; for in the solitary, singular enthusiast, who had just left them, he saw
only another melancholy victim to solitude and
over-labor of the brain; and felt how painful a
thing it is, thus to become unconsciously the almsman of other mnen's sympathies, a kind of blind
beggar for the charity of a good xwish or a prayer.
ThIe sun was now setting.  Silently they float
349 
HYPERION,
ed back to Saint Gilgen, amid the cool evening
shadows.   The village clock struck nine, as they
landed; and as Berkley was to depart early in
the morning, he went to bed betimes. On bidding Fleinming good night, he said: -
I shall not see you in the morning; so good
by, and God bless you. Remember my parting
words. Never mind trifles. In this world a man
must either be anvil or hammer. Care killed a
cat! "
' I have heard you say that so often," replied
Flemming, laughing, " that I begin to believe it.
But I wonder if Care shaved his left eyebrow,
after doing the deed, as the ancient Egyptians
used to do!"
" Aha! now you are sweeping cobwebs from
the sky! Good night! Good night! "
A sorrowful event happened in the neighbourhood that night. The widow's child died suddenly.  " Woe  is me! "     thus mourns the childless mother in one of the funeral songs of Greenland; - "Woe is me, that I should gaze upon
thy place and find it vacant! In vain for thee
thy mother dries the sea-drenched garments! 
Not in these words, but in thoughts like these,
did the poor mother bewajij.he death of her child,
350 
A ROMANCE.
thinking mostly of the vacant place, and the daily
cares and solicitudes of maternal love. Flemming
saw a light in her chamber, and shadows moving
to and fro, as he stood by the window, gazing into the starry, silent sky.  But he liftle thought
of the awful domestic tragedy which was even
then enacted behind those thin curtains!
351 
HYPERION,
CHAPTER VII.
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS.
IT was Sunday morning; and the church bells
were all ringing together. From the neighbouring villages came the solemn, joyful sounds,
floating through the sunny air, mellow and faint
and low, - all mingling into one harmonious
chime, like the sound of some distant organ in
heaven. Anon they ceased; and the woods, and
the clouds, and the whole village, and the very air
itself, seemed to pray, - so silent was it everywhere.
Two  venerable  old men-   high priests  and
patriarchs were they in the land -went up the
pulpit stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up MAlount
Hor, in the sight of all the congregation, -for
the pulpit stairs were in front, and very high.
Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon he
heard that day, - no, not even if he should live
352 
A ROM.ANCE.
to be as old as he who  preached it.  The text
was, "I know that my  Redeemer  liveth."  It
was meant to console the pious, poor widow, who
sat right below him at the foot of the pulpit stairs,
all in black, and her heart breaking.   He said
nothing of the terrors of death, nor of the gloom
of the narrow house; but, looking beyond these
things, as mere circumstances to which the imagination mainly gives importance, he told his hearers of the innocence of childhood upon earth,
and the holiness of childhood in heaven, and how
the beautiful Lord Jesus was once a little child,
and now in heaven the spirits of little children
walked with him, and gathered flowers in the
fields of Paradise. Good old man! In behalf
of humanity, I thank thee for these benignant
words! And still more than I, the bereaved
mother thanked thee; and from that hour, though
she wept in secret for her child, yet
"She knew he was with Jesus,
And she asked himn not again."
After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked forth
alone into the churchyard.   There was no one
there, save a little boy, who was fishing with a
pin hook in a grave half full of water. But a few
23
353 
HYPERION,
moments afterward, through the arched gateway
under the belfry, came a funeral procession.   At
its head walked a priest in white surplice, chanting.   Peasants,  old and young, followed him,
with burning tapers in their hands.   A young girl
carried ill her arms a dead child, wrapped in its
little winding-sheet.   The grave was close under
the wall, by the church-door. A vase of holy
water stood beside it.  The sexton took the child
from the girl's arms, and put it into a coffin;
and, as he placed it in the grave, the girl held
over it a cross wreathed with roses, and the
priest and peasants sang a funeral hymn. When
this was over, the priest sprinkled the grave and
the crowd with holy water; and then they all
went into'the church, each one stopping, as he
passed the grave, to throw a handful of earth into
it, and sprinkle it with the hyssop.
A few moments afterwards, the voice of the
priest was heard saying mass in the church, and
Flemming saw the toothless old sexton treading,
with his clouted shoes, the fresh earth into the
grave of the little child. He approached him,
and asked the age of the deceased.   The sexton
leaned a moment on his spade, and, shrugging his
shoulders, replied:
354 
A ROMANCE.
'c Only an hour or two.   It was born in the
night, and died this morning early."
"A brief existence," said Flemming. " The
child seemsto have been born only to be buried
and have its name recorded on a wooden tombstone."
The sexton went on with his work, and made
no reply.   Flemming  still lingered  among  the
graves, gazing with wonder at the strange devices
by which man has rendered death horrible and
the grave loathsome.
In the temple of Juno at Elis, Sleep and his
twin-brother, Death, were represented as children
reposing ill the arms of Night.  On  various funeral monuments of the ancients the Genius of
Death is sculptured as a%beautifil youth, leaning
on an inverted torch, in the attitude of repose,
his wings folded and his feet crossed.   In such
peaceful and attractive forms did the imagination
of ancient poets and sculptors represent death.
And these were men in whose souls the religion
of Nature was like the light of stars, beautiful, but
faint and cold!  Strange, that, in later days, this
angel of God, which leads us with a gentle hand
into the'" land of the great departed, into the
silent land," should have been transformed into
355 
HYPERI0N,
a monstrous and  terrific thing!  Such  is the
spectral rider on the white horse; - such the
ghastly skeleton with scythe and hour-glass;the Reaper, whose name is Death!
One of the most popular themes of poetry and
painting in the Middle Ages, and continuing
down even into modern times, was the Dance of
Death.   In almost all languages is it written,
the apparition of the grim spectre, putting a sudden stop to all business, and leading men away
into the " remarkable retirement " of the grave.
It is written in an ancient Spanish poem, and
painted on a wooden bridge in Switzerland. The
designs of Holbein are well known. The most
striking among them is that, where, from a group
of children sitting round a cottage hearth, Death
has taken one by the hand, and is leading it out
of the door.  Quietly and unresisting goes the little child, and in its countenance no grief, but wonder only; while the other children are weeping
and stretching forth their hands in vain towards
their departing brother.  It is a beautiful design,
in all save the skeleton.  An angel had been better, with folded wings, and torch inverted.
And now the sun was growing high and warm.
A little chapel, whose door stood open, seemed
356 
A ROMANCE.
to invite Flemming to enter and enjoy the grateful
coolness.   He  went  in.   There  was  no  one
there.   The walls were  covered with paintings
and sculpture of the rudest kind, and with a few
funeral tablets. There was nothing there to move
the heart to devotion; but in that hour the heart
of Flemming was weak, -weak  as a  child's.
He bowed his stubborn knees, and wept. And,
0, how many disappointed hopes, how many
bitter recollections, how much of wounded pride
and unrequited love, were in those tears through
which he read, on a marble tablet in the chapel
wall opposite, this singular inscription: -
"Look  not mournfully  into the  Past.   It
comes  not back  again.   Wisely  improve  the
Present.   It is thine.  Go  forth to meet  the
shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly
heart. "
It seemed to him as if the unknown tenant of
that grave had opened his lips of dust, and spoken
to him the words of consolation, which his soul
needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. In
a moment the anguish of his thoughts was still.
The stone was rolled away from the door of his
heart; death was no longer there, but an angel
clothed in white. He stood up, and his eyes
357 
HYPERION,
were no more bleared with tears; and, looking
into the bright, morning heaven, he said:  " I will be strong! "
fMen sometimes go down into tombs, with painful longings to behold once more the faces of their
departed friends; and as they gaze upon them,
lying there so peacefully with the semblance that
they wore on earth, the sweet breath of heaven
touches them, and the features crumble and fall
together, and are but dust.   So did his soul then
descend for the last time into the great tomb of
the Past, with painful longings to belhold once
more the dear faces of those he had loved; and
the sweet breath of heaven  touched them, and
they would not stay, but crumbled away and per
ished as he gazed.   They, too, were dust.   And
thus, far-sounding, he heard the great gate of the
Past shut behind him, as the Divine Poetdid the
gate of Paradise, when the angel pointed him the
way up the Holy Mountain; and to him likewise
was it forbidden to look back.
In the life of every man, there are sudden
transitions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous.   At once, as if some magician had touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds
melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity stic
'053 
A ROMANCE.
ceeds the storm.   The  causes which  produce
these sudden changes may have been long at
work within us; but the changes themselves are
instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient
cause. It was so with Flemmning; and from that
hour forth he resolved that he would no longer
veer with every shifting wind of circumstance,no longer be a child's plaything in the hands of
Fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. He
resolved henceforward not to lean on others; but
to walk self-confident and self-possessed; - no
longer to waste his years in vain regrets, nor wait
the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet
desires; but to live in the Present wisely, alike
forgetful of the Past, and careless of what the
mysterious Future might bring. And from that
moment he was calm and strong; he was reconciled with himself.   His thoughts turned to
his distant home beyond the sea.  An indescribable sweet feeling rose within him.
" Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps,"
said he, "and be a man  among  men, and  no
longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth
be mine a life of action and reality! I will work
in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is.
This alone is health and happiness.   This alone
is Life,
359. 
H IYPERION,
' Life that shall send
A challenge to its end,
And-when it comes, say, WVelcome, friend!'
Why have I not made these sage reflections, this
wise resolve, sooner? Can such a simple result
spring only from the long and intricate process of
experience?  Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the
Book of Human Life, to light the fires of passion
with, from day to day, that man begins to see
that the leaves which remain are few in number,
and to remember, faintly at first, and then more
clearly, that upon the earlier pages of that book
was written a story of happy innocence, which he
would fain read over again.   Then come listless
irresolution, and the inevitable inaction of despair,
or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves
that still remain a more noble history than the
child's story with which the book began."
360 
A ROMANNCE.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LAST PANG.
"FAREWELL  to tlhee, Saint Gilgen!"  said
Flemming, as he turned on the brow of the hill,
to take his last look at the lake and the village
below, and felt that this was one of the few spots
on the wide earth to which he could say farewell
with regret.  " Thy majestic hills have imnpressed
themselves upon my soul, as a seal upon wax.
The quiet beauty of thy lake shall be to me forever an image of peace and purity and stillness,
and that inscription in thy little churchyard a sentence of wisdom for my after life."
Before the setting of the same sun which then
shone on that fair landscape, he was far on his
way  towards  Munich    He  had  left behind
him the mountains of the Tyrol; and behleld them
for the last time in the soft evening twilight, their
bases green with forest-trees, and here and there
a sharp rocky spire, and a rounded summit cap
361 
HYPERION,
ped  with snow.   There  they lay, their backs
like the backs of camels; a mighty caravan, reposilig at evening in its march across the desert.
From Munich he passed through Augsburg and
Ulm, on his way to Stuttgard.   At the entrances
of towns and villages, he saw  large crucifixes
and on the fronts of many houses, coarse paintings and images of saints.  In  Gunzburg three
priests in black were slowly passing down  the
street, and women fell on their knees to receive a
blessing.   There were many beggars, too, in the
streets; and an old man who was making hay in
a field by the road-side, when he saw the carriage approaching, threw down his rake, and canme
tumbling over the ditch, uttering the most dismal
wvail, with his hat held out in both hands.   The
next day, the bright yellow jackets of the postilions, and the two great tassels of their buglehorns,  dangling  down  their backs,  like  cauliflowers, told him he was in Wuirtemberg; and,
late in the evening, he stopped at a hotel in Stuttgard; and, firom his chamber-window, saw, in the
bright moonlighlt, the old Gothic  cathedral, with
its narrow, lancet windows and juttinig buttresses,
right in front of hiln.  Ere long he had forgotten
all his cares and sorrows in sleep, and with them
his hopes, and wishes, and good resolves.
362 
A ROMANCE.
He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber,
the next morning, when the great bell of the cathedral opposite began to ring, and reminded him
that  it was Sunday.   Ere long the organ answered front within, and from its golden lips breathed
forth a psalm.  The congregation began to assemble, and Flemming went up with them to the
house of the Lord.   In the body of the church
he found the pews all filled or locked; they
seemed to belong to fanmilies.  He went up into
the gallery, and looked over the psalm-book of a
peasant, while the congregation sang the sublime
old        hymn of Martin Luther,
"Our God, he is a tower ofstrength,
A trusty shield and weapon."
During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black,
with a surplice thrown loosely about him, came
pacing along one of the aisles, from beneath the
organ-loft, and ascended  the pulpit.  After the
hymn, hle read a portion of Scripture, and then
said:  " Let us unite in silent prayer."
And turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, while
the congregation remained standing.  For a vwhile
there was a breathless silence in the church,
363 
HYPERION,
which to Flemming was more solemnly impressive
than any audible prayer.  The clergyman then'
arose, and began his sermon.   His  theme was
the Reformation; and he attempted  to prove
how much easier it was to enter the kingdom of
Heaven through the gateways of the Reformed
Evangelical Dutch Church, than by the aisles and
penitential staircases of Saint Peter's.   He  then
gave a history of the Reformation; and when
Flemming thought he was near the end, he heard
him say that he should divide his discourse into
four heads.   This reminded him of the sturdy old
Puritan, Cotton Mlather, who, after preaching an
hour,  would coolly turn the hour-glass on  the
pulpit, and say   "Now, my beloved hearers, let
us take another glass."   He  stole out into the
silent, deserted street, and went to visit the veteran sculptor Dannecker.   He found him sitting
alone, with his psalm-book, and the reminiscences
of a life of eighty years.   As Flemming entered,
he arose from the sofa, and tottered towards him;
a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed
in a loose white jacket, with a face like Franklin's, his white hair flowing over his shoulders,
and a pale blue eye.
" So  you  are  from  America,"  said  he.
364 
A ROMANCE.
" But you have a German name. Paul Flem ming was one of our old poets.  I have never
been in America, and never shall go there. I am
now too old. I have been in Paris and in Rome.
Best that was long ago. I'am now eight-andseventy years old."
Here he took Flemming by the hand, and made
him sit down by his side, on the sofa. And
Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him,
on touching the hand of the good old man, who
sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years,
and listened to life's curfew-bell, telling, with
eighlt-and-seventy solemn strokes, that the hour
had come, when the fires of all earthly passion
must be quenched within, and man must prepare
to lie down and rest till the morning.
" You see," he continued, in a melancholy
tone, "my hands are cold; colder than yours.
They  were warmer  once.   I am now  an old
man."
"Yet these are the hands," answered Flemning,  " that sculptured the beauteous  Ariadne
and the Panther.  The soul never grows old."
" Nor does Nature," said the old man, pleased
with this allusion to his great work, and pointing
to the green trees before his window. " This
365 
tIY PERION,
pleasure I have left to me.   MIy sight is still good.
I can even distinguish objects on the side of
yonder mountain.   ity hearing is also unimpaired. For all which I thank God."
Then, directing Flemming's attention to a fine
engraving, which hung on the opposite wall of the
room, he continued:  " That is an engraving of Canova's Religion.
I love to sit here and -look at it, for hours togethler.  It is beautiful.  He made the statue for
his native town, where they had no church, until
he built them one.   He  placed the statue in it.
This engraving he sent me as a present.   Ah,
he was a dear,  good  man.   The  namne of his
native town I have forgotten.   My memory fails
me. I cannot remember names."
Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in
his morning devotions, Flemming did not remain
long, but took his leave with regret. There was
something impressive in the scene he had witnessed; -this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting
by the open windowv, in the bright summer morning, - the labor of life accomplished, the horizon
reached, where heaven and earth meet, -  thinking it was angel's  music, lwhen lie heard the
church-bells ring; himself too old to go.   As he
366 
A RO3MANCE.
walked back to his chamber, he thought within
himself, whether he likewise might not accom plislI something which should live after him, might not bring something permanent out of this
fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like
the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in
silence. He wondered how a man felt, when he
grew so old, that he could no longer go to church,
but must sit at home and read the Bible in large
print. His heart was full of indefinite ]onllgingS,'
mingled  with regrets; longings  to accomplish
something worthy of life; regret that as yet he
had accomplished nothing, but had felt and
dreamed only.   Thus  the warm  days in spring
bring forth passion-flowers and forget-me-nots.
It is only after midsummer, when the days grow
shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear.
Then the heat of the day brings forward the harvest, and after the harvest the leaves fall, and
there is a gray frost.   Much meditating upon these
things, Paul  Flemming reached his hotel.  At
that moment a person clad in green came down
the church-steps, and crossed the street.  It was
the German mechanic of Interlachen. Flemming
started, as if a green snake had suddenly crossed
his path.  He  took refuge in his chamber.
367 
HYPERION,
That night, as he was sitting alone in his chamber, having made his preparations to depart the
following morning, his attention was arrested by
the sound of a female voice in the next room. A
thin partition, with a door, separated it from his
own.   He had not before observed that the room
was occupied.   But, in the stillness of the nighlt,
the tones of that voice struck his ear.   He listen
ed.  It was a lady, reading the prayers of the
English Church. The tones were familiar, and
awakened at once a thousand painfully sweet recollections. It was the voice of Mary Ashlburton! His heart could not be deceived; and all
its wounds began to bleed afresh, like those of a
murdered man, when the murderer approaches.
His first impulse was of affection only, boundless,
irrepressible, delirious, as of old in the green valley of Interlachen.   He waited for the voice to
cease, that he might go to her, and behold her
face once  more.   And then his pride rose  up
within him, and rebuked this weakness. He remembered his firm resolve, and blushed to find
himself so feeble. And the voice ceased, and
yet he did not go. Pride had so far gained the
mastery over affection.   He  lay down upon his
bed, like a child as hlie was. All about him was
368 
A ROMANCE.
silence, and the silence was holy, for she was
near; so near that he could almost hear the beating of her heart.  He knew now for the first time
how weak he was, and how strong was his passion
for that woman.   His heart was like the altar of
tile Israelites of old; and, though drenched with
tears, as with rain, it was kindled at once by the
holy fire from heaven!
Towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted with
,he strong excitement; and, in that hour, when,
sleep being " nigh unto the soul," visions are
deemed prophetic, he dreamed. 0 blessed vision'
of the morning, stay! thou wast so fair!  He
stood again on the green sunny meadow, beneath
the ruined tower; and she was by his side, with
her pale, speaking countenance and holy eyes;
and he kissed her fair forehead; and she turned
her face towards him, beaming with affection, and
said, " I confess it now; you are the Magician! "
and pressed him in a meek embrace, that he
" might rather feel than see the swelling of her
heart." And then she faded away from his arms,
and her face became transfigured, and her voice
like the voice of an angel in heaven; -and he
awoke, and was alone!
It was broad daylight; and he heard the pos              24
369 
HYPERION.
tilion, and the stamping of horses' hoofs on the
pavement at the door. At the same moment his
servant came in with coffee, and told him all was
ready. He did not dare to stay. But, throwing
himself into the carriage, he cast one look towards
the window of the Dark Ladie, and a moment afterwards had left her for ever!  He  had drunk
the last drop of the bitter cup, and now laid the
golden goblet gently down, knowing that he should
behold it no more!
No  more!  0, how  majestically mournful are
those words!  They sound like the roar of the
wind through a forest of pines!
END OF BOOK IV.
370 
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