illustration] the wreck of the hesperus by henry wadsworth longfellow _illustrated_ new york 1889 * * * * * introduction. "norman's woe" is the picturesque name of a rocky headland, reef, and islet on the coast of massachusetts, between gloucester and magnolia. the special disaster in which the name originated had long been lost from memory when the poet longfellow chose the spot as a background for his description of the "wreck of the hesperus," and gave it an association that it will scarcely lose while the english language endures. nor does it matter to the legend lover that the ill-fated schooner was not "gored" by the "cruel rocks" just at this point, but nearer to the gloucester coast. the poet has done many things well; and he has done few things better than this ballad in the quaint, old-time style, with its nervous energy and sonorous rhythm, wherein one hears the trampling of waves and crashing of timbers. indeed, it is so well done, by art concealing art, that much of its force and beauty escape the careless reader; whereas, the thoughtful one finds in it an ever-increasing charm. it is worth noting that love, the usual ballad _motif_, is absent and is not missed. the almost human struggles and sufferings of the vessel, and the contrast between the daring, scornful skipper, and the gentle, devout maiden, in the midst of the terrors of storm and wreck, furnish abundant emotion and imagery; in truth, many of the lines are literally packed with color, movement, and meaning. * * * * * illustrations by h. winthrop pierce, edmund h. garrett, j.d. woodward, w.f. halsall, w.l. taylor, a. buhler, h.p. barnes, a.j. lewis. drawn and engraved under the supervision of george t. andrew. this edition of the wreck of the hesperus is published by special arrangement with messrs. houghton, mifflin & co., the authorized publishers of mr. longfellow's works. [illustration: the wreck of the hesperus] [illustration] it was the schooner hesperus that sailed the wintry sea; and the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company. [illustration] blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, her cheeks like the dawn of day, and her bosom white as the hawthorn buds that ope in the month of may. the skipper he stood beside the helm, his pipe was in his mouth, and he watched how the veering flaw did blow the smoke now west, now south. [illustration] [illustration] then up and spake an old sailor, had sailed to the spanish main, "i pray thee, put into yonder port, for i fear a hurricane. [illustration] "last night the moon had a golden ring, and to-night no moon we see!" the skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, and a scornful laugh laughed he. colder and louder blew the wind, a gale from the north-east; the snow fell hissing in the brine, and the billows frothed like yeast. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] down came the storm, and smote amain the vessel in its strength; she shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, then leaped her cable's length. [illustration] "come hither! come hither, my little daughter, and do not tremble so; for i can weather the roughest gale, that ever wind did blow." he wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, against the stinging blast; he cut a rope from a broken spar, and bound her to the mast. [illustration] [illustration] "o father! i hear the church-bells ring; o say, what may it be?"- "'tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"- and he steered for the open sea. "o father! i hear the sound of guns; o say, what may it be?"- "some ship in distress, that cannot live in such an angry sea!" [illustration] [illustration] "o father! i see a gleaming light; o say, what may it be?" but the father answered never a word,- a frozen corpse was he. lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. with his face turned to the skies. the lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes. [illustration] then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed that savéd she might be; and she thought of christ, who stilled the wave, on the lake of galilee. [illustration] and fast through the midnight dark and drear, through the whistling sleet and snow, like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept towards the reef of norman's woe. and ever the fitful gusts between, a sound came from the land; it was the sound of the trampling surf, on the rocks and the hard sea-sand, the breakers were right beneath her bows, she drifted a dreary wreck, and a whooping billow swept the crew like icicles from her deck. [illustration] [illustration] she struck where the white and fleecy waves looked soft as carded wool; but the cruel rocks, they gored her side like the horns of an angry bull. her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, with the masts went by the board; like a vessel of glass, she strove and sank, ho! ho! the breakers roared. [illustration] [illustration] at daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, a fisherman stood aghast, to see the form of a maiden fair, lashed close to a drifting mast. the salt sea was frozen on her breast, the salt tears in her eyes; and he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, on the billows fall and rise. such was the wreck of the hesperus, in the midnight and the snow! christ save us all from a death like this, on the reef of norman's woe! [illustration] note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see 23332-h.htm or 23332-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/3/3/23332/23332-h/23332-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/3/3/23332/23332-h.zip) greetings from longfellow [illustration] copyright 1907 cupples & leon co. new york * * * * * sail on, o ship of state! sail on, o union, strong and great! humanity with all its fears, with all the hopes of future years, is hanging breathless on thy fate! we know what master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, who made each mast, and sail, and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! fear not each sudden sound and shock, 't is of the wave and not the rock; 't is but the flapping of the sail, and not a rent made by the gale! in spite of rock and tempest's roar, in spite of false lights on the shore, sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, our faith triumphant o'er our fears, are all with thee--are all with thee! [illustration] something left undone. labor with what zeal we will, something still remains undone, something uncompleted still waits the rising of the sun. by the bedside, on the stair, at the threshold, near the gates, with its menace or its prayer, like a mendicant it waits; waits, and will not go away; waits, and will not be gainsaid; by the cares of yesterday each to-day is heavier made; till at length the burden seems greater than our strength can bear, heavy as the weight of dreams, pressing on us everywhere. and we stand from day to day, like the dwarfs of times gone by, who, as northern legends say, on their shoulders held the sky. [illustration] the ladder of st. augustine. saint augustine! well hast thou said, that of our vices we can frame a ladder, if we will but tread beneath our feet each deed of shame! all common things, each day's events, that with the hour begin and end, our pleasures and our discontents, are rounds by which we may ascend. we have not wings, we cannot soar; but we have feet to scale and climb by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time. the heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upwards in the night. nor deem the irrevocable past, as wholly wasted, wholly vain, if, rising on its wrecks, at last to something nobler we attain. [illustration] evangeline. "gabriel! o my beloved!" then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; green acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, as in the days of her youth, evangeline rose in his vision. tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, vanished the vision away, but evangeline knelt by his bedside. vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. vainly he strove to rise; and evangeline, kneeling beside him, kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, as when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. all was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, all the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. all the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! and, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "father, i thank thee!" [illustration] o little feet! that such long years must wander on through hopes and fears, must ache and bleed beneath your load; i, nearer to the wayside inn where toil shall cease and rest begin, am weary, thinking of your road! o little hands! that, weak or strong, have still to serve or rule so long, have still so long to give or ask; i, who so much with book and pen have toiled among my fellow-men, am weary, thinking of your task. o little hearts! that throb and beat with such impatient, feverish heat, such limitless and strong desires; mine that so long has glowed and burned, with passions into ashes turned now covers and conceals its fires. o little souls! as pure and white and crystalline as rays of light direct from heaven, their source divine; refracted through the mist of years, how red my setting sun appears, how lurid looks this soul of mine! [illustration] the singers. god sent his singers upon earth with songs of sadness and of mirth, that they might touch the hearts of men, and bring them back to heaven again. the first, a youth with soul of fire, held in his hand a golden lyre; through groves he wandered, and by streams, playing the music of our dreams. the second, with a bearded face, stood singing in the market-place, and stirred with accents deep and loud the hearts of all the listening crowd. a gray old man, the third and last, sang in cathedrals dim and vast, while the majestic organ rolled contrition from its mouths of gold. [illustration] and those who heard the singers three disputed which the best might be; for still their music seemed to start discordant echoes in each heart. but the great master said, "i see no best in kind, but in degree; i gave a various gift to each, to charm, to strengthen and to teach. "these are the three great chords of might, and he whose ear is tuned aright will hear no discord in the three, but the most perfect harmony." [illustration] poems on slavery. poems on slavery. by henry wadsworth longfellow. second edition. cambridge: published by john owen. m dccc xlii. entered according to act of congress, in the year eighteen hundred and forty-two, by h. w. longfellow, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. cambridge: metcalf, keith, and nichols, printers to the university. contents. page to william e. channing 9 the slave's dream 11 the good part 15 the slave in the dismal swamp 18 the slave singing at midnight 21 the witnesses 23 the quadroon girl 26 the warning 30 [the following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of october. i had not then heard of dr. channing's death. since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. i have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] poems. the noble horse, that, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils neighed courage to his rider, and brake through groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord safe to triumphant victory, old or wounded, was set at liberty and freed from service. the athenian mules, that from the quarry drew marble, hewed for the temple of the gods, the great work ended, were dismissed and fed at the public cost; nay, faithful dogs have found their sepulchres; but man, to man more cruel, appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave. massinger. to william e. channing. the pages of thy book i read, and as i closed each one, my heart, responding, ever said, "servant of god! well done!" well done! thy words are great and bold; at times they seem to me, like luther's, in the days of old, half-battles for the free. go on, until this land revokes the old and chartered lie, the feudal curse, whose whips and yokes insult humanity. a voice is ever at thy side speaking in tones of might, like the prophetic voice, that cried to john in patmos, "write!" write! and tell out this bloody tale; record this dire eclipse, this day of wrath, this endless wail, this dread apocalypse! the slave's dream. beside the ungathered rice he lay, his sickle in his hand; his breast was bare, his matted hair was buried in the sand. again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, he saw his native land. wide through the landscape of his dreams the lordly niger flowed; beneath the palm-trees on the plain once more a king he strode; and heard the tinkling caravans descend the mountain-road. he saw once more his dark-eyed queen among her children stand; they clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, they held him by the hand!- a tear burst from the sleeper's lids and fell into the sand. and then at furious speed he rode along the niger's bank; his bridle-reins were golden chains, and, with a martial clank, at each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel smiting his stallion's flank. before him, like a blood-red flag, the bright flamingoes flew; from morn till night he followed their flight, o'er plains where the tamarind grew, till he saw the roofs of caffre huts, and the ocean rose to view. at night he heard the lion roar, and the hyæna scream, and the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds beside some hidden stream; and it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, through the triumph of his dream. the forests, with their myriad tongues, shouted of liberty; and the blast of the desert cried aloud, with a voice so wild and free, that he started in his sleep and smiled at their tempestuous glee. he did not feel the driver's whip, nor the burning heat of day; for death had illumined the land of sleep, and his lifeless body lay a worn-out fetter, that the soul had broken and thrown away! the good part, that shall not be taken away. she dwells by great kenhawa's side, in valleys green and cool; and all her hope and all her pride are in the village school. her soul, like the transparent air that robes the hills above, though not of earth, encircles there all things with arms of love. and thus she walks among her girls with praise and mild rebukes; subduing e'en rude village churls by her angelic looks. she reads to them at eventide of one who came to save; to cast the captive's chains aside, and liberate the slave. and oft the blessed time foretells when all men shall be free; and musical, as silver bells, their falling chains shall be. and following her beloved lord, in decent poverty, she makes her life one sweet record and deed of charity. for she was rich, and gave up all to break the iron bands of those who waited in her hall, and labored in her lands. long since beyond the southern sea their outbound sails have sped, while she, in meek humility, now earns her daily bread. it is their prayers, which never cease, that clothe her with such grace; their blessing is the light of peace that shines upon her face. the slave in the dismal swamp. in dark fens of the dismal swamp the hunted negro lay; he saw the fire of the midnight camp, and heard at times a horse's tramp and a bloodhound's distant bay. where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, in bulrush and in brake; where waving mosses shroud the pine, and the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine is spotted like the snake; where hardly a human foot could pass, or a human heart would dare, on the quaking turf of the green morass he crouched in the rank and tangled grass, like a wild beast in his lair. a poor old slave, infirm and lame; great scars deformed his face; on his forehead he bore the brand of shame, and the rags, that hid his mangled frame, were the livery of disgrace. all things above were bright and fair, all things were glad and free; lithe squirrels darted here and there, and wild birds filled the echoing air with songs of liberty! on him alone was the doom of pain, from the morning of his birth; on him alone the curse of cain fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, and struck him to the earth! the slave singing at midnight. loud he sang the psalm of david! he, a negro and enslaved, sang of israel's victory, sang of zion, bright and free. in that hour, when night is calmest, sang he from the hebrew psalmist, in a voice so sweet and clear that i could not choose but hear, songs of triumph, and ascriptions, such as reached the swart egyptians, when upon the red sea coast perished pharaoh and his host. and the voice of his devotion filled my soul with strange emotion; for its tones by turns were glad, sweetly solemn, wildly sad. paul and silas, in their prison, sang of christ, the lord arisen, and an earthquake's arm of might broke their dungeon-gates at night. but, alas! what holy angel brings the slave this glad evangel? and what earthquake's arm of might breaks his dungeon-gates at night? the witnesses. in ocean's wide domains, half buried in the sands, lie skeletons in chains, with shackled feet and hands. beyond the fall of dews, deeper than plummet lies, float ships, with all their crews, no more to sink or rise. there the black slave-ship swims, freighted with human forms, whose fettered, fleshless limbs are not the sport of storms. these are the bones of slaves; they gleam from the abyss; they cry, from yawning waves, "we are the witnesses!" within earth's wide domains are markets for men's lives; their necks are galled with chains, their wrists are cramped with gyves. dead bodies, that the kite in deserts makes its prey; murders, that with affright scare schoolboys from their play! all evil thoughts and deeds; anger, and lust, and pride; the foulest, rankest weeds, that choke life's groaning tide! these are the woes of slaves; they glare from the abyss; they cry, from unknown graves, "we are the witnesses!" the quadroon girl. the slaver in the broad lagoon lay moored with idle sail; he waited for the rising moon, and for the evening gale. under the shore his boat was tied, and all her listless crew watched the gray alligator slide into the still bayou. odors of orange-flowers, and spice. reached them from time to time, like airs that breathe from paradise upon a world of crime. the planter, under his roof of thatch, smoked thoughtfully and slow; the slaver's thumb was on the latch, he seemed in haste to go. he said, "my ship at anchor rides in yonder broad lagoon; i only wait the evening tides, and the rising of the moon." before them, with her face upraised, in timid attitude, like one half curious, half amazed, a quadroon maiden stood. her eyes were, like a falcon's, gray, her arms and neck were bare; no garment she wore save a kirtle gay, and her own long, raven hair. and on her lips there played a smile as holy, meek, and faint, as lights in some cathedral aisle the features of a saint. "the soil is barren,--the farm is old;" the thoughtful planter said; then looked upon the slaver's gold, and then upon the maid. his heart within him was at strife with such accursed gains; for he knew whose passions gave her life, whose blood ran in her veins. but the voice of nature was too weak; he took the glittering gold! then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, her hands as icy cold. the slaver led her from the door, he led her by the hand, to be his slave and paramour in a strange and distant land! the warning. beware! the israelite of old, who tore the lion in his path,--when, poor and blind, he saw the blessed light of heaven no more, shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind in prison, and at last led forth to be a pander to philistine revelry,- upon the pillars of the temple laid his desperate hands, and in its overthrow destroyed himself, and with him those who made a cruel mockery of his sightless woe; the poor, blind slave, the scoff and jest of all, expired, and thousands perished in the fall! there is a poor, blind samson in this land, shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, and shake the pillars of this commonweal, till the vast temple of our liberties a shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. end. works published by john owen, cambridge. i. voices of the night. by henry wadsworth longfellow. 6th edition. 16mo. boards. ii. the same. royal 8vo. fine paper. boards. iii. ballads and other poems. by henry wadsworth longfellow, author of "voices of the night," "hyperion," etc. 4th edition. 16mo. boards. iv. the same. royal 8vo. fine paper. boards. v. the history of harvard university. by josiah quincy, ll. d., president of the university. 2 vols. royal 8vo. cloth. 21 engravings. vi. an inquiry into the foundation, evidences, and truths of religion. by henry ware, d. d., late hollis professor of divinity in harvard college. 2 vols. 12mo. cloth. vii. the clouds of aristophanes. with notes. by c. c. felton, eliot professor of greek literature in harvard university. 12mo. cloth. viii. prof. liebig's report on organic chemistry. part i. agricultural chemistry. chemistry in its application to agriculture and physiology. by justus liebig, m.d., ph.d., f.r.s., m.r.i.a., professor of chemistry in the university of giessen, etc. edited from the manuscript of the author, by lyon playfair, ph.d. with very numerous additions, and a new chapter on soils. third american, from the second english edition, with notes and appendix, by john w. webster, m.d., erving professor of chemistry in harvard university. 12mo. cloth. ix. part ii. animal chemistry. animal chemistry, or organic chemistry in its application to physiology and pathology. by justus liebig, m.d., ph.d., f.r.s, m.r.i.a., professor of chemistry in the university of giessen, etc. edited from the author's manuscript, by william gregory, m.d., f.r.s.e., m.r.i.a., professor of medicine and chemistry in the university and king's college, aberdeen. with additions, notes, and corrections, by dr. gregory, and others by john w. webster, m.d., erving professor of chemistry in harvard university. 12mo. cloth. x. a narrative of voyages and commercial enterprises. by richard j. cleveland. 2 vols. 12mo. cloth. xi. lectures on modern history, from the irruption of the northern nations to the close of the american revolution. by william smyth, professor of modern history in the university of cambridge. from the second london edition, with a preface, list of books on american history, &c, by jared sparks, ll. d., professor of ancient and modern history in harvard university. 2 vols. 8vo. cloth. xii. henry of ofterdingen: a romance. from the german of novalis (friedrich von hardenberg). 12mo. cloth. works in press. i. a treatise on mineralogy, on the basis of thomson's outlines, with numerous additions; comprising the description of all the new american and foreign minerals, their localities, &c. designed as a text-book for students, travellers, and persons attending lectures on the science. by john w. webster, m.d., erving professor of chemistry and mineralogy in harvard university. 8vo. ii. the evidences of the genuineness of the gospels. by andrews norton. vols. ii. & iii. being the completion of the work. 8vo. iii. the spanish student. a drama: in three acts. by henry wadsworth longfellow, author of "voices of the night," "hyperion," etc. l6mo. evangeline. a tale of acadie. by henry wadsworth longfellow. this is the forest primeval. the murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. this is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of acadian farmers,- men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of october seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of grand-pré. ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, list to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; list to a tale of love in acadie, home of the happy. part the first. i in the acadian land, on the shores of the basin of minas, distant, secluded, still, the little village of grand-pré lay in the fruitful valley. vast meadows stretched to the eastward, giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. west and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northward blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty atlantic looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended. there, in the midst of its farms, reposed the acadian village. strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut, such as the peasants of normandy built in the reign of the henries. thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting over the basement below protected and shaded the door-way. there in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. anon from the belfry softly the angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. thus dwelt together in love these simple acadian farmers,- dwelt in the love of god and of man. alike were they free from fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; but their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners; there the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the basin of minas, benedict bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of grand-pré, dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household, gentle evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters; hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; white as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside, black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses! sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. when in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden. fairer was she when, on sunday morn, while the bell from its turret sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, wearing her norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, brought in the olden time from france, and since, as an heirloom, handed down from mother to child, through long generations. but a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty- shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, homeward serenely she walked with god's benediction upon her. when she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside, built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of mary. farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard, there stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows; there were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio, strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent peter. bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. in each one far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. there too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. thus, at peace with god and the world, the farmer of grand-pré lived on his sunny farm, and evangeline governed his household. many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion; happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment! many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, and, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron; or at the joyous feast of the patron saint of the village, bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. but, among all who came, young gabriel only was welcome; gabriel lajeunesse, the son of basil the blacksmith, who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men; for, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. basil was benedict's friend. their children from earliest childhood grew up together as brother and sister; and father felician, priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. but when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, swiftly they hurried away to the forge of basil the blacksmith. there at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows, and as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings; lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow! thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. he was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened through into action. she was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. "sunshine of saint eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples; she, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. ii. now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, and the retreating sun the sign of the scorpion enters. birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of september wrestled the trees of the forest, as jacob of old with the angel. all the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey till the hives overflowed; and the indian hunters asserted cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. such was the advent of autumn. then followed that beautiful season, called by the pious acadian peasants the summer of all-saints! filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean was for a moment consoled. all sounds were in harmony blended. voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, all were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him; while arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest flashed like the plane-tree the persian adorned with mantles and jewels. now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, and with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. foremost, bearing the bell, evangeline's beautiful heifer, proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, where was their favorite pasture. behind them followed the watch-dog, patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, when from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, while aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, echoed back by the barns. anon they sank into stillness; heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. in-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer sat in his elbow-chair; and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths struggled together like foe in a burning city. behind him, nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of christmas, such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him sang in their norman orchards and bright burgundian vineyards. close at her father's side was the gentle evangeline seated, spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, while the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. as in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, so, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was basil the blacksmith, and by her beating heart evangeline knew who was with him. "welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold, "welcome, basil, my friend! come, take thy place on the settle close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco; never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." then, with a smile of content, thus answered basil the blacksmith, taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:- "benedict bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." pausing a moment, to take the pipe that evangeline brought him, and with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:- "four days now are passed since the english ships at their anchors ride in the gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us, what their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded on the morrow to meet in the church, where his majesty's mandate will be proclaimed as law in the land. alas! in the mean time many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." then made answer the farmer:--"perhaps some friendlier purpose brings these ships to our shores. perhaps the harvests in england by untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, and from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." "not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:- "louisburg is not forgotten, nor beau séjour, nor port royal. many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds; nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower." then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:- "safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract. built are the house and the barn. the merry lads of the village strongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them, filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. rené leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?" as apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, blushing evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, and, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. iii. bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public; shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, suffering much in an old french fort as the friend of the english. now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. he was beloved by all, and most of all by the children; for he told them tales of the loup-garou in the forest, and of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, and of the white létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children; and how on christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, and how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, and of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, with whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. then up rose from his seat by the fireside basil the blacksmith, knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, "father leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the village, and, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public:- "gossip enough have i heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; and what their errand may be i know not better than others. yet am i not of those who imagine some evil intention brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?" "god's name!" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith; "must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore? daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!" but, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public:- "man is unjust, but god is just; and finally justice triumphs; and well i remember a story, that often consoled me, when as a captive i lay in the old french fort at port royal." this was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it when his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. "once in an ancient city, whose name i no longer remember, raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of justice stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, and in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. but in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted; might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty ruled with an iron rod. then it chanced in a nobleman's palace that a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. she, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of justice. as to her father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, and in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language; all his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. then evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of grand-pré; while from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, and the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver; and the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, while in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, till evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. soon was the game begun. in friendly contention the old men laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver, laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure, sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. thus passed the evening away. anon the bell from the belfry rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household. many a farewell word and sweet good night on the door-step lingered long in evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone; and on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. soon with a soundless step the foot of evangeline followed. up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of evangeline woven. this was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber! little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. and, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, as out of abraham's tent young ishmael wandered with hagar! iv. pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of grand-pré. pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the basin of minas, where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets, came in their holiday dresses the blithe acadian peasants. many a glad good morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doors sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together, every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted; for with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, all things were held in common, and what one had was another's. yet under benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant: for evangeline stood among the guests of her father; bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. there in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated; there good benedict sat, and sturdy basil the blacksmith. not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, tous les bourgeois de chartres, and le carillon de dunkerque, and anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. fairest of all the maids was evangeline, benedict's daughter! noblest of all the youths was gabriel, son of the blacksmith! so passed the morning away. and lo! with a summons sonorous sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. thronged erelong was the church with men. without, in the churchyard, waited the women. they stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them entered the sacred portal. with loud and dissonant clangor echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,- echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. "you are convened this day," he said, "by his majesty's orders. clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness, let your own hearts reply! to my natural make and my temper painful the task is i do, which to you i know must be grievous. yet must i bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province be transported to other lands. god grant you may dwell there ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! prisoners now i declare you; for such is his majesty's pleasure!" as, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer, suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; so on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, and, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations rang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the others rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of basil the blacksmith, as, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,- "down with the tyrants of england! we never have sworn them allegiance! death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!" more he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. in the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, lo! the door of the chancel opened, and father felician entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence all that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. "what is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you? forty years of my life have i labored among you, and taught you, not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another! is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? this is the house of the prince of peace, and would you profane it thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? lo! where the crucified christ from his cross is gazing upon you! see! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion! hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'o father, forgive them!' let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, let us repeat it now, and say, 'o father, forgive them!'" few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, and they repeated his prayer, and said, "o father, forgive them!" then came the evening service. the tapers gleamed from the altar. fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded, not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the ave maria sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated, rose on the ardor of prayer, like elijah ascending to heaven. meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. long at her father's door evangeline stood, with her right hand shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table; there stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers; there stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy, and, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. thus did evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, and from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,- charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience! then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the women, as o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors veiled the light of his face, like the prophet descending from sinai. sweetly over the village the bell of the angelus sounded. meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church evangeline lingered. all was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, "gabriel!" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper untasted, empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. in the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunder told her that god was in heaven, and governed the world he created! then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of heaven; soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. v. four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the acadian women, driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, while in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. thus to the gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. all day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; all day long the wains came laboring down from the village. late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. thither the women and children thronged. on a sudden the church-doors opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, acadian farmers. even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, so with songs on their lips the acadian peasants descended down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices, sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the catholic missions:- "sacred heart of the saviour! o inexhaustible fountain! fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!" then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. half-way down to the shore evangeline waited in silence, not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,- calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, and she beheld the face of gabriel pale with emotion. tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder and whispered,- "gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another, nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!" smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father saw she slowly advancing. alas! how changed was his aspect! gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. but with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him, speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. thus to the gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. there disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. so unto separate ships were basil and gabriel carried, while in despair on the shore evangeline stood with her father. half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, all escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, lay encamped for the night the houseless acadian farmers. back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders; lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,- waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. silence reigned in the streets; from the church no angelus sounded, rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. but on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, like unto shipwrecked paul on melita's desolate sea-shore. thus he approached the place where evangeline sat with her father, and in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, e'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. vainly evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not, but, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. "benedicite!" murmured the priest; in tones of compassion. more he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold, hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, raising his eyes full of tears to the silent stars that above them moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. these things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, "we shall behold no more our homes in the village of grand-pré!" loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the nebraska, when the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them; and as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber; and when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, and like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,- "let us bury him here by the sea. when a happier season brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." such were the words of the priest. and there in haste by the seaside, having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, but without bell or book, they buried the farmer of grand-pré. and as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 'twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, with the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; and with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. part the second. i. many a weary year had passed since the burning of grand-pré, when on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, exile without an end, and without an example in story. far asunder, on separate coasts, the acadians landed; scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the banks of newfoundland. friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, from the cold lakes of the north to sultry southern savannas,- from the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the father of waters seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken, asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended, dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, as the emigrant's way o'er the western desert is marked by camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished; as if a morning of june, with all its music and sunshine, suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, she would commence again her endless search and endeavor; sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones, sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom he was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him, but it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. "gabriel lajeunesse!" they said; "o yes! we have seen him. he was with basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies; coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers," "gabriel lajeunesse!" said others; "o yes! we have seen him. he is a voyageur in the lowlands of louisiana." then would they say: "dear child! why dream and wait for him longer? are there not other youths as fair as gabriel? others who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal? here is baptiste leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy! thou art too fair to be left to braid st. catherine's tresses." then would evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "i cannot! whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. for when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, said, with a smile, "o daughter! thy god thus speaketh within thee! talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; if it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; that which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection! sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!" cheered by the good man's words, evangeline labored and waited. still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, but with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, "despair not!" thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. let me essay, o muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;- not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence; but as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley: far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only; then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur; happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. ii. it was the month of may. far down the beautiful river, past the ohio shore and past the mouth of the wabash, into the golden stream of the broad and swift mississippi, floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by acadian boatmen. it was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune; men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers on the acadian coast, and the prairies of fair opelousas. with them evangeline went, and her guide, the father felician. onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness somber with forests, day after day they glided adown the turbulent river; night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. they were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, where through the golden coast, and groves of orange and citron, sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. they, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the bayou of plaquemine, soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset, or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water, gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them; and o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,- strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. as, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies, far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, so, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it. but evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. it was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. through those shadowy aisles had gabriel wandered before her, and every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, and, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches; but not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness; and, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. then evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight, silent at times, then singing familiar canadian boat-songs, such as they sang of old on their own acadian rivers, and through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert, far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest, mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before them lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the atchafalaya. water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, and with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. under the boughs of wachita willows, that grew by the margin, safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward, tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of jacob, on whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. such was the vision evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. at the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and care-worn. dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, sought in the western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, but by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, so that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows, and undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers, angel of god was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. after the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, as from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "o father felician! something says in my heart that near me gabriel wanders. is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition? or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?" then, with a blush, she added, "alas for my credulous fancy! unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." but made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,- "daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning. feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, on the banks of the têche are the towns of st. maur and st. martin. there the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom, there the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees; under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. they who dwell there have named it the eden of louisiana." with these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey. softly the evening came. the sun from the western horizon like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape; twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. filled was evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. then from a neighboring thicket the mockingbird, wildest of singers, swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, that the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied bacchantes. single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, as when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree tops shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. with such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, slowly they entered the têche, where it flows through the green opelousas, and, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;- sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. iii. near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branches garlands of spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, such as the druids cut down with golden hatchets at yule-tide, stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. a garden girdled it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, filling the air with fragrance. the house itself was of timbers hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported, rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. at each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol, scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. silence reigned o'er the place. the line of shadow and sunshine ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow, and from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. in the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, mounted upon his horse, with spanish saddle and stirrups, sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. broad and brown was the face that from under the spanish sombrero gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness that uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, and the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. then as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder; when they beheld his face, they recognized basil the blacksmith. hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. there in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. thoughtful, for gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivings stole o'er the maiden's heart; and basil, somewhat embarrassed, broke the silence and said, "if you came by the atchafalaya, how have you nowhere encountered my gabriel's boat on the bayous?" over evangeline's face at the words of basil a shade passed. tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, "gone? is gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his shoulder, all her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. then the good basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,- "be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, he at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, tedious even to me, that at length i bethought me, and sent him unto the town of adayes to trade for mules with the spaniards. thence he will follow the indian trails to the ozark mountains, hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover; he is not far on his way, and the fates and the streams are against him. up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning we will follow him fast and bring him back to his prison." then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came michael the fiddler. long under basil's roof had he lived like a god on olympus, having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. "long live michael," they cried, "our brave acadian minstrel!" as they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway father felician advanced with evangeline, greeting the old man kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while basil, enraptured, hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith, all his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor; much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate, and of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them; each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda, entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of basil waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. all was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors, brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet natchitoches tobacco, thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:- "welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless, welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one! here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. all the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows more in a single night than a whole canadian summer. here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies; here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber with a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. after your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, no king george of england shall drive you away from your homesteads, burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle." speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, while his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table, so that the guests all started; and father felician, astounded, suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff halfway to his nostrils. but the brave basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer: "only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever! for it is not like that of our cold acadian climate, cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell!" then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. it was the neighboring creoles and small acadian planters, who had been summoned all to the house of basil the herdsman. merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors: friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as strangers, meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other, drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. but in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding from the accordant strings of michael's melodious fiddle, broke up all further speech. away, like children delighted, all things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman sat, conversing together of past and present and future; while evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. beautiful was the night. behind the black wall of the forest, tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. on the river fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent carthusian. fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, hung the heart of the maiden. the calm and the magical moonlight seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, as, through the garden gate, beneath the shade of the oak-trees, passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and the fire-flies gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. over her head the stars, the thoughts of god in the heavens, shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, as if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "upharsin." and the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, wandered alone, and she cried, "o gabriel! o my beloved! art thou so near unto me, and yet i cannot behold thee? art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers! when shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness; and, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "to-morrow!" bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses with the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. "farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; "see that you bring us the prodigal son from his fasting and famine, and, too, the foolish virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." "farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, with basil descended down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country; till, at the little inn of the spanish town of adayes, weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord, that on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. iv. far in the west there lies a desert land, where the mountains lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway, opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon, westward the oregon flows and the walleway and owyhee. eastward, with devious course, among the windriver mountains, through the sweet-water valley precipitate leaps the nebraska; and to the south, from fontaine-qui-bout and the spanish sierras, fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck; over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; over them wander the scattered tribes of ishmael's children, staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, by invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders; here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers; and the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside, and over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, like the protecting hand of god inverted above them. into this wonderful land, at the base of the ozark mountains, gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. day after day, with their indian guides, the maiden and basil followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall, when they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. and, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, hope still guided them on, as the magic fata morgana showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered into the little camp an indian woman, whose features wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. she was a shawnee woman returning home to her people, from the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel camanches, where her canadian husband, a coureur-des-bois, had been murdered. touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them on the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. but when their meal was done, and basil and all his companions, worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets, then at the door of evangeline's tent she sat and repeated slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her indian accent, all the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. much evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, she in turn related her love and all its disasters. mute with wonder the shawnee sat, and when she had ended still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the mowis; mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, but, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, told she the tale of the fair lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, that, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, and never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. silent with wonder and strange surprise, evangeline listened to the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. slowly over the tops of the ozark mountains the moon rose, lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. with a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. filled with the thoughts of love was evangeline's heart, but a secret, subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, as the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. it was no earthly fear. a breath from the region of spirits seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment that, like the indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the shawnee said, as they journeyed along, "on the western slope of these mountains dwells in his little village the black robe chief of the mission. much he teaches the people, and tells them of mary and jesus; loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him." then, with a sudden and secret emotion, evangeline answered, "let us go to the mission, for there good tidings await us!" thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains, just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, and in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, saw the tents of the christians, the tents of the jesuit mission. under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village, knelt the black robe chief with his children. a crucifix fastened high on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines, looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. this was their rural chapel. aloft, through the intricate arches of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. but when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers and bade them welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, and, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. there upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:- "not six suns have risen and set since gabriel, seated on this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey!" soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness; but on evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. "far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; "but in autumn, when the chase is done, will return again to the mission." then evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, "let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." so seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, mounting his mexican steed, with his indian guides and companions, homeward basil returned, and evangeline stayed at the mission. slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,- days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, but at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield. even the blood-red ear to evangeline brought not her lover. "patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and thy prayer will be answered! look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, see how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet; this is the compass-flower, that the finger of god has suspended here on its fragile stock, to direct the traveller's journey over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. such in the soul of man is faith. the blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, but they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." so came the autumn, and passed, and the winter,--yet gabriel came not; blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet gabriel came not. but on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. far to the north and east, it said, in the michigan forests, gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the saginaw river. and, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of st. lawrence, saying a sad farewell, evangeline went from the mission. when over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, she had attained at length the depths of the michigan forests, found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin! thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden;- now in the tents of grace of the meek moravian missions, now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey; faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty. leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead, dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, as in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. v. in that delightful land, which is washed by the delaware's waters, guarding in sylvan shades the name of penn the apostle. stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. there all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, and the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, as if they fain would appease the dryads whose haunts they molested. there from the troubled sea had evangeline landed, an exile, finding among the children of penn a home and a country. there old rené leblanc had died; and when he departed, saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger; and her ear was pleased with the thee and thou of the quakers, for it recalled the past, the old acadian country, where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. so, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. as from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, so fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. gabriel was not forgotten. within her heart was his image, clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured; he had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, this was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. so was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her saviour. thus many years she lived as a sister of mercy; frequenting lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, high at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs plodded the german farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. and, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of september, flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, so death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor; but all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;- only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;- now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo softly the words of the lord:--"the poor ye always have with you." thither, by night and by day, came the sister of mercy. the dying looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. thus, on a sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden; and she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, that the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind, distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of christ church, while, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted sounds of psalms, that were sung by the swedes in their church at wicaco. soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit; something within her said, "at length thy trials are ended"; and, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. many a languid head, upraised as evangeline entered, turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. and, as she looked around, she saw how death, the consoler, laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time; vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, and from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, that the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. on the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; but, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; so are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, as if life, like the hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, that the angel of death might see the sign, and pass over. motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness, darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "gabriel! o my beloved!" and died away into silence. then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; green acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, as in the days of her youth, evangeline rose in his vision. tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, vanished the vision away, but evangeline knelt by his bedside. vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. vainly he strove to rise; and evangeline, kneeling beside him, kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, as when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. all was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, all the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, all the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! and, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "father, i thank thee!" still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard, in the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors, thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey! still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches dwells another race, with other customs and language. only along the shore of the mournful and misty atlantic linger a few acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. in the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; maidens still wear their norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, and by the evening fire repeat evangeline's story. while from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. the golden legend by henry wadsworth longfellow the golden legend prologue. the spire of strasburg cathedral. _night and storm._ lucifer, _with the powers of the air, trying to tear down the cross._ _lucifer._ hasten! hasten! o ye spirits! from its station drag the ponderous cross of iron, that to mock us is uplifted high in air! _voices._ o, we cannot! for around it all the saints and guardian angels throng in legions to protect it; they defeat us everywhere! _the bells._ laudo deum verum plebem voco! congrego clerum! _lucifer._ lower! lower! hover downward! seize the loud, vociferous bells, and clashing, clanging, to the pavement hurl them from their windy tower! _voices._ all thy thunders here are harmless! for these bells have been anointed, and baptized with holy water! they defy our utmost power. _the bells._ defunctos ploro! pestem fugo! festa decoro! _lucifer._ shake the casements! break the painted panes that flame with gold and crimson! scatter them like leaves of autumn, swept away before the blast! _voices._ o, we cannot! the archangel michael flames from every window, with the sword of fire that drove us headlong, out of heaven, aghast! _the bells._ funera plango! fulgora frango! sabbata pango! _lucifer._ aim your lightnings at the oaken, massive, iron-studded portals! sack the house of god, and scatter wide the ashes of the dead! _voices._ o, we cannot! the apostles and the martyrs, wrapped in mantles, stand as wardens at the entrance, stand as sentinels o'erhead! _the bells._ excito lentos! dissipo ventos! paco cruentos! _lucifer._ baffled! baffled! inefficient, craven spirits! leave this labor unto time, the great destroyer! come away, ere night is gone! _voices._ onward! onward! with the night-wind, over field and farm and forest, lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, blighting all we breathe upon! (_they sweep away. organ and gregorian chant._) _choir._ nocte surgentes vig lemus omnes! * * * * * i. the castle of vautsberg on the rhine. * * * * * _a chamber in a tower._ prince henry, _sitting alone, ill and restless._ _prince henry._ i cannot sleep! my fervid brain calls up the vanished past again, and throws its misty splendors deep into the pallid realms of sleep! a breath from that far-distant shore comes freshening ever more and more, and wafts o'er intervening seas sweet odors from the hesperides! a wind, that through the corridor just stirs the curtain, and no more, and, touching the aeolian strings, faints with the burden that it brings! come back! ye friendships long departed! that like o'erflowing streamlets started, and now are dwindled, one by one, to stony channels in the sun! come back! ye friends, whose lives are ended! come back, with all that light attended, which seemed to darken and decay when ye arose and went away! they come, the shapes of joy and woe, the airy crowds of long-ago, the dreams and fancies known of yore, that have been, and shall be no more. they change the cloisters of the night into a garden of delight; they make the dark and dreary hours open and blossom into flowers! i would not sleep! i love to be again in their fair company; but ere my lips can bid them stay, they pass and vanish quite away! alas! our memories may retrace each circumstance of time and place, season and scene come back again, and outward things unchanged remain; the rest we cannot reinstate; ourselves we cannot re-create, nor set our souls to the same key of the remembered harmony! rest! rest! o, give me rest and peace! the thought of life that ne'er shall cease has something in it like despair, a weight i am too weak to bear! sweeter to this afflicted breast the thought of never-ending rest! sweeter the undisturbed and deep tranquillity of endless sleep! (_a flash of lightning, out of which_ lucifer _appears, in the garb of a travelling physician._) _lucifer_. all hail prince henry! _prince henry_ (_starting_). who is it speaks? who and what are you? _lucifer_. one who seeks a moment's audience with the prince. _prince henry_. when came you in? _lucifer_. a moment since. i found your study door unlocked, and thought you answered when i knocked. _prince henry_. i did not hear you. _lucifer_. you heard the thunder; it was loud enough to waken the dead. and it is not a matter of special wonder that, when god is walking overhead, you should not have heard my feeble tread. _prince henry_. what may your wish or purpose be? _lucifer_. nothing or everything, as it pleases your highness. you behold in me only a traveling physician; one of the few who have a mission to cure incurable diseases, or those that are called so. _prince henry_. can you bring the dead to life? _lucifer_. yes; very nearly. and, what is a wiser and better thing, can keep the living from ever needing such an unnatural, strange proceeding, by showing conclusively and clearly that death is a stupid blunder merely, and not a necessity of our lives. my being here is accidental; the storm, that against your casement drives, in the little village below waylaid me. and there i heard, with a secret delight, of your maladies physical and mental, which neither astonished nor dismayed me. and i hastened hither, though late in the night, to proffer my aid! _prince henry (ironically)_ for this you came! ah, how can i ever hope to requite this honor from one so erudite? _lucifer_. the honor is mine, or will be when i have cured your disease. _prince henry_. but not till then. _lucifer_. what is your illness? _prince henry_. it has no name. a smouldering, dull, perpetual flame, as in a kiln, burns in my veins, sending up vapors to the head, my heart has become a dull lagoon, which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains; i am accounted as one who is dead, and, indeed, i think that i shall be soon. _lucifer_ and has gordonius the divine, in his famous lily of medicine,-i see the book lies open before you,-no remedy potent enough to restore you? _prince henry_. none whatever! _lucifer_ the dead are dead, and their oracles dumb, when questioned of the new diseases that human life evolves in its progress, rank and rife. consult the dead upon things that were, but the living only on things that are. have you done this, by the appliance and aid of doctors? _prince henry_. ay, whole schools of doctors, with their learned rules, but the case is quite beyond their science. even the doctors of salern send me back word they can discern no cure for a malady like this, save one which in its nature is impossible, and cannot be! _lucifer_ that sounds oracular! _prince henry_ unendurable! _lucifer_ what is their remedy? _prince henry_ you shall see; writ in this scroll is the mystery. _lucifer (reading)._ "not to be cured, yet not incurable! the only remedy that remains is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins, who of her own free will shall die, and give her life as the price of yours!" that is the strangest of all cures, and one, i think, you will never try; the prescription you may well put by, as something impossible to find before the world itself shall end! and yet who knows? one cannot say that into some maiden's brain that kind of madness will not find its way. meanwhile permit me to recommend, as the matter admits of no delay, my wonderful catholicon, of very subtile and magical powers! _prince henry._ purge with your nostrums and drugs infernal the spouts and gargoyles of these towers, not me! my faith is utterly gone in every power but the power supernal! pray tell me, of what school are you? _lucifer._ both of the old and of the new! the school of hermes trismegistus, who uttered his oracles sublime before the olympiads, in the dew of the early dawn and dusk of time, the reign of dateless old hephaestus! as northward, from its nubian springs, the nile, forever new and old, among the living and the dead, its mighty, mystic stream has rolled; so, starting from its fountain-head under the lotus-leaves of isis, from the dead demigods of eld, through long, unbroken lines of kings its course the sacred art has held, unchecked, unchanged by man's devices. this art the arabian geber taught, and in alembics, finely wrought, distilling herbs and flowers, discovered the secret that so long had hovered upon the misty verge of truth, the elixir of perpetual youth, called alcohol, in the arab speech! like him, this wondrous lore i teach! _prince henry._ what! an adept? _lucifer._ nor less, nor more! _prince henry._ i am a reader of such books, a lover of that mystic lore! with such a piercing glance it looks into great nature's open eye, and sees within it trembling lie the portrait of the deity! and yet, alas! with all my pains, the secret and the mystery have baffled and eluded me, unseen the grand result remains! _lucifer (showing a flask)._ behold it here! this little flask contains the wonderful quintessence, the perfect flower and efflorescence, of all the knowledge man can ask! hold it up thus against the light! _prince henry._ how limpid, pure, and crystalline, how quick, and tremulous, and bright the little wavelets dance and shine, as were it the water of life in sooth! _lucifer._ it is! it assuages every pain, cures all disease, and gives again to age the swift delights of youth. inhale its fragrance. _prince henry._ it is sweet. a thousand different odors meet and mingle in its rare perfume, such as the winds of summer waft at open windows through a room! _lucifer._ will you not taste it? _prince henry._ will one draught suffice? _lucifer._ if not, you can drink more. _prince henry._ into this crystal goblet pour so much as safely i may drink. _lucifer (pouring)._ let not the quantity alarm you: you may drink all; it will not harm you. _prince henry._ i am as one who on the brink of a dark river stands and sees the waters flow, the landscape dim around him waver, wheel, and swim, and, ere he plunges, stops to think into what whirlpools he may sink; one moment pauses, and no more, then madly plunges from the shore! headlong into the dark mysteries of life and death i boldly leap, nor fear the fateful current's sweep, nor what in ambush lurks below! for death is better than disease! (_an_ angel _with an aeolian harp hovers in the air_.) _angel._ woe! woe! eternal woe! not only the whispered prayer of love, but the imprecations of hate, reverberate forever and ever through the air above! this fearful curse shakes the great universe! _lucifer (disappearing)._ drink! drink! and thy soul shall sink down into the dark abyss, into the infinite abyss, from which no plummet nor rope ever drew up the silver sand of hope! _prince henry (drinking)._ it is like a draught of fire! through every vein i feel again the fever of youth, the soft desire; a rapture that is almost pain throbs in my heart and fills my brain! o joy! o joy! i feel the band of steel that so long and heavily has pressed upon my breast uplifted, and the malediction of my affliction is taken from me, and my weary breast at length finds rest. _the angel._ it is but the rest of the fire, from which the air has been taken! it is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not shaken! it is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow! it is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow! with fiendish laughter, hereafter, this false physician will mock thee in thy perdition. _prince henry._ speak! speak! who says that i am ill? i am not ill! i am not weak! the trance, the swoon, the dream, is o'er! i feel the chill of death no more! at length, i stand renewed in all my strength! beneath me i can feel the great earth stagger and reel, as it the feet of a descending god upon its surface trod, and like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel! this, o brave physician! this is thy great palingenesis! (_drinks again_.) _the angel._ touch the goblet no more! it will make thy heart sore to its very core! its perfume is the breath of the angel of death, and the light that within it lies is the flash of his evil eyes. beware! o, beware! for sickness, sorrow, and care all are there! _prince henry (sinking back)._ o thou voice within my breast! why entreat me, why upbraid me, when the steadfast tongues of truth and the flattering hopes of youth have all deceived me and betrayed me? give me, give me rest, o, rest! golden visions wave and hover, golden vapors, waters streaming, landscapes moving, changing, gleaming! i am like a happy lover who illumines life with dreaming! brave physician! rare physician! well hast thou fulfilled thy mission! (_his head falls on his book_.) _the angel (receding)._ alas! alas! like a vapor the golden vision shall fade and pass, and thou wilt find in thy heart again only the blight of pain, and bitter, bitter, bitter contrition! * * * * * court-yard of the castle. * * * * * hubert _standing by the gateway._ _hubert._ how sad the grand old castle looks! o'erhead, the unmolested rooks upon the turret's windy top sit, talking of the farmer's crop; here in the court-yard springs the grass, so few are now the feet that pass; the stately peacocks, bolder grown, come hopping down the steps of stone, as if the castle were their own; and i, the poor old seneschal, haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. alas! the merry guests no more crowd through the hospital door; no eyes with youth and passion shine, no cheeks glow redder than the wine; no song, no laugh, no jovial din of drinking wassail to the pin; but all is silent, sad, and drear, and now the only sounds i hear are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, and horses stamping in their stalls! (_a horn sounds_.) what ho! that merry, sudden blast reminds me of the days long past! and, as of old resounding, grate the heavy hinges of the gate, and, clattering loud, with iron clank, down goes the sounding bridge of plank, as if it were in haste to greet the pressure of a traveler's feet! (_enter_ walter _the minnesinger_.) _walter._ how now, my friend! this looks quite lonely! no banner flying from the walls, no pages and no seneschals, no wardens, and one porter only! is it you, hubert? _hubert._ ah! master walter! _walter._ alas! how forms and faces alter! i did not know you. you look older! your hair has grown much grayer and thinner, and you stoop a little in the shoulder! _hubert._ alack! i am a poor old sinner, and, like these towers, begin to moulder; and you have been absent many a year! _walter._ how is the prince? _hubert._ he is not here; he has been ill: and now has fled. _walter._ speak it out frankly: say he's dead! is it not so? _hubert._ no; if you please; a strange, mysterious disease fell on him with a sudden blight. whole hours together he would stand upon the terrace, in a dream, resting his head upon his hand, best pleased when he was most alone, like saint john nepomuck in stone, looking down into a stream. in the round tower, night after night, he sat, and bleared his eyes with books; until one morning we found him there stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon he had fallen from his chair. we hardly recognized his sweet looks! _walter._ poor prince! _hubert._ i think he might have mended; and he did mend; but very soon the priests came flocking in, like rooks, with all their crosiers and their crooks, and so at last the matter ended. _walter._ how did it end? _hubert._ why, in saint rochus they made him stand, and wait his doom; and, as if he were condemned to the tomb, began to mutter their hocus pocus. first, the mass for the dead they chaunted. then three times laid upon his head a shovelful of church-yard clay, saying to him, as he stood undaunted, "this is a sign that thou art dead, so in thy heart be penitent!" and forth from the chapel door he went into disgrace and banishment, clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, and bearing a wallet, and a bell, whose sound should be a perpetual knell to keep all travelers away. _walter._ o, horrible fate! outcast, rejected, as one with pestilence infected! _hubert._ then was the family tomb unsealed, and broken helmet, sword and shield, buried together, in common wreck, as is the custom, when the last of any princely house has passed, and thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, a herald shouted down the stair the words of warning and despair,-"o hoheneck! o hoheneck!" _walter_. still in my soul that cry goes on,-forever gone! forever gone! ah, what a cruel sense of loss, like a black shadow, would fall across the hearts of all, if he should die! his gracious presence upon earth was as a fire upon a hearth; as pleasant songs, at morning sung, the words that dropped from his sweet tongue strengthened our hearts; or, heard at night, made all our slumbers soft and light. where is he? _hubert._ in the odenwald. some of his tenants, unappalled by fear of death, or priestly word,-a holy family, that make each meal a supper of the lord,-have him beneath their watch and ward, for love of him, and jesus' sake! pray you come in. for why should i with outdoor hospitality my prince's friend thus entertain? _walter._ i would a moment here remain. but you, good hubert, go before, fill me a goblet of may-drink, as aromatic as the may from which it steals the breath away, and which he loved so well of yore; it is of him that i would think you shall attend me, when i call, in the ancestral banquet hall. unseen companions, guests of air, you cannot wait on, will be there; they taste not food, they drink not wine, but their soft eyes look into mine, and their lips speak to me, and all the vast and shadowy banquet-hall is full of looks and words divine! (_leaning over the parapet_.) the day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver! below me in the valley, deep and green as goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts we drink its wine, the swift and mantling river flows on triumphant through these lovely regions, etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, and soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent! yes, there it flows, forever, broad and still, as when the vanguard of the roman legions first saw it from the top of yonder hill! how beautiful it is! fresh fields of wheat, vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag, the consecrated chapel on the crag, and the white hamlet gathered round its base, like mary sitting at her saviour's feet, and looking up at his beloved face! o friend! o best of friends! thy absence more than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er! ii. a farm in the odenwald * * * * * _a garden; morning;_ prince henry _seated, with a book_. elsie, _at a distance, gathering flowers._ _prince henry (reading)._ one morning, all alone, out of his convent of gray stone, into the forest older, darker, grayer, his lips moving as if in prayer, his head sunken upon his breast as in a dream of rest, walked the monk felix. all about the broad, sweet sunshine lay without, filling the summer air; and within the woodlands as he trod, the twilight was like the truce of god with worldly woe and care; under him lay the golden moss; and above him the boughs of hemlock-tree waved, and made the sign of the cross, and whispered their benedicites; and from the ground rose an odor sweet and fragrant of the wild flowers and the vagrant vines that wandered, seeking the sunshine, round and round. these he heeded not, but pondered on the volume in his hand, a volume of saint augustine; wherein he read of the unseen splendors of god's great town in the unknown land, and, with his eyes cast down in humility, he said: "i believe, o god, what herein i have read, but alas! i do not understand!" and lo! he heard the sudden singing of a bird, a snow-white bird, that from a cloud dropped down, and among the branches brown sat singing so sweet, and clear, and loud, it seemed a thousand harp strings ringing. and the monk felix closed his book, and long, long, with rapturous look, he listened to the song, and hardly breathed or stirred, until he saw, as in a vision, the land elysian, and in the heavenly city heard angelic feet fall on the golden flagging of the street. and he would fain have caught the wondrous bird, but strove in vain; for it flew away, away, far over hill and dell, and instead of its sweet singing he heard the convent bell suddenly in the silence ringing for the service of noonday. and he retraced his pathway homeward sadly and in haste. in the convent there was a change! he looked for each well known face, but the faces were new and strange; new figures sat in the oaken stalls, new voices chaunted in the choir, yet the place was the same place, the same dusky walls of cold, gray stone, the same cloisters and belfry and spire. a stranger and alone among that brotherhood the monk felix stood "forty years," said a friar. "have i been prior of this convent in the wood, but for that space never have i beheld thy face!" the heart of the monk felix fell: and he answered with submissive tone, "this morning, after the hour of prime, i left my cell, and wandered forth alone, listening all the time to the melodious singing of a beautiful white bird, until i heard the bells of the convent ringing noon from their noisy towers, it was as if i dreamed; for what to me had seemed moments only, had been hours!" "years!" said a voice close by. it was an aged monk who spoke, from a bench of oak fastened against the wall;-he was the oldest monk of all. for a whole century had he been there, serving god in prayer, the meekest and humblest of his creatures. he remembered well the features of felix, and he said, speaking distinct and slow: "one hundred years ago, when i was a novice in this place, there was here a monk, full of god's grace, who bore the name of felix, and this man must be the same." and straightway they brought forth to the light of day a volume old and brown, a huge tome, bound with brass and wild-boar's hide, therein were written down the names of all who had died in the convent, since it was edified. and there they found, just as the old monk said, that on a certain day and date, one hundred years before, had gone forth from the convent gate the monk felix, and never more had entered that sacred door. he had been counted among the dead! and they knew, at last, that, such had been the power of that celestial and immortal song, a hundred years had passed, and had not seemed so long as a single hour! (elsie _comes in with flowers._) _elsie._ here are flowers for you, but they are not all for you. some of them are for the virgin and for saint cecilia. _prince henry._ as thou standest there, thou seemest to me like the angel that brought the immortal roses to saint cecilia's bridal chamber. _elsie._ but these will fade. _prince henry._ themselves will fade, but not their memory, and memory has the power to re-create them from the dust. they remind me, too, of martyred dorothea, who from celestial gardens sent flowers as her witnesses to him who scoffed and doubted. _elsie._ do you know the story of christ and the sultan's daughter? that is the prettiest legend of them all. _prince henry._ then tell it to me. but first come hither. lay the flowers down beside me. and put both thy hands in mine. now tell me the story. _elsie._ early in the morning the sultan's daughter walked in her father's garden, gathering the bright flowers, all full of dew. _prince henry._ just as thou hast been doing this morning, dearest elsie. _elsie._ and as she gathered them, she wondered more and more who was the master of the flowers, and made them grow out of the cold, dark earth. "in my heart," she said, "i love him; and for him would leave my father's palace, to labor in his garden." _prince henry._ dear, innocent child! how sweetly thou recallest the long-forgotten legend, that in my early childhood my mother told me! upon my brain it reappears once more, as a birth-mark on the forehead when a hand suddenly is laid upon it, and removed! _elsie._ and at midnight, as she lay upon her bed, she heard a voice call to her from the garden, and, looking forth from her window, she saw a beautiful youth standing among the flowers. it was the lord jesus; and she went down to him, and opened the door for him; and he said to her, "o maiden! thou hast thought of me with love, and for thy sake out of my father's kingdom have i come hither: i am the master of the flowers. my garden is in paradise, and if thou wilt go with me, thy bridal garland shall be of bright red flowers." and then he took from his finger a golden ring, and asked the sultan's daughter if she would be his bride. and when she answered him with love, his wounds began to bleed, and she said to him, "o love! how red thy heart is, and thy hands are full of roses," "for thy sake," answered he, "for thy sake is my heart so red, for thee i bring these roses. i gathered them at the cross whereon i died for thee! come, for my father calls. thou art my elected bride!" and the sultan's daughter followed him to his father's garden. _prince henry._ wouldst thou have done so, elsie? _elsie._ yes, very gladly. _prince henry._ then the celestial bridegroom will come for thee also. upon thy forehead he will place, not his crown of thorns, but a crown of roses. in thy bridal chamber, like saint cecilia, thou shall hear sweet music, and breathe the fragrance of flowers immortal! go now and place these flowers before her picture. * * * * * a room in the farm-house. * * * * * _twilight._ ursula _spinning._ gottlieb _asleep in his chair._ _ursula._ darker and darker! hardly a glimmer of light comes in at the window-pane; or is it my eyes are growing dimmer? i cannot disentangle this skein, nor wind it rightly upon the reel. elsie! _gottlieb (starting)_. the stopping of thy wheel has wakened me out of a pleasant dream. i thought i was sitting beside a stream, and heard the grinding of a mill, when suddenly the wheels stood still, and a voice cried "elsie" in my ear! it startled me, it seemed so near. _ursula._ i was calling her: i want a light. i cannot see to spin my flax. bring the lamp, elsie. dost thou hear? _elsie (within)._ in a moment! _gottlieb._ where are bertha and max? _ursula._ they are sitting with elsie at the door. she is telling them stories of the wood, and the wolf, and little red ridinghood. _gottlieb_. and where is the prince? _ursula_. in his room overhead; i heard him walking across the floor, as he always does, with a heavy tread. (elsie _comes in with a lamp_. max _and_ bertha _follow her; and they all sing the evening song on the lighting of the lamps_.) evening song. o gladsome light of the father immortal, and of the celestial sacred and blessed jesus, our saviour! now to the sunset again hast thou brought us; and, seeing the evening twilight, we bless thee, praise thee, adore thee! father omnipotent! son, the life-giver! spirit, the comforter! worthy at all times of worship and wonder! _prince henry (at the door)_. amen! _ursula_. who was it said amen? _elsie_. it was the prince: he stood at the door, and listened a moment, as we chaunted the evening song. he is gone again. i have often seen him there before. _ursula_. poor prince! _gottlieb_. i thought the house was haunted! poor prince, alas! and yet as mild and patient as the gentlest child! _max._ i love him because he is so good, and makes me such fine bows and arrows, to shoot at the robins and the sparrows, and the red squirrels in the wood! _bertha._ i love him, too! _gottlieb._ ah, yes! we all love him, from the bottom of our hearts; he gave us the farm, the house, and the grange, he gave us the horses and the carts, and the great oxen in the stall, the vineyard, and the forest range! we have nothing to give him but our love! _bertha._ did he give us the beautiful stork above on the chimney-top, with its large, round nest? _gottlieb._ no, not the stork; by god in heaven, as a blessing, the dear, white stork was given; but the prince has given us all the rest. god bless him, and make him well again. _elsie._ would i could do something for his sake, something to cure his sorrow and pain! _gottlieb._ that no one can; neither thou nor i, nor any one else. _elsie._ and must he die? _ursula._ yes; if the dear god does not take pity upon him, in his distress, and work a miracle! _gottlieb._ or unless some maiden, of her own accord, offers her life for that of her lord, and is willing to die in his stead. _elsie._ i will! _ursula._ prithee, thou foolish child, be still! thou shouldst not say what thou dost not mean! _elsie._ i mean it truly! _max._ o father! this morning, down by the mill, in the ravine, hans killed a wolf, the very same that in the night to the sheepfold came, and ate up my lamb, that was left outside. _gottlieb._ i am glad he is dead. it will be a warning to the wolves in the forest, far and wide. _max._ and i am going to have his hide! _bertha._ i wonder if this is the wolf that ate little red ridinghood! _ursula._ o, no! that wolf was killed a long while ago. come, children, it is growing late. _max._ ah, how i wish i were a man, as stout as hans is, and as strong! i would do nothing else, the whole day long, but just kill wolves. _gottlieb._ then go to bed, and grow as fast as a little boy can. bertha is half asleep already. see how she nods her heavy head, and her sleepy feet are so unsteady she will hardly be able to creep upstairs. _ursula._ good-night, my children. here's the light. and do not forget to say your prayers before you sleep. _gottlieb._ good-night! _max and bertha._ good-night! (_they go out with_ elsie.) _ursula, (spinning)._ she is a strange and wayward child, that elsie of ours. she looks so old, and thoughts and fancies weird and wild seem of late to have taken hold of her heart, that was once so docile and mild! _gottlieb._ she is like all girls. _ursula._ ah no, forsooth! unlike all i have ever seen. for she has visions and strange dreams, and in all her words and ways, she seems much older than she is in truth. who would think her but fourteen? and there has been of late such a change! my heart is heavy with fear and doubt that she may not live till the year is out. she is so strange,--so strange,--so strange! _gottlieb._ i am not troubled with any such fear! she will live and thrive for many a year. * * * * * elsie's chamber. * * * * * _night._ elsie _praying._ _elsie._ my redeemer and my lord, i beseech thee, i entreat thee, guide me in each act and word, that hereafter i may meet thee, watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, with my lamp well trimmed and burning! interceding with these bleeding wounds upon thy hands and side, for all who have lived and erred thou hast suffered, thou hast died, scourged, and mocked, and crucified, and in the grave hast thou been buried! if my feeble prayer can reach thee, o my saviour, i beseech thee, even as thou hast died for me, more sincerely let me follow where thou leadest, let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, die, if dying i may give life to one who asks to live, and more nearly, dying thus, resemble thee! * * * * * the chamber of gottlieb and ursula. * * * * * _midnight._ elsie _standing by their bedside, weeping._ _gottlieb._ the wind is roaring; the rushing rain is loud upon roof and window-pane, as if the wild huntsman of rodenstein, boding evil to me and mine, were abroad to-night with his ghostly train! in the brief lulls of the tempest wild, the dogs howl in the yard; and hark! some one is sobbing in the dark, here in the chamber! _elsie._ it is i. _ursula._ elsie! what ails thee, my poor child? _elsie._ i am disturbed and much distressed, in thinking our dear prince must die, i cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. _gottlieb._ what wouldst thou? in the power divine his healing lies, not in our own; it is in the hand of god alone. _elsie._ nay, he has put it into mine, and into my heart! _gottlieb._ thy words are wild! _ursula._ what dost thou mean? my child! my child! _elsie._ that for our dear prince henry's sake i will myself the offering make, and give my life to purchase his. _ursula_ am i still dreaming, or awake? thou speakest carelessly of death, and yet thou knowest not what it is. _elsie._ 't is the cessation of our breath. silent and motionless we lie; and no one knoweth more than this. i saw our little gertrude die, she left off breathing, and no more i smoothed the pillow beneath her head. she was more beautiful than before. like violets faded were her eyes; by this we knew that she was dead. through the open window looked the skies into the chamber where she lay, and the wind was like the sound of wings, as if angels came to bear her away. ah! when i saw and felt these things, i found it difficult to stay; i longed to die, as she had died, and go forth with her, side by side. the saints are dead, the martyrs dead, and mary, and our lord, and i would follow in humility the way by them illumined! _ursula._ my child! my child! thou must not die! _elsie_ why should i live? do i not know the life of woman is full of woe? toiling on and on and on, with breaking heart, and tearful eyes, and silent lips, and in the soul the secret longings that arise, which this world never satisfies! some more, some less, but of the whole not one quite happy, no, not one! _ursula._ it is the malediction of eve! _elsie._ in place of it, let me receive the benediction of mary, then. _gottlieb._ ah, woe is me! ah, woe is me! most wretched am i among men! _ursula._ alas! that i should live to see thy death, beloved, and to stand above thy grave! ah, woe the day! _elsie._ thou wilt not see it. i shall lie beneath the flowers of another land, for at salerno, far away over the mountains, over the sea, it is appointed me to die! and it will seem no more to thee than if at the village on market-day i should a little longer stay than i am used. _ursula._ even as thou sayest! and how my heart beats, when thou stayest! i cannot rest until my sight is satisfied with seeing thee. what, then, if thou wert dead? _gottlieb_ ah me! of our old eyes thou art the light! the joy of our old hearts art thou! and wilt thou die? _ursula._ not now! not now! _elsie_ christ died for me, and shall not i be willing for my prince to die? you both are silent; you cannot speak. this said i, at our saviour's feast, after confession, to the priest, and even he made no reply. does he not warn us all to seek the happier, better land on high, where flowers immortal never wither, and could he forbid me to go thither? _gottlieb._ in god's own time, my heart's delight! when he shall call thee, not before! _elsie._ i heard him call. when christ ascended triumphantly, from star to star, he left the gates of heaven ajar. i had a vision in the night, and saw him standing at the door of his father's mansion, vast and splendid, and beckoning to me from afar. i cannot stay! _gottlieb._ she speaks almost as if it were the holy ghost spake through her lips, and in her stead! what if this were of god? _ursula._ ah, then gainsay it dare we not. _gottlieb._ amen! elsie! the words that thou hast said are strange and new for us to hear, and fill our hearts with doubt and fear. whether it be a dark temptation of the evil one, or god's inspiration, we in our blindness cannot say. we must think upon it, and pray; for evil and good in both resembles. if it be of god, his will be done! may he guard us from the evil one! how hot thy hand is! how it trembles! go to thy bed, and try to sleep. _ursula._ kiss me. good-night; and do not weep! (elsie _goes out._) ah, what an awful thing is this! i almost shuddered at her kiss. as if a ghost had touched my cheek, i am so childish and so weak! as soon as i see the earliest gray of morning glimmer in the east, i will go over to the priest, and hear what the good man has to say! * * * * * a village church. * * * * * _a woman kneeling at the confessional. the parish priest (from within)_. go, sin no more! thy penance o'er, a new and better life begin! god maketh thee forever free from the dominion of thy sin! go, sin no more! he will restore the peace that filled thy heart before, and pardon thine iniquity! (_the woman goes out. the priest comes forth, and walks slowly up and down the church_.) o blessed lord! how much i need thy light to guide me on my way! so many hands, that, without heed, still touch thy wounds, and make them bleed! so many feet, that, day by day, still wander from thy fold astray! unless thou fill me with thy light, i cannot lead thy flock aright; nor, without thy support, can bear the burden of so great a care, but am myself a castaway! (_a pause_.) the day is drawing to its close; and what good deeds, since first it rose, have i presented, lord, to thee, as offerings of my ministry? what wrong repressed, what right maintained what struggle passed, what victory gained, what good attempted and attained? feeble, at best, is my endeavor! i see, but cannot reach, the height that lies forever in the light, and yet forever and forever, when seeming just within my grasp, i feel my feeble hands unclasp, and sink discouraged into night! for thine own purpose, thou hast sent the strife and the discouragement! (_a pause_.) why stayest thou, prince of hoheneck? why keep me pacing to and fro amid these aisles of sacred gloom, counting my footsteps as i go, and marking with each step a tomb? why should the world for thee make room, and wait thy leisure and thy beck? thou comest in the hope to hear some word of comfort and of cheer. what can i say? i cannot give the counsel to do this and live; but rather, firmly to deny the tempter, though his power is strong, and, inaccessible to wrong, still like a martyr live and die! (_a pause_.) the evening air grows dusk and brown; i must go forth into the town, to visit beds of pain and death, of restless limbs, and quivering breath, and sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes that see, through tears, the sun go down, but never more shall see it rise. the poor in body and estate, the sick and the disconsolate. must not on man's convenience wait. (_goes out. enter_ lucifer, _as a priest_. lucifer, _with a genuflexion, mocking_.) this is the black pater-noster. god was my foster, he fostered me under the book of the palm-tree! st. michael was my dame. he was born at bethlehem, he was made of flesh and blood. god send me my right food, my right food, and shelter too, that i may to yon kirk go, to read upon yon sweet book which the mighty god of heaven shook. open, open, hell's gates! shut, shut, heaven's gates! all the devils in the air the stronger be, that hear the black prayer! (_looking round the church_.) what a darksome and dismal place! i wonder that any man has the face to call such a hole the house of the lord, and the gate of heaven,--yet such is the word. ceiling, and walls, and windows old, covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould; dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs! the pulpit, from which such ponderous sermons have fallen down on the brains of the germans, with about as much real edification as if a great bible, bound in lead, had fallen, and struck them on the head; and i ought to remember that sensation! here stands the holy water stoup! holy-water it may be to many, but to me, the veriest liquor gehennae! it smells like a filthy fast day soup! near it stands the box for the poor; with its iron padlock, safe and sure, i and the priest of the parish know whither all these charities go; therefore, to keep up the institution, i will add my little contribution! (_he puts in money._) underneath this mouldering tomb, with statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass, slumbers a great lord of the village. all his life was riot and pillage, but at length, to escape the threatened doom of the everlasting, penal fire, he died in the dress of a mendicant friar, and bartered his wealth for a daily mass. but all that afterward came to pass, and whether he finds it dull or pleasant, is kept a secret for the present, at his own particular desire. and here, in a corner of the wall, shadowy, silent, apart from all, with its awful portal open wide, and its latticed windows on either side, and its step well worn by the bended knees of one or two pious centuries, stands the village confessional! within it, as an honored guest, i will sit me down awhile and rest! (_seats himself in the confessional_.) here sits the priest, and faint and low, like the sighing of an evening breeze, comes through these painted lattices the ceaseless sound of human woe, here, while her bosom aches and throbs with deep and agonizing sobs, that half are passion, half contrition, the luckless daughter of perdition slowly confesses her secret shame! the time, the place, the lover's name! here the grim murderer, with a groan, from his bruised conscience rolls the stone, thinking that thus he can atone for ravages of sword and flame! indeed, i marvel, and marvel greatly, how a priest can sit here so sedately, reading, the whole year out and in, naught but the catalogue of sin, and still keep any faith whatever in human virtue! never! never! i cannot repeat a thousandth part of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes that arise, when with palpitating throes the graveyard in the human heart gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest, as if he were an archangel, at least. it makes a peculiar atmosphere, this odor of earthly passions and crimes, such as i like to breathe, at times, and such as often brings me here in the hottest and most pestilential season. to-day, i come for another reason; to foster and ripen an evil thought in a heart that is almost to madness wrought, and to make a murderer out of a prince, a sleight of hand i learned long since! he comes in the twilight he will not see the difference between his priest and me! in the same net was the mother caught! (_prince henry entering and kneeling at the confessional._) remorseful, penitent, and lowly, i come to crave, o father holy, thy benediction on my head. _lucifer_. the benediction shall be said after confession, not before! 't is a god speed to the parting guest, who stands already at the door, sandalled with holiness, and dressed in garments pure from earthly stain. meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast? does the same madness fill thy brain? or have thy passion and unrest vanished forever from thy mind? _prince henry_. by the same madness still made blind, by the same passion still possessed, i come again to the house of prayer, a man afflicted and distressed! as in a cloudy atmosphere, through unseen sluices of the air, a sudden and impetuous wind strikes the great forest white with fear, and every branch, and bough, and spray points all its quivering leaves one way, and meadows of grass, and fields of grain, and the clouds above, and the slanting rain, and smoke from chimneys of the town, yield themselves to it, and bow down, so does this dreadful purpose press onward, with irresistible stress, and all my thoughts and faculties, struck level by the strength of this, from their true inclination turn, and all stream forward to salem! _lucifer_. alas! we are but eddies of dust, uplifted by the blast, and whirled along the highway of the world a moment only, then to fall back to a common level all, at the subsiding of the gust! _prince henry_. o holy father! pardon in me the oscillation of a mind unsteadfast, and that cannot find its centre of rest and harmony! for evermore before mine eyes this ghastly phantom flits and flies, and as a madman through a crowd, with frantic gestures and wild cries, it hurries onward, and aloud repeats its awful prophecies! weakness is wretchedness! to be strong is to be happy! i am weak, and cannot find the good i seek, because i feel and fear the wrong! _lucifer_. be not alarmed! the church is kind-and in her mercy and her meekness she meets half-way her children's weakness, writes their transgressions in the dust! though in the decalogue we find the mandate written, "thou shalt not kill!" yet there are cases when we must. in war, for instance, or from scathe to guard and keep the one true faith! we must look at the decalogue in the light of an ancient statute, that was meant for a mild and general application, to be understood with the reservation, that, in certain instances, the right must yield to the expedient! thou art a prince. if thou shouldst die, what hearts and hopes would prostrate he! what noble deeds, what fair renown, into the grave with thee go down! what acts of valor and courtesy remain undone, and die with thee! thou art the last of all thy race! with thee a noble name expires, and vanishes from the earth's face the glorious memory of thy sires! she is a peasant. in her veins flows common and plebeian blood; it is such as daily and hourly stains the dust and the turf of battle plains, by vassals shed, in a crimson flood, without reserve, and without reward, at the slightest summons of their lord! but thine is precious, the fore-appointed blood of kings, of god's anointed! moreover, what has the world in store for one like her, but tears and toil? daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, a peasant's child and a peasant's wife, and her soul within her sick and sore with the roughness and barrenness of life! i marvel not at the heart's recoil from a fate like this, in one so tender, nor at its eagerness to surrender all the wretchedness, want, and woe that await it in this world below, for the unutterable splendor of the world of rest beyond the skies. so the church sanctions the sacrifice: therefore inhale this healing balm, and breathe this fresh life into thine; accept the comfort and the calm she offers, as a gift divine, let her fall down and anoint thy feet with the ointment costly and most sweet of her young blood, and thou shall live. _prince henry._ and will the righteous heaven forgive? no action, whether foul or fair, is ever done, but it leaves somewhere a record, written by fingers ghostly, as a blessing or a curse, and mostly in the greater weakness or greater strength of the acts which follow it, till at length the wrongs of ages are redressed, and the justice of god made manifest! _lucifer_ in ancient records it is stated that, whenever an evil deed is done, another devil is created to scourge and torment the offending one! but evil is only good perverted, and lucifer, the bearer of light, but an angel fallen and deserted, thrust from his father's house with a curse into the black and endless night. _prince henry._ if justice rules the universe, from the good actions of good men angels of light should be begotten, and thus the balance restored again. _lucifer._ yes; if the world were not so rotten, and so given over to the devil! _prince henry._ but this deed, is it good or evil? have i thine absolution free to do it, and without restriction? _lucifer._ ay; and from whatsoever sin lieth around it and within, from all crimes in which it may involve thee, i now release thee and absolve thee! _prince henry._ give me thy holy benediction. _lucifer._ (_stretching forth his hand and muttering_), maledictione perpetua maledicat vos pater eternus! _the angel_ (_with the aeolian harp_). take heed! take heed! noble art thou in thy birth, by the good and the great of earth hast thou been taught! be noble in every thought and in every deed! let not the illusion of thy senses betray thee to deadly offences. be strong! be good! be pure! the right only shall endure, all things else are but false pretences! i entreat thee, i implore, listen no more to the suggestions of an evil spirit, that even now is there, making the foul seem fair, and selfishness itself a virtue and a merit! * * * * * a room in the farm-house. * * * * * _gottlieb_. it is decided! for many days, and nights as many, we have had a nameless terror in our breast, making us timid, and afraid of god, and his mysterious ways! we have been sorrowful and sad; much have we suffered, much have prayed that he would lead us as is best, and show us what his will required. it is decided; and we give our child, o prince, that you may live! _ursula_. it is of god. he has inspired this purpose in her; and through pain, out of a world of sin and woe, he takes her to himself again. the mother's heart resists no longer; with the angel of the lord in vain it wrestled, for he was the stronger. _gottlieb_. as abraham offered long ago his son unto the lord, and even the everlasting father in heaven gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, so do i offer up my daughter! (ursula _hides her face_.) _elsie_. my life is little, only a cup of water, but pure and limpid. take it, o my prince! let it refresh you, let it restore you. it is given willingly, it is given freely; may god bless the gift! _prince henry._ and the giver! _gottlieb._ amen! _prince henry._ i accept it! _gottlieb._ where are the children? _ursula._ they are already asleep. _gottlieb._ what if they were dead? * * * * * in the garden. * * * * * _elsie._ i have one thing to ask of you. _prince henry._ what is it? it is already granted. _elsie._ promise me, when we are gone from here, and on our way are journeying to salerno, you will not, by word or deed, endeavor to dissuade me and turn me from my purpose, but remember that as a pilgrim to the holy city walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon occupied wholly, so would i approach the gates of heaven, in this great jubilee, with my petition, putting off from me all thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet. promise me this. _prince henry._ thy words fall from thy lips like roses from the lips of angelo: and angels might stoop to pick them up! _elsie._ will you not promise? _prince henry._ if ever we depart upon this journey, so long to one or both of us, i promise. _elsie._ shall we not go, then? have you lifted me into the air, only to hurl me back wounded upon the ground? and offered me the waters of eternal life, to bid me drink the polluted puddles of this world? _prince henry._ o elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me! the life which is, and that which is to come, suspended hang in such nice equipoise a breath disturbs the balance; and that scale in which we throw our hearts preponderates, and the other, like an empty one, flies up, and is accounted vanity and air! to me the thought of death is terrible, having such hold on life. to thee it is not so much even as the lifting of a latch; only a step into the open air out of a tent already luminous with light that shines through its transparent walls! o pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall grow lilies, upon whose petals will be written "ave maria" in characters of gold! iii. a street in strasburg. * * * * * _night._ prince henry _wandering alone, wrapped in a cloak._ _prince henry._ still is the night. the sound of feet has died away from the empty street, and like an artisan, bending down his head on his anvil, the dark town sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. sleepless and restless, i alone, in the dusk and damp of these wails of stone, wander and weep in my remorse! _crier of the dead (ringing a bell)._ wake! wake! all ye that sleep! pray for the dead! pray for the dead! _prince henry._ hark! with what accents loud and hoarse this warder on the walls of death sends forth the challenge of his breath! i see the dead that sleep in the grave! they rise up and their garments wave, dimly and spectral, as they rise, with the light of another world in their eyes! _crier of the dead._ wake! wake! all ye that sleep! pray for the dead! pray for the dead! _prince henry._ why for the dead, who are at rest? pray for the living, in whose breast the struggle between right and wrong is raging terrible and strong, as when good angels war with devils! this is the master of the revels, who, at life's flowing feast, proposes the health of absent friends, and pledges, not in bright goblets crowned with roses, and tinkling as we touch their edges, but with his dismal, tinkling bell, that mocks and mimics their funeral knell! _crier of the dead._ wake! wake! all ye that sleep! pray for the dead! pray for the dead! _prince henry._ wake not, beloved! be thy sleep silent as night is, and as deep! there walks a sentinel at thy gate whose heart is heavy and desolate, and the heavings of whose bosom number the respirations of thy slumber, as if some strange, mysterious fate had linked two hearts in one, and mine went madly wheeling about thine, only with wider and wilder sweep! _crier of the dead (at a distance)._ wake! wake! all ye that sleep! pray for the dead! pray for the dead! _prince henry._ lo! with what depth of blackness thrown against the clouds, far up the skies, the walls of the cathedral rise, like a mysterious grove of stone, with fitful lights and shadows bleeding, as from behind, the moon, ascending, lights its dim aisles and paths unknown! the wind is rising; but the boughs rise not and fall not with the wind that through their foliage sobs and soughs; only the cloudy rack behind, drifting onward, wild and ragged, gives to each spire and buttress jagged a seeming motion undefined. below on the square, an armed knight, still as a statue and as white, sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver upon the points of his armor bright as on the ripples of a river. he lifts the visor from his cheek, and beckons, and makes as he would speak. _walter the minnesinger_ friend! can you tell me where alight thuringia's horsemen for the night? for i have lingered in the rear, and wander vainly up and down. _prince henry_ i am a stranger in the town, as thou art, but the voice i hear is not a stranger to mine ear. thou art walter of the vogelweid! _walter_ thou hast guessed rightly; and thy name is henry of hoheneck! _prince henry_ ay, the same. _walter_ (_embracing him_). come closer, closer to my side! what brings thee hither? what potent charm has drawn thee from thy german farm into the old alsatian city? _prince henry_. a tale of wonder and of pity! a wretched man, almost by stealth dragging my body to salern, in the vain hope and search for health, and destined never to return. already thou hast heard the rest but what brings thee, thus armed and dight in the equipments of a knight? _walter_. dost thou not see upon my breast the cross of the crusaders shine? my pathway leads to palestine. _prince henry_. ah, would that way were also mine! o noble poet! thou whose heart is like a nest of singing birds rocked on the topmost bough of life, wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, and in the clangor of the strife mingle the music of thy words? _walter_. my hopes are high, my heart is proud, and like a trumpet long and loud, thither my thoughts all clang and ring! my life is in my hand, and lo! i grasp and bend it as a bow, and shoot forth from its trembling string an arrow, that shall be, perchance, like the arrow of the israelite king shot from the window toward the east, that of the lord's deliverance! _prince henry_. my life, alas! is what thou seest! o enviable fate! to be strong, beautiful, and armed like thee with lyre and sword, with song and steel; a hand to smite, a heart to feel! thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, thou givest all unto thy lord, while i, so mean and abject grown, am thinking of myself alone. _walter_. be patient: time will reinstate thy health and fortunes. _prince henry_. 't is too late! i cannot strive against my fate! _walter_. come with me; for my steed is weary; our journey has been long and dreary, and, dreaming of his stall, he dints with his impatient hoofs the flints. _prince henry_ (_aside_). i am ashamed, in my disgrace, to look into that noble face! to-morrow, walter, let it be. _walter_. to-morrow, at the dawn of day, i shall again be on my way come with me to the hostelry, for i have many things to say. our journey into italy perchance together we may make; wilt thou not do it for my sake? _prince henry_. a sick man's pace would but impede thine eager and impatient speed. besides, my pathway leads me round to hirsehau, in the forest's bound, where i assemble man and steed, and all things for my journey's need. (_they go out_. lucifer, _flying over the city_.) sleep, sleep, o city! till the light wakes you to sin and crime again, whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, i scatter downward through the night my maledictions dark and deep. i have more martyrs in your walls than god has; and they cannot sleep; they are my bondsmen and my thralls; their wretched lives are full of pain, wild agonies of nerve and brain; and every heart-beat, every breath, is a convulsion worse than death! sleep, sleep, o city! though within the circuit of your walls there lies no habitation free from sin, and all its nameless miseries; the aching heart, the aching head, grief for the living and the dead, and foul corruption of the time, disease, distress, and want, and woe, and crimes, and passions that may grow until they ripen into, crime! square in front of the cathedral. * * * * * _easter sunday_. friar cuthbert _preaching to the crowd from a pulpit in the open air_. prince henry _and_ elsie _crossing the square_. _prince henry_. this is the day, when from the dead our lord arose; and everywhere, out of their darkness and despair, triumphant over fears and foes, the hearts of his disciples rose, when to the women, standing near, the angel in shining vesture said, "the lord is risen; he is not here!" and, mindful that the day is come, on all the hearths in christendom the fires are quenched, to be again rekindled from the sun, that high is dancing in the cloudless sky. the churches are all decked with flowers. the salutations among men are but the angel's words divine, "christ is arisen!" and the bells catch the glad murmur, as it swells, and chaunt together in their towers. all hearts are glad; and free from care the faces of the people shine. see what a crowd is in the square, gaily and gallantly arrayed! _elsie_. let us go back; i am afraid! _prince henry_. nay, let us mount the church-steps here, under the doorway's sacred shadow; we can see all things, and be freer from the crowd that madly heaves and presses! _elsie._ what a gay pageant! what bright dresses! it looks like a flower besprinkled meadow. what is that yonder on the square? _prince henry_ a pulpit in the open air, and a friar, who is preaching to the crowd with a voice so deep and clear and loud, that, if we listen, and give heed, his lowest words will reach the ear. _friar cuthbert (gesticulating and cracking a postilion's whip)_ what ho! good people! do you not hear? dashing along at the top of his speed, booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, a courier comes with words of cheer. courier! what is the news, i pray? "christ is arisen!" whence come you? "from court." then i do not believe it; you say it in sport. (_cracks his whip again._) there comes another, riding this way; we soon shall know what he has to say. courier! what are the tidings to-day? "christ is arisen!" whence come you? "from town." then i do not believe it; away with you, clown. (_cracks his whip more violently._) and here comes a third, who is spurring amain; what news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein, your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? "christ is arisen!" whence come you? "from rome." ah, now i believe. he is risen, indeed. ride on with the news, at the top of your speed! (_great applause among the crowd._) to come back to my text! when the news was first spread that christ was arisen indeed from the dead, very great was the joy of the angels in heaven; and as great the dispute as to who should carry the tidings, thereof to the virgin mary, pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. old father adam was first to propose, as being the author of all our woes; but he was refused, for fear, said they, he would stop to eat apples on the way! abel came next, but petitioned in vain, because he might meet with his brother cain! noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine should delay him at every tavern sign; and john the baptist could not get a vote, on account of his old fashioned, camel's-hair coat; and the penitent thief, who died on the cross, was reminded that all his bones were broken! till at last, when each in turn had spoken, the company being still at a loss, the angel, who had rolled away the stone, was sent to the sepulchre, all alone, and filled with glory that gloomy prison, and said to the virgin, "the lord is arisen!" (_the cathedral bells ring_.) but hark! the bells are beginning to chime; and i feel that i am growing hoarse. i will put an end to my discourse, and leave the rest for some other time. for the bells themselves are the best of preachers; their brazen lips are learned teachers, from their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, shriller than trumpets under the law, now a sermon and now a prayer. the clangorous hammer is the tongue, this way, that way, beaten and swung, that from mouth of brass, as from mouth of gold, may be taught the testaments, new and old. and above it the great crossbeam of wood representeth the holy rood, upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. and the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung is the mind of man, that round and round sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! and the rope, with its twisted cordage three, denoteth the scriptural trinity of morals, and symbols, and history; and the upward and downward motions show that we touch upon matters high and low; and the constant change and transmutation of action and of contemplation, downward, the scripture brought from on high, upward, exalted again to the sky; downward, the literal interpretation, upward, the vision and mystery! and now, my hearers, to make an end, i have only one word more to say; in the church, in honor of easter day, will be represented a miracle play; and i hope you will all have the grace to attend. christ bring us at last so his felicity! pax vobiscum! et benedicite! in the cathedral. * * * * * chaunt. kyrie eleison! christe eleison! _elsie._ i am at home here in my father's house! these paintings of the saints upon the walls have all familiar and benignant faces. _prince henry._ the portraits of the family of god! thine own hereafter shall be placed among them. _elsie._ how very grand it is and wonderful! never have i beheld a church so splendid! such columns, and such arches, and such windows, so many tombs and statues in the chapels, and under them so many confessionals. they must be for the rich. i should not like to tell my sins in such a church as this. who built it? _prince henry._ a great master of his craft, erwin von steinbach; but not he alone, for many generations labored with him. children that came to see these saints in stone, as day by day out of the blocks they rose, grew old and died, and still the work went on, and on, and on, and is not yet completed. the generation that succeeds our own perhaps may finish it. the architect built his great heart into these sculptured stones, and with him toiled his children, and their lives were builded, with his own, into the walls, as offerings unto god. you see that statue fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes upon the pillar of the angels yonder. that is the image of the master, carved by the fair hand of his own child, sabina. _elsie._ how beautiful is the column that he looks at! _prince henry._ that, too, she sculptured. at the base of it stand the evangelists; above their heads four angels blowing upon marble trumpets, and over them the blessed christ, surrounded by his attendant ministers, upholding the instruments of his passion. _elsie._ o my lord! would i could leave behind me upon earth some monument to thy glory, such as this! _prince henry._ a greater monument than this thou leavest in thine own life, all purity and love! see, too, the rose, above the western portal flamboyant with a thousand gorgeous colors, the perfect flower of gothic loveliness! _elsie._ and, in the gallery, the long line of statues, christ with his twelve apostles watching us. (_a_ bishop _in armor, booted and spurred, passes with his train._) _prince henry._ but come away; we have not time to look. the crowd already fills the church, and yonder upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, clad like the angel gabriel, proclaims the mystery that will now be represented. the nativity. * * * * * a miracle play. * * * * * the nativity. introitus. _prã¦co._ come, good people, all and each, come and listen to our speech! in your presence here i stand, with a trumpet in my hand, to announce the easter play, which we represent to-day! first of all we shall rehearse, in our action and our verse, the nativity of our lord, as written in the old record of the protevangelion, so that he who reads may run! (_blows his trumpet._) * * * * * i. heaven. _mercy_ (_at the feet of god_). have pity, lord be not afraid to save mankind, whom thou hast made, nor let the souls that were betrayed perish eternally! _justice._ it cannot be, it must not be! when in the garden placed by thee, the fruit of the forbidden tree he ate, and he must die! _mercy._ have pity, lord! let penitence atone for disobedience, nor let the fruit of man's offence be endless misery! _justice._ what penitence proportionate can e'er be felt for sin so great? of the forbidden fruit he ate, and damned must he be! _god._ he shall be saved, if that within the bounds of earth one free from sin be found, who for his kith and kin will suffer martyrdom. _the four virtues._ lord! we have searched the world around, from centre to the utmost bound, but no such mortal can be found; despairing, back we come. _wisdom._ no mortal, but a god made man, can ever carry out this plan, achieving what none other can, salvation unto all! _god._ go, then, o my beloved son; it can by thee alone be done; by thee the victory shall be won o'er satan and the fall! (_here the_ angel gabriel _shall leave paradise and fly toward the earth; the jaws of hell open below, and the devils walk about, making a great noise._) * * * * * ii. mary at the well. _mary._ along the garden walk, and thence through the wicket in the garden fence, i steal with quiet pace, my pitcher at the well to fill, that lies so deep and cool and still in this sequestered place. these sycamores keep guard around; i see no face, i hear no sound, save babblings of the spring, and my companions, who within the threads of gold and scarlet spin, and at their labor sing. _the angel gabriel._ hail, virgin mary, full of grace! (_here_ mary _looketh around her, trembling, and then saith:_) _mary._ who is it speaketh in this place, with such a gentle voice? _gabriel._ the lord of heaven is with thee now! blessed among all women thou, who art his holy choice! _mary_ (setting down the pitcher). what can this mean? no one is near, and yet, such sacred words i hear, i almost fear to stay. (_here the_ angel, _appearing to her, shall say:_) _gabriel._ fear not, o mary! but believe! for thou, a virgin, shalt conceive a child this very day. fear not, o mary! from the sky the majesty of the most high shall overshadow thee! _mary._ behold the handmaid of the lord! according to thy holy word, so be it unto me! (_here the devils shall again make a great noise, under the stage._) iii. the angels of the seven planets, _bearing the star of bethlehem._ _the angels._ the angels of the planets seven across the shining fields of heaven the natal star we bring! dropping our sevenfold virtues down, as priceless jewels in the crown of christ, our new-born king. _raphael._ i am the angel of the sun, whose flaming wheels began to run when god's almighty breath said to the darkness and the night, let there be light! and there was light! i bring the gift of faith. _gabriel._ i am the angel of the moon, darkened, to be rekindled soon beneath the azure cope! nearest to earth, it is my ray that best illumes the midnight way. i bring the gift of hope! _anael._ the angel of the star of love, the evening star, that shines above the place where lovers be, above all happy hearths and homes, on roofs of thatch, or golden domes, i give him charity! _zobiachel._ the planet jupiter is mine! the mightiest star of all that shine, except the sun alone! he is the high priest of the dove, and sends, from his great throne above, justice, that shall atone! _michael._ the planet mercury, whose place is nearest to the sun in space, is my allotted sphere! and with celestial ardor swift i bear upon my hands the gift of heavenly prudence here! _uriel._ i am the minister of mars, the strongest star among the stars! my songs of power prelude the march and battle of man's life, and for the suffering and the strife, i give him fortitude! _anachiel._ the angel of the uttermost of all the shining, heavenly host, from the far-off expanse of the saturnian, endless space i bring the last, the crowning grace, the gift of temperance! (_a sudden light shines from the windows of the stable in the village below._) iv. the wise men of the east. _the stable of the inn. the_ virgin _and_ child. _three gypsy kings,_ gaspar, melchior, _and_ belshazzar, _shall come in._ _gaspar._ hail to thee, jesus of nazareth! though in a manger thou drawest thy breath, thou art greater than life and death, greater than joy or woe! this cross upon the line of life portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, and through a region with dangers rife in darkness shall thou go! _melchior._ hail to thee, king of jerusalem though humbly born in bethlehem, a sceptre and a diadem await thy brow and hand! the sceptre is a simple reed, the crown will make thy temples bleed, and in thy hour of greatest need, abashed thy subjects stand! _belshazzar_. hail to thee, christ of christendom! o'er all the earth thy kingdom come! from distant trebizond to rome thy name shall men adore! peace and good-will among all men, the virgin has returned again, returned the old saturnian reign and golden age once more. _the child christ_. jesus, the son of god, am i, born here to suffer and to die according to the prophecy, that other men may live! _the virgin_. and now these clothes, that wrapped him, take and keep them precious, for his sake; for benediction thus we make, naught else have we to give. (_she gives them swaddling-clothes and they depart_.) v. the flight into egypt. _here shall_ joseph _come in, leading an ass, on which are seated_ mary _and the_ child. _mary_. here will we rest us, under these underhanging branches of the trees, where robins chant their litanies, and canticles of joy. _joseph_. my saddle-girths have given way with trudging through the heat to-day to you i think it is but play to ride and hold the boy. _mary_. hark! how the robins shout and sing, as if to hail their infant king! i will alight at yonder spring to wash his little coat. _joseph_. and i will hobble well the ass, lest, being loose upon the grass, he should escape; for, by the mass. he is nimble as a goat. (_here_ mary _shall alight and go to the spring._) _mary_. o joseph! i am much afraid, for men are sleeping in the shade; i fear that we shall be waylaid, and robbed and beaten sore! (_here a band of robbers shall be seen sleeping, two of whom shall rise and come forward_.) _dumachus_. cock's soul! deliver up your gold! _joseph_. i pray you, sirs, let go your hold! of wealth i have no store. _dumachus_. give up your money! _titus_. prithee cease! let these good people go in peace! _dumachus_. first let them pay for their release, and then go on their way. _titus_. these forty groats i give in fee, if thou wilt only silent be. _mary_. may god be merciful to thee upon the judgment day! _jesus_. when thirty years shall have gone by, i at jerusalem shall die, by jewish hands exalted high on the accursed tree. then on my right and my left side, these thieves shall both be crucified and titus thenceforth shall abide in paradise with me. (_here a great rumor of trumpets and horses, like the noise of a king with his army, and the robbers shall take flight._) vi. the slaughter of the innocents. _king herod._ potz-tausend! himmel-sacrament! filled am i with great wonderment at this unwelcome news! am i not herod? who shall dare my crown to take, my sceptre bear, as king among the jews? (_here he shall stride up and down and flourish his sword._) what ho! i fain would drink a can of the strong wine of canaan! the wine of helbon bring, i purchased at the fair of tyre, as red as blood, as hot as fire, and fit for any king! (_he quaffs great goblets of wine._) now at the window will i stand, while in the street the armed band the little children slay: the babe just born in bethlehem will surely slaughtered be with them, nor live another day! (_here a voice of lamentation shall be heard in the street._) _rachel._ o wicked king! o cruel speed! to do this most unrighteous deed! my children all are slain! _herod._ ho seneschal! another cup! with wine of sorek fill it up! i would a bumper drain! _rahab._ may maledictions fall and blast thyself and lineage, to the last of all thy kith and kin! _herod._ another goblet! quick! and stir pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh and calamus therein! _soldiers (in the street)_. give up thy child into our hands! it is king herod who commands that he should thus be slain! _the nurse medusa._ o monstrous men! what have ye done! it is king herod's only son that ye have cleft in twain! _herod._ ah, luckless day! what words of fear are these that smite upon my ear with such a doleful sound! what torments rack my heart and head! would i were dead! would i were dead, and buried in the ground! (_he falls down and writhes as though eaten by worms. hell opens, and_ satan _and_ astaroth _come forth, and drag him down._) vii. jesus at play with his schoolmates. _jesus._ the shower is over. let us play, and make some sparrows out of clay, down by the river's side. _judas._ see, how the stream has overflowed its banks, and o'er the meadow road is spreading far and wide! (_they draw water out of the river by channels, and form little pools_ jesus _makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the other boys do the same._) _jesus._ look! look! how prettily i make these little sparrows by the lake bend down their necks and drink! now will i make them sing and soar so far, they shall return no more into this river's brink. _judas._ that canst thou not! they are but clay, they cannot sing, nor fly away above the meadow lands! _jesus._ fly, fly! ye sparrows! you are free! and while you live, remember me, who made you with my hands. (_here_ jesus _shall clap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, chirruping._) _judas._ thou art a sorcerer, i know; oft has my mother told me so, i will not play with thee! (_he strikes_ jesus _on the right side._) _jesus._ ah, judas! thou has smote my side, and when i shall be crucified, there shall i pierced be! (_here_ joseph _shall come in, and say:_) _joseph._ ye wicked boys! why do ye play, and break the holy sabbath day? what, think ye, will your mothers say to see you in such plight! in such a sweat and such a heat, with all that mud-upon your feet! there's not a beggar in the street makes such a sorry sight! viii. the village school. _the_ rabbi ben israel, _with a long beard, sitting on a high stool, with a rod in his hand._ _rabbi._ i am the rabbi ben israel, throughout this village known full well, and, as my scholars all will tell, learned in things divine; the kabala and talmud hoar than all the prophets prize i more, for water is all bible lore, but mishna is strong wine. my fame extends from west to east, and always, at the purim feast, i am as drunk as any beast that wallows in his sty; the wine it so elateth me, that i no difference can see between "accursed haman be!" and "blessed be mordecai!" come hither, judas iscariot. say, if thy lesson thou hast got from the rabbinical book or not. why howl the dogs at night? _judas._ in the rabbinical book, it saith the dogs howl, when with icy breath great sammaã«l, the angel of death, takes through the town his flight! _rabbi._ well, boy! now say, if thou art wise, when the angel of death, who is full of eyes, comes where a sick man dying lies, what doth he to the wight? _judas._ he stands beside him, dark and tall, holding a sword, from which doth fall into his mouth a drop of gall, and so he turneth white. _rabbi._ and now, my judas, say to me what the great voices four may be, that quite across the world do flee, and are not heard by men? _judas._ the voice of the sun in heaven's dome, the voice of the murmuring of rome, the voice of a soul that goeth home, and the angel of the rain! _rabbi._ well have ye answered every one now little jesus, the carpenter's son, let us see how thy task is done. canst thou thy letters say? _jesus._ aleph. _rabbi._ what next? do not stop yet! go on with all the alphabet. come, aleph, beth; dost thou forget? cock's soul! thou'dst rather play! _jesus._ what aleph means i fain would know, before i any farther go! _rabbi._ o, by saint peter! wouldst thou so? come hither, boy, to me. and surely as the letter jod once cried aloud, and spake to god, so surely shalt thou feel this rod, and punished shalt thou be! (_here_ rabbi ben israel _shall lift up his rod to strike_ jesus, _and his right arm shall be paralyzed._) ix. crowned with flowers. jesus _sitting among his playmates, crowned with flowers as their king._ _boys._ we spread our garments on the ground' with fragrant flowers thy head is crowned, while like a guard we stand around, and hail thee as our king! thou art the new king of the jews! nor let the passers-by refuse to bring that homage which men use to majesty to bring. (_here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold of his garments and say:_) _boys._ come hither! and all reverence pay unto our monarch, crowned to-day! then go rejoicing on your way, in all prosperity! _traveller._ hail to the king of bethlehem, who weareth in his diadem the yellow crocus for the gem of his authority! (_he passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick child._) _boys._ set down the litter and draw near! the king of bethlehem is here! what ails the child, who seems to fear that we shall do him harm? _the bearers._ he climbed up to the robin's nest, and out there darted, from his rest, a serpent with a crimson crest, and stung him in the arm. _jesus._ bring him to me, and let me feel the wounded place; my touch can heal the sting of serpents, and can steal the poison from the bite! (_he touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry._) cease to lament! i can foresee that thou hereafter known shalt be, among the men who follow me, as simon the canaanite! * * * * * epilogue. in the after part of the day will be represented another play, of the passion of our blessed lord, beginning directly after nones! at the close of which we shall accord, by way of benison and reward, the sight of a holy martyr's bones! iv. the road hirschau. prince henry _and_ elsie, _with their attendants, on horseback._ _elsie._ onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bearing tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring! _prince henry._ this life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain, but under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain. _elsie._ faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with the stigma of pain, alone bears the likeness of christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma. _prince henry._ man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may betide; else why am i travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel's side? _elsie._ all the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under the creaking wain hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil and strain _prince henry._ now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs with the landlord's daughter, while out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern sides with water. _elsie._ all through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh his soul with love; even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above. _prince henry._ yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the highway ends, and over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends. _elsie._ i am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat; the air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses' feet. (_they turn down a green lane._) _elsie._ sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below is white with blossoming cheery trees, as if just covered with lightest snow. _prince henry._ over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant hill; we cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still. _elsie._ damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by our side! what is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide? _prince henry._ it is the home of the counts of calva; well have i known these scenes of old, well i remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the wold. _elsie._ hark! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing for rain! priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain. _prince henry._ they have not long to wait, for i see in the south uprising a little cloud, that before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. (_they pass on._) * * * * * the convent of hirschau in the black forest. * * * * * _the convent cellar._ friar claus _comes in with a light and a basket of empty flagons._ _friar claus._ i always enter this sacred place with a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, pausing long enough on each stair to breathe an ejaculatory prayer, and a benediction on the vines that produce these various sorts of wines! for my part, i am well content that we have got through with the tedious lent! fasting is all very well for those who have to contend with invisible foes; but i am quite sure it does not agree with a quiet, peaceable man like me, who am not of that nervous and meagre kind that are always distressed in body and mind! and at times it really does me good to come down among this brotherhood, dwelling forever under ground, silent, contemplative, round and sound; each one old, and brown with mould, but filled to the lips with the ardor of youth, with the latent power and love of truth, and with virtues fervent and manifold. i have heard it said, that at easter-tide, when buds are swelling on every side, and the sap begins to move in the vine. then in all the cellars, far and wide, the oldest, as well as the newest, wine begins to stir itself, and ferment, with a kind of revolt and discontent at being so long in darkness pent, and fain would burst from its sombre tun to bask on the hillside in the sun; as in the bosom of us poor friars, the tumult of half-subdued desires for the world that we have left behind disturbs at times all peace of mind! and now that we have lived through lent, my duty it is, as often before, to open awhile the prison-door, and give these restless spirits vent. now here is a cask that stands alone, and has stood a hundred years or more, its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, trailing and sweeping along the floor, like barbarossa, who sits in his cave, taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, till his beard has grown through the table of stone! it is of the quick and not of the dead! in its veins the blood is hot and red, and a heart still beats in those ribs of oak that time may have tamed, but has not broke; it comes from bacharach on the rhine, is one of the three best kinds of wine, and costs some hundred florins the ohm; but that i do not consider dear, when i remember that every year four butts are sent to the pope of rome. and whenever a goblet thereof i drain, the old rhyme keeps running in my brain: at bacharach on the rhine, at hochheim on the main, and at wã¼rzburg on the stein, grow the three best kinds of wine! they are all good wines, and better far than those of the neckar, or those of the ahr in particular, wã¼rzburg well may boast of its blessed wine of the holy ghost, which of all wines i like the most. this i shall draw for the abbot's drinking, who seems to be much of my way of thinking. (_fills a flagon._) ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! what a delicious fragrance springs from the deep flagon, while it fills, as of hyacinths and daffodils! between this cask and the abbot's lips many have been the sips and slips; many have been the draughts of wine, on their way to his, that have stopped at mine; and many a time my soul has hankered for a deep draught out of his silver tankard, when it should have been busy with other affairs, less with its longings and more with its prayers. but now there is no such awkward condition, no danger of death and eternal perdition; so here's to the abbot and brothers all, who dwell in this convent of peter and paul! (_he drinks._) o cordial delicious! o soother of pain! it flashes like sunshine into my brain! a benison rest on the bishop who sends such a fudder of wine as this to his friends! and now a flagon for such as may ask a draught from the noble bacharach cask, and i will be gone, though i know full well the cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell. behold where he stands, all sound and good, brown and old in his oaken hood; silent he seems externally as any carthusian monk may be; but within, what a spirit of deep unrest! what a seething and simmering in his breast! as if the heaving of his great heart would burst his belt of oak apart! let me unloose this button of wood, and quiet a little his turbulent mood. (_sets it running._) see! how its currents gleam and shine, as if they had caught the purple hues of autumn sunsets on the rhine, descending and mingling with the dews; or as if the grapes were stained with the blood of the innocent boy, who, some years back, was taken and crucified by the jews, in that ancient town of bacharach; perdition upon those infidel jews, in that ancient town of bacharach! the beautiful town, that gives us wine with the fragrant odor of muscadine! i should deem it wrong to let this pass without first touching my lips to the glass, for here in the midst of the current i stand, like the stone pfalz in the midst of the river taking toll upon either hand, and much more grateful to the giver. (_he drinks._) here, now, is a very inferior kind, such as in any town you may find, such as one might imagine would suit the rascal who drank wine out of a boot, and, after all, it was not a crime, for he won thereby dorf hã¼ffelsheim. a jolly old toper! who at a pull could drink a postilion's jack boot full, and ask with a laugh, when that was done, if the fellow had left the other one! this wine is as good as we can afford to the friars, who sit at the lower board, and cannot distinguish bad from good, and are far better off than if they could, being rather the rude disciples of beer than of anything more refined and dear! (_fills the other flagon and departs._) * * * * * the scriptorium. friar pacificus _transcribing and illuminating._ _friar pacificus_ it is growing dark! yet one line more, and then my work for today is o'er. i come again to the name of the lord! ere i that awful name record, that is spoken so lightly among men, let me pause awhile, and wash my pen; pure from blemish and blot must it be when it writes that word of mystery! thus have i labored on and on, nearly through the gospel of john. can it be that from the lips of this same gentle evangelist, that christ himself perhaps has kissed, came the dread apocalypse! it has a very awful look, as it stands there at the end of the book, like the sun in an eclipse. ah me! when i think of that vision divine, think of writing it, line by line, i stand in awe of the terrible curse, like the trump of doom, in the closing verse! god forgive me! if ever i take aught from the book of that prophecy, lest my part too should be taken away from the book of life on the judgment day. this is well written, though i say it! i should not be afraid to display it, in open day, on the selfsame shelf with the writings of st thecla herself, or of theodosius, who of old wrote the gospels in letters of gold! that goodly folio standing yonder, without a single blot or blunder, would not bear away the palm from mine, if we should compare them line for line. there, now, is an initial letter! king renã© himself never made a better! finished down to the leaf and the snail, down to the eyes on the peacock's tail! and now, as i turn the volume over, and see what lies between cover and cover, what treasures of art these pages hold, all ablaze with crimson and gold, god forgive me! i seem to feel a certain satisfaction steal into my heart, and into my brain, as if my talent had not lain wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. yes, i might almost say to the lord, here is a copy of thy word, written out with much toil and pain; take it, o lord, and let it be as something i have done for thee! (_he looks from the window._) how sweet the air is! how fair the scene! i wish i had as lovely a green to paint my landscapes and my leaves! how the swallows twitter under the eaves! there, now, there is one in her nest; i can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, and will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook, in the margin of my gospel book. (_he makes a sketch._) i can see no more. through the valley yonder a shower is passing; i hear the thunder mutter its curses in the air, the devil's own and only prayer! the dusty road is brown with rain, and speeding on with might and main, hitherward rides a gallant train. they do not parley, they cannot wait, but hurry in at the convent gate. what a fair lady! and beside her what a handsome, graceful, noble rider! now she gives him her hand to alight; they will beg a shelter for the night. i will go down to the corridor, and try to see that face once more; it will do for the face of some beautiful saint, or for one of the maries i shall paint. (_goes out._) * * * * * the cloisters. * * * * * _the_ abbot ernestus _pacing to and fro._ _abbot._ slowly, slowly up the wall steals the sunshine, steals the shade; evening damps begin to fall, evening shadows are displayed. round me, o'er me, everywhere, all the sky is grand with clouds, and athwart the evening air wheel the swallows home in crowds. shafts of sunshine from the west paint the dusky windows red; darker shadows, deeper rest, underneath and overhead. darker, darker, and more wan, in my breast the shadows fall; upward steals the life of man, as the sunshine from the wall. from the wall into the sky, from the roof along the spire; ah, the souls of those that die are but sunbeams lifted higher. (_enter_ prince henry.) _prince henry._ christ is arisen! _abbot._ amen! he is arisen! his peace be with you! _prince henry._ here it reigns forever! the peace of god, that passeth understanding, reigns in these cloisters and these corridors, are you ernestus, abbot of the convent? _abbot._ i am. _prince henry._ and i prince henry of hoheneck, who crave your hospitality to-night. _abbot._ you are thrice welcome to our humble walls. you do us honor; and we shall requite it, i fear, but poorly, entertaining you with paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine, the remnants of our easter holidays. _prince henry._ how fares it with the holy monks of hirschau? are all things well with them? _abbot._ all things are well. _prince henry._ a noble convent! i have known it long by the report of travellers. i now see their commendations lag behind the truth. you lie here in the valley of the nagold as in a nest: and the still river, gliding along its bed, is like an admonition how all things pass. your lands are rich and ample, and your revenues large. god's benediction rests on your convent. _abbot._ by our charities we strive to merit it. our lord and master, when he departed, left us in his will, as our best legacy on earth, the poor! these we have always with us; had we not, our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones. _prince henry._ if i remember right, the counts of calva founded your convent. _abbot._ even as you say. _prince henry._ and, if i err not, it is very old. _abbot._ within these cloisters lie already buried twelve holy abbots. underneath the flags on which we stand, the abbot william lies, of blessed memory. _prince henry._ and whose tomb is that, which bears the brass escutcheon? _abbot._ a benefactor's. conrad, a count of calva, he who stood godfather to our bells. _prince henry._ your monks are learned and holy men, i trust. _abbot._ there are among them learned and holy men. yet in this age we need another hildebrand, to shake and purify us like a mighty wind. the world is wicked, and sometimes i wonder god does not lose his patience with it wholly, and shatter it like glass! even here, at times, within these walls, where all should be at peace, i have my trials. time has laid his hand upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, but as a harper lays his open palm upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. ashes are on my head, and on my lips sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness and weariness of life, that makes me ready to say to the dead abbots under us, "make room for me!" only i see the dusk of evening twilight coming, and have not completed half my task; and so at times the thought of my shortcomings in this life falls like a shadow on the life to come. _prince henry._ we must all die, and not the old alone; the young have no exemption from that doom. _abbot._ ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must! that is the difference. _prince henry._ i have heard much laud of your transcribers. your scriptorium is famous among all, your manuscripts praised for their beauty and their excellence. _abbot._ that is indeed our boast. if you desire it, you shall behold these treasures. and meanwhile shall the refectorarius bestow your horses and attendants for the night. (_they go in. the vesper-bell rings._) * * * * * the chapel. * * * * * _vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old monk who is blind_. _prince henry._ they are all gone, save one who lingers, absorbed in deep and silent prayer. as if his heart could find no rest, at times he beats his heaving breast with clenched and convulsive fingers, then lifts them trembling in the air. a chorister, with golden hair, guides hitherward his heavy pace. can it be so? or does my sight deceive me in the uncertain light? ah no! i recognize that face, though time has touched it in his flight, and changed the auburn hair to white. it is count hugo of the rhine, the deadliest foe of all our race, and hateful unto me and mine! _the blind monk_. who is it that doth stand so near his whispered words i almost hear? _prince henry_. i am prince henry of hoheneck, and you, count hugo of the rhine! i know you, and i see the scar, the brand upon your forehead, shine and redden like a baleful star! _the blind monk_. count hugo once, but now the wreck of what i was. o hoheneck! the passionate will, the pride, the wrath that bore me headlong on my path, stumbled and staggered into fear, and failed me in my mad career, as a tired steed some evil-doer, alone upon a desolate moor, bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, and hearing loud and close behind the o'ertaking steps of his pursuer. then suddenly, from the dark there came a voice that called me by my name, and said to me, "kneel down and pray!" and so my terror passed away, passed utterly away forever. contrition, penitence, remorse, came on me, with o'erwhelming force; a hope, a longing, an endeavor, by days of penance and nights of prayer, to frustrate and defeat despair! calm, deep, and still is now my heart. with tranquil waters overflowed; a lake whose unseen fountains start, where once the hot volcano glowed. and you, o prince of hoheneck! have known me in that earlier time, a man of violence and crime, whose passions brooked no curb nor check. behold me now, in gentler mood, one of this holy brotherhood. give me your hand; here let me kneel; make your reproaches sharp as steel; spurn me, and smite me on each cheek; no violence can harm the meek, there is no wound christ cannot heal! yes; lift your princely hand, and take revenge, if 't is revenge you seek, then pardon me, for jesus' sake! _prince henry._ arise, count hugo! let there be no farther strife nor enmity between us twain; we both have erred! too rash in act, too wroth in word, from the beginning have we stood in fierce, defiant attitude, each thoughtless of the other's right, and each reliant on his might. but now our souls are more subdued; the hand of god, and not in vain, has touched us with the fire of pain. let us kneel down, and side by side pray, till our souls are purified, and pardon will not be denied! (_they kneel._) * * * * * the refectory. * * * * * _gaudiolum of monks at midnight. lucifer disguised as a friar._ _friar paul (sings)._ ave! color vini clari, dulcis potus, non aman, tua nos inebriari digneris potentia! _friar cuthbert._ not so much noise, my worthy freres, you'll disturb the abbot at his prayers. _friar paul (sings)._ o! quam placens in colore! o! quam fragrans in odore! o! quam sapidum in ore! dulce linguse vinculum! _friar cuthbert._ i should think your tongue had broken its chain! _friar paul (sings)._ felix venter quern intrabis! felix guttur quod rigabis! felix os quod tu lavabis! et beata labia! _friar cuthbert._ peace! i say, peace! will you never cease! you will rouse up the abbot, i tell you again! _friar john._ no danger! to-night he will let us alone, as i happen to know he has guests of his own. _friar cuthbert._ who are they? _friar john._ a german prince and his train, who arrived here just before the rain. there is with him a damsel fair to see, as slender and graceful as a reed! when she alighted from her steed, it seemed like a blossom blown from a tree. _friar cuthbert._ none of your pale-faced girls for me! (_kisses the girl at his side_.) _friar john._ come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! do not drink any farther, i beg! _friar paul (sings)._ in the days of gold, the days of old, cross of wood and bishop of gold! _friar cuthbert (to the girl)._ what an infernal racket and din! no need not blush so, that's no sin. you look very holy in this disguise, though there's something wicked in your eyes! _friar paul (continues.)_ now we have changed that law so good, to cross of gold and bishop of wood! _friar cuthbert._ i like your sweet face under a hood. sister! how came you into this way? _girl._ it was you, friar cuthbert, who led me astray. have you forgotten that day in june, when the church was so cool in the afternoon, and i came in to confess my sins? that is where my ruin begins. _friar john._ what is the name of yonder friar, with an eye that glows like a coal of fire, and such a black mass of tangled hair? _friar paul._ he who is sitting there, with a rollicking, devil may care, free and easy look and air, as if he were used to such feasting and frollicking? _friar john._ the same. _friar paul._ he's a stranger. you had better ask his name, and where he is going, and whence he came. _friar john._ hallo! sir friar! _friar paul._ you must raise your voice a little higher, he does not seem to hear what you say. now, try again! he is looking this way. _friar john._ hallo! sir friar, we wish to inquire whence you came, and where you are going, and anything else that is worth the knowing. so be so good as to open your head. _lucifer._ i am a frenchman born and bred, going on a pilgrimage to rome. my home is the convent of st. gildas de rhuys, of which, very like, you never have heard. _monks._ never a word! _lucifer._ you must know, then, it is in the diocese called the diocese of vannes, in the province of brittany. from the gray rocks of morbihan it overlooks the angry sea; the very seashore where, in his great despair, abbot abelard walked to and fro, filling the night with woe, and wailing aloud to the merciless seas the name of his sweet heloise! whilst overhead the convent windows gleamed as red as the fiery eyes of the monks within, who with jovial din gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! over the doors, none of your death-heads carved in wood, none of your saints looking pious and good, none of your patriarchs old and shabby! but the heads and tusks of boars, and the cells hung all round with the fells of the fallow-deer, and then what cheer! what jolly, fat friars, sitting round the great, roaring fires, roaring louder than they, with their strong wines, and their concubines, and never a bell, with its swagger and swell, calling you up with a start of affright in the dead of night, to send you grumbling down dark stairs, to mumble your prayers, but the cheery crow of cocks in the yard below, after daybreak, an hour or so, and the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, these are the sounds that, instead of bells, salute the ear. and then all day up and away through the forest, hunting the deer! ah, my friends! i'm afraid that here you are a little too pious, a little too tame, and the more is the shame, it is the greatest folly not to be jolly; that's what i think! come, drink, drink, drink, and die game! _monks,_ and your abbot what's-his-name? _lucifer._ abelard! _monks._ did he drink hard? _lucifer._ o, no! not he! he was a dry old fellow, without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. there he stood, lowering at us in sullen mood, as if he had come into brittany just to reform our brotherhood! (_a roar of laughter_.) but you see it never would do! for some of us knew a thing or two, in the abbey of st. gildas de rhuys! for instance, the great ado with old fulbert's niece, the young and lovely heloise! _friar john._ stop there, if you please, till we drink to the fair heloise. _all (drinking and shouting)._ heloise! heloise! (_the chapel-bell tolls_.) _lucifer (starting)._ what is that bell for? are you such asses as to keep up the fashion of midnight masses? _friar cuthbert._ it is only a poor, unfortunate brother, who is gifted with most miraculous powers of getting up at all sorts of hours, and, by way of penance and christian meekness, of creeping silently out of his cell to take a pull at that hideous bell; so that all the monks who are lying awake may murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, and adapted to his peculiar weakness! _friar john._ from frailty and fall- _all._ good lord, deliver us all! _friar cuthbert._ and before the bell for matins sounds, he takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, flashing it into our sleepy eyes, merely to say it is time to arise. but enough of that. go on, if you please, with your story about st. gildas de rhuys. _lucifer._ well, it finally came to pass that, half in fun and half in malice, one sunday at mass we put some poison into the chalice. but, either by accident or design, peter abelard kept away from the chapel that day, and a poor, young friar, who in his stead drank the sacramental wine, fell on the steps of the altar, dead! but look! do you see at the window there that face, with a look of grief and despair, that ghastly face, as of one in pain? _monks._ who? where? _lucifer._ as i spoke, it vanished away again. _friar cuthbert._ it is that nefarious siebald the refectorarius. that fellow is always playing the scout, creeping and peeping and prowling about; and then he regales the abbot with scandalous tales. _lucifer_. a spy in the convent? one of the brothers telling scandalous tales of the others? out upon him, the lazy loon! i would put a stop to that pretty soon, in a way he should rue it. _monks_. how shall we do it? _lucifer_. do you, brother paul, creep under the window, close to the wall, and open it suddenly when i call. then seize the villain by the hair, and hold him there, and punish him soundly, once for all. _friar cuthbert_. as st. dustan of old, we are told, once caught the devil by the nose! _lucifer_. ha! ha! that story is very clever, but has no foundation whatsoever. quick! for i see his face again glaring in at the window pane; now! now! and do not spare your blows. (friar paul _opens the window suddenly, and seizes_ siebald. _they beat him._) _friar siebald_. help! help! are you going to slay me? _friar paul_. that will teach you again to betray me! _friar siebald_. mercy! mercy! _friar paul_ (_shouting and beating_). rumpas bellorum lorum, vim confer amorum morum verorum, rorun. tu plena polorum! _lucifer_. who stands in the doorway yonder, stretching out his trembling hand, just as abelard used to stand, the flash of his keen, black eyes forerunning the thunder? _the monks (in confusion)_. the abbot! the abbot! _friar cuthbert (to the girl)_. put on your disguise! _friar francis_. hide the great flagon from the eyes of the dragon! _friar cuthbert_. pull the brown hood over your face, lest you bring me into disgrace! _abbot_. what means this revel and carouse? is this a tavern and drinking-house? are you christian monks, or heathen devils, to pollute this convent with your revels? were peter damian still upon earth, to be shocked by such ungodly mirth, he would write your names, with pen of gall, in his book of gomorrah, one and all! away, you drunkards! to your cells, and pray till you hear the matin-bells; you, brother francis, and you, brother paul! and as a penance mark each prayer with the scourge upon your shoulders bare; nothing atones for such a sin but the blood that follows the discipline. and you, brother cuthbert, come with me alone into the sacristy; you, who should be a guide to your brothers, and are ten times worse than all the others, for you i've a draught that has long been brewing you shall do a penance worth the doing! away to your prayers, then, one and all! i wonder the very, convent wall does not crumble and crush you in its fall! * * * * * the neighboring nunnery. * * * * * _the_ abbess irmingard _sitting with_ elsie _in the moonlight._ _irmingard_ the night is silent, the wind is still, the moon is looking from yonder hill down upon convent, and grove, and garden; the clouds have passed away from her face, leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, only the tender and quiet grace of one, whose heart had been healed with pardon! and such am i. my soul within was dark with passion and soiled with sin. but now its wounds are healed again; gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; for across that desolate land of woe, o'er whose burning sands i was forced to go, a wind from heaven began to blow; and all my being trembled and shook, as the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, and i was healed, as the sick are healed, when fanned by the leaves of the holy book! as thou sittest in the moonlight there, its glory flooding thy golden hair, and the only darkness that which lies in the haunted chambers of thine eyes, i feel my soul drawn unto thee, strangely, and strongly, and more and more, as to one i have known and loved before; for every soul is akin to me that dwells in the land of mystery! i am the lady irmingard, born of a noble race and name! many a wandering suabian bard, whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, has found through me the way to fame. brief and bright were those days, and the night which followed was full of a lurid light. love, that of every woman's heart will have the whole, and not a part, that is to her, in nature's plan, more than ambition is to man, her light, her life, her very breath, with no alternative but death, found me a maiden soft and young, just from the convent's cloistered school, and seated on my lowly stool, attentive while the minstrels sung. gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, fairest, noblest, best of all, was walter of the vogelweid, and, whatsoever may betide, still i think of him with pride! his song was of the summer-time the very birds sang in his rhyme; the sunshine, the delicious air, the fragrance of the flowers, were there, and i grew restless as i heard, restless and buoyant as a bird, down soft, aã«rial currents sailing, o'er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom, and through the momentary gloom of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, yielding and borne i knew not where, but feeling resistance unavailing. and thus, unnoticed and apart, and more by accident than choice. i listened to that single voice until the chambers of my heart were filled with it by night and day, one night,--it was a night in may,-within the garden, unawares, under the blossoms in the gloom, i heard it utter my own name with protestations and wild prayers; and it rang through me, and became like the archangel's trump of doom, which the soul hears, and must obey; and mine arose as from a tomb. my former life now seemed to me such as hereafter death may be, when in the great eternity we shall awake and find it day. it was a dream, and would not stay; a dream, that in a single night faded and vanished out of sight. my father's anger followed fast this passion, as a freshening blast seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage it may increase, but not assuage. and he exclaimed: "no wandering bard shall win thy hand, o irmingard! for which prince henry of hoheneck by messenger and letter sues." gently, but firmly, i replied: "henry of hoheneck i discard! never the hand of irmingard shall lie in his as the hand of a bride!" this said i, walter, for thy sake: this said i, for i could not choose. after a pause, my father spake in that cold and deliberate tone which turns the hearer into stone, and seems itself the act to be that follows with such dread certainty; "this, or the cloister and the veil!" no other words than these he said, but they were like a funeral wail; my life was ended, my heart was dead. that night from the castle-gate went down, with silent, slow, and stealthy pace, two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, taking the narrow path that leads into the forest dense and brown, in the leafy darkness of the place, one could not distinguish form nor face, only a bulk without a shape, a darker shadow in the shade; one scarce could say it moved or stayed, thus it was we made our escape! a foaming brook, with many a bound, followed us like a playful hound; then leaped before us, and in the hollow paused, and waited for us to follow, and seemed impatient, and afraid that our tardy flight should be betrayed by the sound our horses' hoof-beats made, and when we reached the plain below, he paused a moment and drew rein to look back at the castle again; and we saw the windows all aglow with lights, that were passing to and fro; our hearts with terror ceased to beat; the brook crept silent to our feet; we knew what most we feared to know. then suddenly horns began to blow; and we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, and our horses snorted in the damp night-air of the meadows green and wide, and in a moment, side by side, so close, they must have seemed but one, the shadows across the moonlight run, and another came, and swept behind, like the shadow of clouds before the wind! how i remember that breathless flight across the moors, in the summer night! how under our feet the long, white road backward like a river flowed, sweeping with it fences and hedges, whilst farther away, and overhead, paler than i, with fear and dread, the moon fled with us, as we fled along the forest's jagged edges! all this i can remember well; but of what afterward befell i nothing farther can recall than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; the rest is a blank and darkness all. when i awoke out of this swoon, the sun was shining, not the moon, making a cross upon the wall with the bars of my windows narrow and tall; and i prayed to it, as i had been wont to pray, from early childhood, day by day, each morning, as in bed i lay! i was lying again in my own room! and i thanked god, in my fever and pain, that those shadows on the midnight plain were gone, and could not come again! i struggled no longer with my doom! this happened many years ago. i left my father's home to come like catherine to her martyrdom, for blindly i esteemed it so. and when i heard the convent door behind me close, to ope no more, i felt it smite me like a blow, through all my limbs a shudder ran, and on my bruised spirit fell the dampness of my narrow cell as night-air on a wounded man, giving intolerable pain. but now a better life began, i felt the agony decrease by slow degrees, then wholly cease, ending in perfect rest and peace! it was not apathy, nor dulness, that weighed and pressed upon my brain, but the same passion i had given to earth before, now turned to heaven with all its overflowing fulness. alas! the world is full of peril! the path that runs through the fairest meads, on the sunniest side of the valley, leads into a region bleak and sterile! alike in the high-born and the lowly, the will is feeble, and passion strong. we cannot sever right from wrong; some falsehood mingles with all truth; nor is it strange the heart of youth should waver and comprehend but slowly the things that are holy and unholy! but in this sacred and calm retreat, we are all well and safely shielded from winds that blow, and waves that beat, from the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, to which the strongest hearts have yielded. here we stand as the virgins seven, for our celestial bridegroom yearning; our hearts are lamps forever burning, with a steady and unwavering flame, pointing upward, forever the same, steadily upward toward the heaven! the moon is hidden behind a cloud; a sudden darkness fills the room, and thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, shine like jewels in a shroud. on the leaves is a sound of falling rain; a bird, awakened in its nest, gives a faint twitter of unrest, then smoothes its plumes and sleeps again. no other sounds than these i hear; the hour of midnight must be near. thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue of riding many a dusty league; sink, then, gently to thy slumber; me so many cares encumber, so many ghosts, and forms of fright, have started from their graves to-night, they have driven sleep from mine eyes away: i will go down to the chapel and pray. * * * * * v. a covered bridge at lucerne. * * * * * _prince henry_. god's blessing on the architects who build the bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses before impassable to human feet, no less than on the builders of cathedrals, whose massive walls are bridges thrown across the dark and terrible abyss of death. well has the name of pontifex been given unto the church's head, as the chief builder and architect of the invisible bridge that leads from earth to heaven. _elsie_ how dark it grows! what are these paintings on the walls around us? _prince henry_ the dance macaber! _elsie_ what? _prince henry_ the dance of death! all that go to and fro must look upon it, mindful of what they shall be, while beneath, among the wooden piles, the turbulent river rushes, impetuous as the river of life, with dimpling eddies, ever green and bright, save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it. _elsie._ o, yes! i see it now! _prince henry_ the grim musician leads all men through the mazes of that dance, to different sounds in different measures moving; sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum, to tempt or terrify. _elsie_ what is this picture? _prince henry_ it is a young man singing to a nun, who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling turns round to look at him, and death, meanwhile, is putting out the candles on the altar! _elsie_ ah, what a pity 't is that she should listen to such songs, when in her orisons she might have heard in heaven the angels singing! _prince henry_ here he has stolen a jester's cap and bells, and dances with the queen. _elsie_ a foolish jest! _prince henry_ and here the heart of the new-wedded wife, coming from church with her beloved lord, he startles with the rattle of his drum. _elsie_ ah, that is sad! and yet perhaps 't is best that she should die, with all the sunshine on her, and all the benedictions of the morning, before this affluence of golden light shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, then into darkness! _prince henry_ under it is written, "nothing but death shall separate thee and me!" _elsie._ and what is this, that follows close upon it? _prince henry_ death, playing on a ducimer. behind him, a poor old woman, with a rosary, follows the sound, and seems to wish her feet were swifter to o'ertake him. underneath, the inscription reads, "better is death than life." _elsie._ better is death than life! ah yes! to thousands death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings that song of consolation, till the air rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow whither he leads. and not the old alone, but the young also hear it, and are still. _prince henry_ yes, in their sadder moments. 't is the sound of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, which are like crystal cups, half filled with water. responding to the pressure of a finger with music sweet and low and melancholy. let us go forward, and no longer stay in this great picture-gallery of death! i hate it! ay, the very thought of it! _elsie._ why is it hateful to you? _prince henry._ for the reason that life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely, and death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful. _elsie._ the grave is but a covered bridge, leading from light to light, through a brief darkness! _prince henry (emerging from the bridge)._ i breathe again more freely! ah, how pleasant to come once more into the light of day, out of that shadow of death! to hear again the hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground, and not upon those hollow planks, resounding with a sepulchral echo, like the clods on coffins in a churchyard! yonder lies the lake of the four forest-towns, apparelled in light, and lingering, like a village maiden, hid in the bosom of her native mountains, then pouring all her life into another's, changing her name and being! overhead, shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, rises pilatus, with his windy pines. (_they pass on_.) * * * * * the devil's bridge. * * * * * prince henry _and_ elsie _crossing, with attendants._ _guide._ this bridge is called the devil's bridge. with a single arch, from ridge to ridge, it leaps across the terrible chasm yawning beneath us, black and deep, as if, in some convulsive spasm, the summits of the hills had cracked, and made a road for the cataract, that raves and rages down the steep! _lucifer (under the bridge)._ ha! ha! _guide._ never any bridge but this could stand across the wild abyss; all the rest, of wood or stone, by the devil's hand were overthrown. he toppled crags from the precipice, and whatsoe'er was built by day in the night was swept away; none could stand but this alone. _lucifer (under the bridge)._ ha! ha! _guide._ i showed you in the valley a boulder marked with the imprint of his shoulder; as he was bearing it up this way, a peasant, passing, cried, "herr jã©!" and the devil dropped it in his fright, and vanished suddenly out of sight! _lucifer (under the bridge)._ ha! ha! _guide._ abbot giraldus of einsiedel, for pilgrims on their way to rome, built this at last, with a single arch, under which, on its endless march, runs the river, white with foam, like a thread through the eye of a needle. and the devil promised to let it stand, under compact and condition that the first living thing which crossed should be surrendered into his hand, and be beyond redemption lost. _lucifer (under the bridge)._ ha! ha! perdition! _guide._ at length, the bridge being all completed, the abbot, standing at its head, threw across it a loaf of bread, which a hungry dog sprang after, and the rocks reechoed with peals of laughter to see the devil thus defeated! (_they pass on_) _lucifer_ (_under the bridge_) ha! ha! defeated! for journeys and for crimes like this to let the bridge stand o'er the abyss! * * * * * the st. gothard pass. * * * * * _prince henry._ this is the highest point. two ways the rivers leap down to different seas, and as they roll grow deep and still, and their majestic presence becomes a benefaction to the towns they visit, wandering silently among them, like patriarchs old among their shining tents. _elsie._ how bleak and bare it is! nothing but mosses grow on these rocks. _prince henry._ yet are they not forgotten; beneficent nature sends the mists to feed them. _elsie._ see yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft so tenderly by the wind, floats fast away over the snowy peaks! it seems to me the body of st. catherine, borne by angels! _prince henry._ thou art st. catherine, and invisible angels bear thee across these chasms and precipices, lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone! _elsie._ would i were borne unto my grave, as she was, upon angelic shoulders! even now i seem uplifted by them, light as air! what sound is that? _prince henry_. the tumbling avalanches! _elsie_ how awful, yet how beautiful! _prince henry_. these are the voices of the mountains! thus they ope their snowy lips, and speak unto each other, in the primeval language, lost to man. _elsie_. what land is this that spreads itself beneath us? _prince henry_ italy! italy! _elsie_ land of the madonna! how beautiful it is! it seems a garden of paradise! _prince henry_. nay, of gethsemane to thee and me, of passion and of prayer! yet once of paradise. long years ago i wandered as a youth among its bowers, and never from my heart has faded quite its memory, that, like a summer sunset, encircles with a ring of purple light all the horizon of my youth. _guide_. o friends! the days are short, the way before us long; we must not linger, if we think to reach the inn at belinzona before vespers! (_they pass on_.) * * * * * at the foot of the alps. * * * * * _a halt under the trees at noon_. _prince henry_ here let us pause a moment in the trembling shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees, and, our tired horses in a group assembling, inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; they lag behind us with a slower pace; we will await them under the green pendants of the great willows in this shady place. ho, barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches sweat with this canter over hill and glade! stand still, and let these overhanging branches fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade! _elsie._ what a delightful landscape spreads before us, marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there! and, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, blossoms of grapevines scent the sunny air. _prince henry._ hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet! _elsie._ it is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly on their long journey, with uncovered feet. _pilgrims (chaunting the hymn of st. hildebert)_ me receptet sion illa, sion david, urbs tranquilla, cujus faber auctor lucis, cujus portae lignum crucis, cujus claves lingua petri, cujus cives semper laeti, cujus muri lapis vivus, cujus custos rex festivus! _lucifer (as a friar in the procession)._ here am i, too, in the pious band, in the garb of a barefooted carmelite dressed! the soles of my feet are as hard and tanned as the conscience of old pope hildebrand, the holy satan, who made the wives of the bishops lead such shameful lives. all day long i beat my breast, and chaunt with a most particular zest the latin hymns, which i understand quite as well, i think, as the rest. and at night such lodging in barns and sheds, such a hurly-burly in country inns, such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! of all the contrivances of the time for sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, there is none so pleasing to me and mine as a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine! _prince henry._ if from the outward man we judge the inner, and cleanliness is godliness, i fear a hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, must be that carmelite now passing near. _lucifer._ there is my german prince again, thus far on his journey to salern, and the lovesick girl, whose heated brain is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; but it's a long road that has no turn! let them quietly hold their way, i have also a part in the play. but first i must act to my heart's content this mummery and this merriment, and drive this motley flock of sheep into the fold, where drink and sleep the jolly old friars of benevent. of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh to see these beggars hobble along, lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, chanting their wonderful piff and paff, and, to make up for not understanding the song, singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! were it not for my magic garters and staff, and the goblets of goodly wine i quaff, and the mischief i make in the idle throng, i should not continue the business long. _pilgrims (chaunting)._ in hã¢c uibe, lux solennis, ver aeternum, pax perennis, in hã¢c odor implens caelos, in hã¢c semper festum melos! _prince henry._ do you observe that monk among the train, who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, as a cathedral spout pours out the rain, and this way turns his rubicund, round face? _elsie._ it is the same who, on the strasburg square, preached to the people in the open air. _prince henry._ and he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, on that good steed, that seems to bear him well, the hackney of the friars of orders gray, his own stout legs! he, too, was in the play, both as king herod and ben israel. good morrow, friar! _friar cuthbert._ good morrow, noble sir! _prince henry._ i speak in german, for, unless i err, you are a german. _friar cuthbert._ i cannot gainsay you. but by what instinct, or what secret sign, meeting me here, do you straightway divine that northward of the alps my country lies? _prince henry._ your accent, like st, peter's, would betray you, did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes, moreover, we have seen your face before, and heard you preach at the cathedral door on easter sunday, in the strasburg square we were among the crowd that gathered there, and saw you play the rabbi with great skill, as if, by leaning o'er so many years to walk with little children, your own will had caught a childish attitude from theirs, a kind of stooping in its form and gait, and could no longer stand erect and straight. whence come you now? _friar cuthbert._ from the old monastery of hirschau, in the forest; being sent upon a pilgrimage to benevent, to see the image of the virgin mary, that moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks, and lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks, to touch the hearts of the impenitent. _prince henry._ o, had i faith, as in the days gone by, that knew no doubt, and feared no mystery! _lucifer (at a distance)._ ho, cuthbert! friar cuthbert! _friar cuthbert._ farewell, prince! i cannot stay to argue and convince. _prince henry._ this is indeed the blessed mary's land, virgin and mother of our dear redeemer! all hearts are touched and softened at her name; alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, the priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant, the man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, pay homage to her as one ever present! and even as children, who have much offended a too indulgent father, in great shame, penitent, and yet not daring unattended to go into his presence, at the gate speak with their sister, and confiding wait till she goes in before and intercedes; so men, repenting of their evil deeds, and yet not venturing rashly to draw near with their requests an angry father's ear, offer to her their prayers and their confession, and she for them in heaven makes intercession. and if our faith had given us nothing more than this example of all womanhood, so mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, so patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, this were enough to prove it higher and truer than all the creeds the world had known before. _pilgrims (chaunting afar off)_. urbs ccelestis, urbs beata, supra petram collocata, urbs in portu satis tuto de longinquo te saluto, te saluto, te suspiro, te affecto, te requiro! * * * * * the inn at genoa. * * * * * _a terrace overlooking the sea. night._ _prince henry._ it is the sea, it is the sea, in all its vague immensity, fading and darkening in the distance! silent, majestical, and slow, the white ships haunt it to and fro, with all their ghostly sails unfurled, as phantoms from another world haunt the dim confines of existence! but ah! how few can comprehend their signals, or to what good end from land to land they come and go! upon a sea more vast and dark the spirits of the dead embark, all voyaging to unknown coasts. we wave our farewells from the shore, and they depart, and come no more, or come as phantoms and as ghosts. above the darksome sea of death looms the great life that is to be, a land of cloud and mystery, a dim mirage, with shapes of men long dead, and passed beyond our ken. awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath till the fair pageant vanisheth, leaving us in perplexity, and doubtful whether it has been a vision of the world unseen, or a bright image of our own against the sky in vapors thrown. _lucifer (singing from the sea)_. thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it, but thou hast the power to end it! the sea is silent, the sea is discreet, deep it lies at thy very feet; there is no confessor like unto death! thou canst not see him, but he is near; thou needest not whisper above thy breath, and he will hear; he will answer the questions, the vague surmises and suggestions, that fill thy soul with doubt and fear! _prince henry_. the fisherman, who lies afloat, with shadowy sail, in yonder boat, is singing softly to the night! but do i comprehend aright the meaning of the words he sung so sweetly in his native tongue? ah, yes! the sea is still and deep. all things within its bosom sleep! a single step, and all is o'er; a plunge, a bubble, and no more; and thou, dear elsie, wilt be free from martyrdom and agony. _elsie (coming from her chamber upon the terrace)._ the night is calm and cloudless, and still as still can be, and the stars come forth to listen to the music of the sea. they gather, and gather, and gather, until they crowd the sky, and listen, in breathless silence, to the solemn litany. it begins in rocky caverns, as a voice that chaunts alone to the pedals of the organ in monotonous undertone; and anon from shelving beaches, and shallow sands beyond, in snow-white robes uprising the ghostly choirs respond. and sadly and unceasing the mournful voice sings on, and the snow-white choirs still answer christe eleison! _prince henry._ angel of god! thy finer sense perceives celestial and perpetual harmonies! thy purer soul, that trembles and believes, hears the archangel's trumpet in the breeze, and where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, and tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves. but i hear discord only and despair, and whispers as of demons in the air! * * * * * at sea. * * * * * _il padrone._ the wind upon our quarter lies, and on before the freshening gale, that fills the snow-white lateen sail, swiftly our light felucca flies. around, the billows burst and foam; they lift her o'er the sunken rock, they beat her sides with many a shock, and then upon their flowing dome they poise her, like a weathercock! between us and the western skies the hills of corsica arise; eastward, in yonder long, blue line, the summits of the apennine, and southward, and still far away, salerno, on its sunny bay. you cannot see it, where it lies. _prince henry._ ah, would that never more mine eyes might see its towers by night or day! _elsie._ behind us, dark and awfully, there comes a cloud out of the sea, that bears the form of a hunted deer, with hide of brown, and hoofs of black, and antlers laid upon its back, and fleeing fast and wild with fear, as if the hounds were on its track! _prince henry._ lo! while we gaze, it breaks and falls in shapeless masses, like the walls of a burnt city. broad and red the fires of the descending sun glare through the windows, and o'erhead, athwart the vapors, dense and dun, long shafts of silvery light arise, like rafters that support the skies! _elsie._ see! from its summit the lurid levin flashes downward without warning, as lucifer, son of the morning, fell from the battlements of heaven! _il padrone._ i must entreat you, friends, below! the angry storm begins to blow, for the weather changes with the moon. all this morning, until noon, we had baffling winds, and sudden flaws struck the sea with their cat's-paws. only a little hour ago i was whistling to saint antonio for a capful of wind to fill our sail, and instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. last night i saw st. elmo's stars, with their glimmering lanterns, all at play on the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars, and i knew we should have foul weather to-day. cheerily, my hearties! yo heave ho! brail up the mainsail, and let her go as the winds will and saint antonio! do you see that livornese felucca, that vessel to the windward yonder, running with her gunwale under? i was looking when the wind o'ertook her, she had all sail set, and the only wonder is that at once the strength of the blast did not carry away her mast. she is a galley of the gran duca, that, through the fear of the algerines, convoys those lazy brigantines, laden with wine and oil from lucca. now all is ready, high and low; blow, blow, good saint antonio! ha! that is the first dash of the rain, with a sprinkle of spray above the rails, just enough to moisten our sails, and make them ready for the strain. see how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her, and speeds away with a bone in her mouth! now keep her head toward the south, and there is no danger of bank or breaker. with the breeze behind us, on we go; not too much, good saint antonio! vi. the school of salerno. _a traveling scholastic affixing his theses to the gate of the college._ _scholastic._ there, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield, hung up as a challenge to all the field! one hundred and twenty-five propositions, which i will maintain with the sword of the tongue against all disputants, old and young. let us see if doctors or dialecticians will dare to dispute my definitions, or attack any one of my learned theses. here stand i; the end shall be as god pleases. i think i have proved, by profound research the error of all those doctrines so vicious of the old areopagite dionysius, that are making such terrible work in the churches, by michael the stammerer sent from the east, and done into latin by that scottish beast, erigena johannes, who dares to maintain, in the face of the truth, the error infernal, that the universe is and must be eternal; at first laying down, as a fact fundamental, that nothing with god can be accidental; then asserting that god before the creation could not have existed, because it is plain that, had he existed, he would have created; which is begging the question that should be debated, and moveth me less to anger than laughter. all nature, he holds, is a respiration of the spirit of god, who, in breathing, hereafter will inhale it into his bosom again, so that nothing but god alone will remain. and therein he contradicteth himself; for he opens the whole discussion by stating, that god can only exist in creating. that question i think i have laid on the shelf! (_he goes out. two doctors come in disputing, and followed by pupils._) _doctor serafino._ i, with the doctor seraphic, maintain, that a word which is only conceived in the brain is a type of eternal generation; the spoken word is the incarnation. _doctor cherubino._ what do i care for the doctor seraphic, with all his wordy chaffer and traffic? _doctor serafino._ you make but a paltry show of resistance; universals have no real existence! _doctor cherubino._ your words are but idle and empty chatter; ideas are eternally joined to matter! _doctor serafino_. may the lord have mercy on your position, you wretched, wrangling culler of herbs! _doctor cherubino_. may he send your soul to eternal perdition, for your treatise on the irregular verbs! (_they rush out fighting. two scholars come in._) _first scholar_. monte cassino, then, is your college. what think you of ours here at salern? _second scholar_. to tell the truth, i arrived so lately, i hardly yet have had time to discern. so much, at least, i am bound to acknowledge: the air seems healthy, the buildings stately, and on the whole i like it greatly. _first scholar_. yes, the air is sweet; the calabrian hills send us down puffs of mountain air; and in summer time the sea-breeze fills with its coolness cloister, and court, and square. then at every season of the year there are crowds of guests and travellers here; pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders from the levant, with figs and wine, and bands of wounded and sick crusaders, coming back from palestine. _second scholar_. and what are the studies you pursue? what is the course you here go through? _first scholar_. the first three years of the college course are given to logic alone, as the source of all that is noble, and wise, and true. _second scholar_. that seems rather strange, i must confess. in a medical school; yet, nevertheless, you doubtless have reasons for that. _first scholar_. oh yes! for none but a clever dialectician can hope to become a great physician; that has been settled long ago. logic makes an important part of the mystery of the healing art; for without it how could you hope to show that nobody knows so much as you know? after this there are five years more devoted wholly to medicine, with lectures on chirurgical lore, and dissections of the bodies of swine, as likest the human form divine. _second scholar_. what are the books now most in vogue? _first scholar_. quite an extensive catalogue; mostly, however, books of our own; as gariopontus' passionarius, and the writings of matthew platearius; and a volume universally known as the regimen of the school of salern, for robert of normandy written in terse and very elegant latin verse. each of these writings has its turn. and when at length we have finished these, then comes the struggle for degrees, with all the oldest and ablest critics; the public thesis and disputation, question, and answer, and explanation of a passage out of hippocrates, or aristotle's analytics. there the triumphant magister stands! a book is solemnly placed in his hands, on which he swears to follow the rule and ancient forms of the good old school; to report if any confectionarius mingles his drugs with matters various, and to visit his patients twice a day, and once in the night, if they live in town, and if they are poor, to take no pay. having faithfully promised these, his head is crowned with a laurel crown; a kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, the magister artium et physices goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. and now, as we have the whole morning before us let us go in, if you make no objection, and listen awhile to a learned prelection on marcus aurelius cassiodorus. (_they go in. enter_ lucifer _as a doctor._) _lucifer_. this is the great school of salern! a land of wrangling and of quarrels, of brains that seethe, and hearts that burn, where every emulous scholar hears, in every breath that comes to his ears, the rustling of another's laurels! the air of the place is called salubrious; the neighborhood of vesuvius lends it an odor volcanic, that rather mends it, and the buildings have an aspect lugubrious, that inspires a feeling of awe and terror into the heart of the beholder, and befits such an ancient homestead of error, where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder, and yearly by many hundred hands are carried away, in the zeal of youth, and sown like tares in the field of truth, to blossom and ripen in other lands. what have we here, affixed to the gate? the challenge of some scholastic wight, who wishes to hold a public debate on sundry questions wrong or right! ah, now this is my great delight! for i have often observed of late that such discussions end in a fight. let us see what the learned wag maintains with such a prodigal waste of brains. (_reads._) "whether angels in moving from place to place pass through the intermediate space. whether god himself is the author of evil, or whether that is the work of the devil. when, where, and wherefore lucifer fell, and whether he now is chained in hell." i think i can answer that question well! so long as the boastful human mind consents in such mills as this to grind, i sit very firmly upon my throne! of a truth it almost makes me laugh, to see men leaving the golden grain to gather in piles the pitiful chaff that old peter lombard thrashed with his brain, to have it caught up and tossed again on the horns of the dumb ox of cologne! but my guests approach! there is in the air a fragrance, like that of the beautiful garden of paradise, in the days that were! an odor of innocence, and of prayer, and of love, and faith that never fails, which as the fresh-young heart exhales before it begins to wither and harden! i cannot breathe such an atmosphere! my soul is filled with a nameless fear, that, after all my trouble and pain, after all my restless endeavor, the youngest, fairest soul of the twain, the most ethereal, most divine, will escape from my hands forever and ever. but the other is already mine! let him live to corrupt his race, breathing among them, with every breath, weakness, selfishness, and the base and pusillanimous fear of death. i know his nature, and i know that of all who in my ministry wander the great earth to and fro, and on my errands come and go, the safest and subtlest are such as he. (_enter_ prince henry _and_ elsie _with attendants_.) _prince henry._ can you direct us to friar angelo? _lucifer._ he stands before you. _prince henry._ then you know our purpose. i am prince henry of hoheneck, and this the maiden that i spake of in my letters. _lucifer._ it is a very grave and solemn business! we must not be precipitate. does she without compulsion, of her own free will, consent to this? _prince henry._ against all opposition, against all prayers, entreaties, protestations. she will not be persuaded. _lucifer._ that is strange! have you thought well of it? _elsie._ i come not here to argue, but to die. your business is not to question, but to kill me. i am ready. i am impatient to be gone from here ere any thoughts of earth disturb again the spirit of tranquillity within me. _prince henry._ would i had not come here would i were dead, and thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, and hadst not known me! why have i done this? let me go back and die. _elsie._ it cannot be; not if these cold, flat stones on which we tread were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway flamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat. i must fulfil my purpose. _prince henry._ i forbid it! not one step farther. for i only meant to put thus far thy courage to the proof. it is enough. i, too, have courage to die, for thou hast taught me! _elsie._ o my prince! remember your promises. let me fulfill my errand. you do not look on life and death as i do. there are two angels, that attend unseen each one of us, and in great books record our good and evil deeds. he who writes down the good ones, after every action closes his volume, and ascends with it to god. the other keeps his dreadful day-book open till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, the record of the action fades away, and leaves a line of white across the page. now if my act be good, as i believe it, it cannot be recalled. it is already sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. the rest is yours. why wait you? i am ready. (_to her attendants._) weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me. i shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, and you will have another friend in heaven. then start not at the creaking of the door through which i pass. i see what lies beyond it. (_to_ prince henry.) and you, o prince! bear back my benison unto my father's house, and all within it. this morning in the church i prayed for them, after confession, after absolution, when my whole soul was white, i prayed for them. god will take care of them, they need me not. and in your life let my remembrance linger, as something not to trouble and disturb it, but to complete it, adding life to life. and if at times beside the evening fire you see my face among the other faces, let it not be regarded as a ghost that haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you. nay, even as one of your own family, without whose presence there were something wanting. i have no more to say. let us go in. _prince henry._ friar angelo! i charge you on your life, believe not what she says, for she is mad, and comes here not to die, but to be healed. _elsie._ alas! prince henry! _lucifer._ come with me; this way. (elsie _goes in with_ lucifer, _who thrusts_ prince henry _back and closes the door._) _prince henry._ gone! and the light of all my life gone with her! a sudden darkness falls upon the world! _forester._ news from the prince! _ursula._ of death or life? _forester._ you put your questions eagerly! _ursula._ answer me, then! how is the prince? _forester._ i left him only two hours since homeward returning down the river, as strong and well as if god, the giver, had given him back in his youth again. _ursula (despairing)._ then elsie, my poor child, is dead! _forester._ that, my good woman, i have not said. don't cross the bridge till you come to it, is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. _ursula._ keep me no longer in this pain! _forester._ it is true your daughter is no more;-that is, the peasant she was before. _ursula._ alas! i am simple and lowly bred i am poor, distracted, and forlorn. and it is not well that you of the court should mock me thus, and make a sport of a joyless mother whose child is dead, for you, too, were of mother, born! _forester._ your daughter lives, and the prince is well! you will learn ere long how it all befell. her heart for a moment never failed; but when they reached salerno's gate, the prince's nobler self prevailed, and saved her for a nobler fate, and he was healed, in his despair, by the touch of st. matthew's sacred bones; though i think the long ride in the open air, that pilgrimage over stocks and stones, in the miracle must come in for a share! _ursula._ virgin! who lovest the poor and lonely, if the loud cry of a mother's heart can ever ascend to where thou art, into thy blessed hands and holy receive my prayer of praise and thanksgiving! let the hands that bore our saviour bear it into the awful presence of god; for thy feet with holiness are shod, and if thou bearest it he will hear it. our child who was dead again is living! _forester._ i did not tell you she was dead; if you thought so 'twas no fault of mine; at this very moment, while i speak, they are sailing homeward down the rhine, in a splendid barge, with golden prow, and decked with banners white and red as the colors on your daughter's cheek. they call her the lady alicia now; for the prince in salerno made a vow that elsie only would he wed. _ursula._ jesu maria! what a change! all seems to me so weird and strange! _forester._ i saw her standing on the deck, beneath an awning cool and shady; her cap of velvet could not hold the tresses of her hair of gold, that flowed and floated like the stream, and fell in masses down her neck. as fair and lovely did she seem as in a story or a dream some beautiful and foreign lady. and the prince looked so grand and proud, and waved his hand thus to the crowd that gazed and shouted from the shore, all down the river, long and loud. _ursula._ we shall behold our child once more; she is not dead! she is not dead! god, listening, must have overheard the prayers, that, without sound or word, our hearts in secrecy have said! o, bring me to her; for mine eyes are hungry to behold her face; my very soul within me cries; my very hands seem to caress her, to see her, gaze at her, and bless her; dear elsie, child of god and grace! (_goes out toward the garden._) _forester._ there goes the good woman out of her head; and gottlieb's supper is waiting here; a very capacious flagon of beer, and a very portentous loaf of bread. one would say his grief did not much oppress him. here's to the health of the prince, god bless him! (_he drinks._) ha! it buzzes and stings like a hornet! and what a scene there, through the door! the forest behind and the garden before, and midway an old man of threescore, with a wife and children that caress him. let me try still further to cheer and adorn it with a merry, echoing blast of my cornet! (_goes out blowing his horn._) * * * * * the castle of vautsberg on the rhine. * * * * * prince henry _and_ elsie _standing on the terrace at evening. the sound of bells heard from a distance._ _prince henry._ we are alone. the wedding guests ride down the hill, with plumes and cloaks, and the descending dark invests the niederwald, and all the nests among its hoar and haunted oaks. _elsie._ what bells are those, that ring so slow, so mellow, musical, and low? _prince henry._ they are the bells of geisenheim, that with their melancholy chime ring out the curfew of the sun. _elsie._ listen, beloved. _prince henry._ they are done! dear elsie! many years ago those same soft bells at eventide rang in the ears of charlemagne, as, seated by fastrada's side at ingelheim, in all his pride he heard their sound with secret pain. _elsie._ their voices only speak to me of peace and deep tranquillity, and endless confidence in thee! _prince henry._ thou knowest the story of her ring, how, when the court went back to aix, fastrada died; and how the king sat watching by her night and day, till into one of the blue lakes, that water that delicious land, they cast the ring, drawn from her hand; and the great monarch sat serene and sad beside the fated shore, nor left the land forever more. _elsie._ that was true love. _prince henry._ for him the queen ne'er did what thou hast done for me. _elsie._ wilt thou as fond and faithful be? wilt thou so love me after death? _prince henry._ in life's delight, in death's dismay, in storm and sunshine, night and day, in health, in sickness, in decay, here and hereafter, i am thine! thou hast fastrada's ring. beneath the calm, blue waters of thine eyes deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, and, undisturbed by this world's breath, with magic light its jewels shine! this golden ring, which thou hast worn upon thy finger since the morn, is but a symbol and a semblance, an outward fashion, a remembrance, of what thou wearest within unseen, o my fastrada, o my queen! behold! the hilltops all aglow with purple and with amethyst; while the whole valley deep below is filled, and seems to overflow, with a fast-rising tide of mist. the evening air grows damp and chill; let us go in. _elsie._ ah, not so soon. see yonder fire! it is the moon slow rising o'er the eastern hill. it glimmers on the forest tips, and through the dewy foliage drips in little rivulets of light, and makes the heart in love with night. _prince henry._ oft on this terrace, when the day was closing, have i stood and gazed, and seen the landscape fade away, and the white vapors rise and drown hamlet and vineyard, tower and town while far above the hilltops blazed. but men another hand than thine was gently held and clasped in mine; another head upon my breast was laid, as thine is now, at rest. why dost thou lift those tender eyes with so much sorrow and surprise? a minstrel's, not a maiden's hand, was that which in my own was pressed. a manly form usurped thy place, a beautiful, but bearded face, that now is in the holy land, yet in my memory from afar is shining on us like a star. but linger not. for while i speak, a sheeted spectre white and tall, the cold mist climbs the castle wall, and lays his hand upon thy cheek! (_they go in._) * * * * * epilogue. * * * * * the two recording angels ascending. _the angel of good deeds (with closed book_). god sent his messenger the rain, and said unto the mountain brook, "rise up, and from thy caverns look and leap, with naked, snow-white feet. from the cool hills into the heat of the broad, arid plain." god sent his messenger of faith, and whispered in the maiden's heart, "rise up, and look from where thou art, and scatter with unselfish hands thy freshness on the barren sands and solitudes of death." o beauty of holiness, of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness! o power of meekness, whose very gentleness and weakness are like the yielding, but irresistible air! upon the pages of the sealed volume that i bear, the deed divine is written in characters of gold, that never shall grow old, but all through ages burn and shine, with soft effulgence! o god! it is thy indulgence that fills the world with the bliss of a good deed like this! _the angel of evil deeds (with open book)._ not yet, not yet is the red sun wholly set, but evermore recedes, while open still i bear the book of evil deeds, to let the breathings of the upper air visit its pages and erase the records from its face! fainter and fainter as i gaze on the broad blaze the glimmering landscape shines, and below me the black river is hidden by wreaths of vapor! fainter and fainter the black lines begin to quiver along the whitening surface of the paper; shade after shade the terrible words grow faint and fade, and in their place runs a white space! down goes the sun! but the soul of one, who by repentance has escaped the dreadful sentence, shines bright below me as i look. it is the end! with closed book to god do i ascend. lo! over the mountain steeps a dark, gigantic shadow sweeps beneath my feet; a blackness inwardly brightening with sullen heat, as a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. and a cry of lamentation, repeated and again repeated, deep and loud as the reverberation of cloud answering unto cloud, swells and rolls away in the distance, as if the sheeted lightning retreated, baffled and thwarted by the wind's resistance. it is lucifer, the son of mystery; and since god suffers him to be, he, too, is god's minister, and labors for some good by us not understood! the song of hiawatha henry w. longfellow contents introductory note introduction i. the peace-pipe ii. the four winds iii. hiawatha's childhood iv. hiawatha and mudjekeewis v. hiawatha's fasting vi. hiawatha's friends vii. hiawatha's sailing viii. hiawatha's fishing ix. hiawatha and the pearl-feather x. hiawatha's wooing xi. hiawatha's wedding-feast xii. the son of the evening star xiii. blessing the corn-fields xiv. picture-writing xv. hiawatha's lamentation xvi. pau-puk-keewis xvii. the hunting of pau-puk-keewis xviii. the death of kwasind xix. the ghosts xx. the famine xxi. the white man's foot xxii. hiawatha's departure vocabulary introductory note the song of hiawatha is based on the legends and stories of many north american indian tribes, but especially those of the ojibway indians of northern michigan, wisconsin, and minnesota. they were collected by henry rowe schoolcraft, the reknowned historian, pioneer explorer, and geologist. he was superintendent of indian affairs for michigan from 1836 to 1841. schoolcraft married jane, o-bah-bahm-wawa-ge-zhe-go-qua (the woman of the sound which the stars make rushing through the sky), johnston. jane was a daughter of john johnston, an early irish fur trader, and o-shau-gus-coday-way-qua (the woman of the green prairie), who was a daughter of waub-o-jeeg (the white fisher), who was chief of the ojibway tribe at la pointe, wisconsin. jane and her mother are credited with having researched, authenticated, and compiled much of the material schoolcraft included in his algic researches (1839) and a revision published in 1856 as the myth of hiawatha. it was this latter revision that longfellow used as the basis for the song of hiawatha. longfellow began hiawatha on june 25, 1854, he completed it on march 29, 1855, and it was published november 10, 1855. as soon as the poem was published its popularity was assured. however, it also was severely criticized as a plagiary of the finnish epic poem kalevala. longfellow made no secret of the fact that he had used the meter of the kalevala; but as for the legends, he openly gave credit to schoolcraft in his notes to the poem. i would add a personal note here. my father's roots include ojibway indians: his mother, margaret caroline davenport, was a daughter of susan des carreaux, o-gee-em-a-qua (the chief woman), davenport whose mother was a daughter of chief waub-o-jeeg. finally, my mother used to rock me to sleep reading portions of hiawatha to me, especially: "wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, little, flitting, white-fire insect little, dancing, white-fire creature, light me with your little candle, ere upon my bed i lay me, ere in sleep i close my eyelids!" woodrow w. morris april 1, 1991 the song of hiawatha introduction should you ask me, whence these stories? whence these legends and traditions, with the odors of the forest with the dew and damp of meadows, with the curling smoke of wigwams, with the rushing of great rivers, with their frequent repetitions, and their wild reverberations as of thunder in the mountains? i should answer, i should tell you, "from the forests and the prairies, from the great lakes of the northland, from the land of the ojibways, from the land of the dacotahs, from the mountains, moors, and fen-lands where the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, feeds among the reeds and rushes. i repeat them as i heard them from the lips of nawadaha, the musician, the sweet singer." should you ask where nawadaha found these songs so wild and wayward, found these legends and traditions, i should answer, i should tell you, "in the bird's-nests of the forest, in the lodges of the beaver, in the hoofprint of the bison, in the eyry of the eagle! "all the wild-fowl sang them to him, in the moorlands and the fen-lands, in the melancholy marshes; chetowaik, the plover, sang them, mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, wawa, the blue heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, and the grouse, the mushkodasa!" if still further you should ask me, saying, "who was nawadaha? tell us of this nawadaha," i should answer your inquiries straightway in such words as follow. "in the vale of tawasentha, in the green and silent valley, by the pleasant water-courses, dwelt the singer nawadaha. round about the indian village spread the meadows and the corn-fields, and beyond them stood the forest, stood the groves of singing pine-trees, green in summer, white in winter, ever sighing, ever singing. "and the pleasant water-courses, you could trace them through the valley, by the rushing in the spring-time, by the alders in the summer, by the white fog in the autumn, by the black line in the winter; and beside them dwelt the singer, in the vale of tawasentha, in the green and silent valley. "there he sang of hiawatha, sang the song of hiawatha, sang his wondrous birth and being, how he prayed and how be fasted, how he lived, and toiled, and suffered, that the tribes of men might prosper, that he might advance his people!" ye who love the haunts of nature, love the sunshine of the meadow, love the shadow of the forest, love the wind among the branches, and the rain-shower and the snow-storm, and the rushing of great rivers through their palisades of pine-trees, and the thunder in the mountains, whose innumerable echoes flap like eagles in their eyries;-listen to these wild traditions, to this song of hiawatha! ye who love a nation's legends, love the ballads of a people, that like voices from afar off call to us to pause and listen, speak in tones so plain and childlike, scarcely can the ear distinguish whether they are sung or spoken;-listen to this indian legend, to this song of hiawatha! ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, who have faith in god and nature, who believe that in all ages every human heart is human, that in even savage bosoms there are longings, yearnings, strivings for the good they comprehend not, that the feeble hands and helpless, groping blindly in the darkness, touch god's right hand in that darkness and are lifted up and strengthened;-listen to this simple story, to this song of hiawatha! ye, who sometimes, in your rambles through the green lanes of the country, where the tangled barberry-bushes hang their tufts of crimson berries over stone walls gray with mosses, pause by some neglected graveyard, for a while to muse, and ponder on a half-effaced inscription, written with little skill of song-craft, homely phrases, but each letter full of hope and yet of heart-break, full of all the tender pathos of the here and the hereafter; stay and read this rude inscription, read this song of hiawatha! i the peace-pipe on the mountains of the prairie, on the great red pipe-stone quarry, gitche manito, the mighty, he the master of life, descending, on the red crags of the quarry stood erect, and called the nations, called the tribes of men together. from his footprints flowed a river, leaped into the light of morning, o'er the precipice plunging downward gleamed like ishkoodah, the comet. and the spirit, stooping earthward, with his finger on the meadow traced a winding pathway for it, saying to it, "run in this way!" from the red stone of the quarry with his hand he broke a fragment, moulded it into a pipe-head, shaped and fashioned it with figures; from the margin of the river took a long reed for a pipe-stem, with its dark green leaves upon it; filled the pipe with bark of willow, with the bark of the red willow; breathed upon the neighboring forest, made its great boughs chafe together, till in flame they burst and kindled; and erect upon the mountains, gitche manito, the mighty, smoked the calumet, the peace-pipe, as a signal to the nations. and the smoke rose slowly, slowly, through the tranquil air of morning, first a single line of darkness, then a denser, bluer vapor, then a snow-white cloud unfolding, like the tree-tops of the forest, ever rising, rising, rising, till it touched the top of heaven, till it broke against the heaven, and rolled outward all around it. from the vale of tawasentha, from the valley of wyoming, from the groves of tuscaloosa, from the far-off rocky mountains, from the northern lakes and rivers all the tribes beheld the signal, saw the distant smoke ascending, the pukwana of the peace-pipe. and the prophets of the nations said: "behold it, the pukwana! by the signal of the peace-pipe, bending like a wand of willow, waving like a hand that beckons, gitche manito, the mighty, calls the tribes of men together, calls the warriors to his council!" down the rivers, o'er the prairies, came the warriors of the nations, came the delawares and mohawks, came the choctaws and camanches, came the shoshonies and blackfeet, came the pawnees and omahas, came the mandans and dacotahs, came the hurons and ojibways, all the warriors drawn together by the signal of the peace-pipe, to the mountains of the prairie, to the great red pipe-stone quarry, and they stood there on the meadow, with their weapons and their war-gear, painted like the leaves of autumn, painted like the sky of morning, wildly glaring at each other; in their faces stern defiance, in their hearts the feuds of ages, the hereditary hatred, the ancestral thirst of vengeance. gitche manito, the mighty, the creator of the nations, looked upon them with compassion, with paternal love and pity; looked upon their wrath and wrangling but as quarrels among children, but as feuds and fights of children! over them he stretched his right hand, to subdue their stubborn natures, to allay their thirst and fever, by the shadow of his right hand; spake to them with voice majestic as the sound of far-off waters, falling into deep abysses, warning, chiding, spake in this wise: "o my children! my poor children! listen to the words of wisdom, listen to the words of warning, from the lips of the great spirit, from the master of life, who made you! "i have given you lands to hunt in, i have given you streams to fish in, i have given you bear and bison, i have given you roe and reindeer, i have given you brant and beaver, filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, filled the rivers full of fishes: why then are you not contented? why then will you hunt each other? "i am weary of your quarrels, weary of your wars and bloodshed, weary of your prayers for vengeance, of your wranglings and dissensions; all your strength is in your union, all your danger is in discord; therefore be at peace henceforward, and as brothers live together. "i will send a prophet to you, a deliverer of the nations, who shall guide you and shall teach you, who shall toil and suffer with you. if you listen to his counsels, you will multiply and prosper; if his warnings pass unheeded, you will fade away and perish! "bathe now in the stream before you, wash the war-paint from your faces, wash the blood-stains from your fingers, bury your war-clubs and your weapons, break the red stone from this quarry, mould and make it into peace-pipes, take the reeds that grow beside you, deck them with your brightest feathers, smoke the calumet together, and as brothers live henceforward!" then upon the ground the warriors threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin, threw their weapons and their war-gear, leaped into the rushing river, washed the war-paint from their faces. clear above them flowed the water, clear and limpid from the footprints of the master of life descending; dark below them flowed the water, soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, as if blood were mingled with it! from the river came the warriors, clean and washed from all their war-paint; on the banks their clubs they buried, buried all their warlike weapons. gitche manito, the mighty, the great spirit, the creator, smiled upon his helpless children! and in silence all the warriors broke the red stone of the quarry, smoothed and formed it into peace-pipes, broke the long reeds by the river, decked them with their brightest feathers, and departed each one homeward, while the master of life, ascending, through the opening of cloud-curtains, through the doorways of the heaven, vanished from before their faces, in the smoke that rolled around him, the pukwana of the peace-pipe! ii the four winds "honor be to mudjekeewis!" cried the warriors, cried the old men, when he came in triumph homeward with the sacred belt of wampum, from the regions of the north-wind, from the kingdom of wabasso, from the land of the white rabbit. he had stolen the belt of wampum from the neck of mishe-mokwa, from the great bear of the mountains, from the terror of the nations, as he lay asleep and cumbrous on the summit of the mountains, like a rock with mosses on it, spotted brown and gray with mosses. silently he stole upon him till the red nails of the monster almost touched him, almost scared him, till the hot breath of his nostrils warmed the hands of mudjekeewis, as he drew the belt of wampum over the round ears, that heard not, over the small eyes, that saw not, over the long nose and nostrils, the black muffle of the nostrils, out of which the heavy breathing warmed the hands of mudjekeewis. then he swung aloft his war-club, shouted loud and long his war-cry, smote the mighty mishe-mokwa in the middle of the forehead, right between the eyes he smote him. with the heavy blow bewildered, rose the great bear of the mountains; but his knees beneath him trembled, and he whimpered like a woman, as he reeled and staggered forward, as he sat upon his haunches; and the mighty mudjekeewis, standing fearlessly before him, taunted him in loud derision, spake disdainfully in this wise: "hark you, bear! you are a coward; and no brave, as you pretended; else you would not cry and whimper like a miserable woman! bear! you know our tribes are hostile, long have been at war together; now you find that we are strongest, you go sneaking in the forest, you go hiding in the mountains! had you conquered me in battle not a groan would i have uttered; but you, bear! sit here and whimper, and disgrace your tribe by crying, like a wretched shaugodaya, like a cowardly old woman!" then again he raised his war-club, smote again the mishe-mokwa in the middle of his forehead, broke his skull, as ice is broken when one goes to fish in winter. thus was slain the mishe-mokwa, he the great bear of the mountains, he the terror of the nations. "honor be to mudjekeewis!" with a shout exclaimed the people, "honor be to mudjekeewis! henceforth he shall be the west-wind, and hereafter and forever shall he hold supreme dominion over all the winds of heaven. call him no more mudjekeewis, call him kabeyun, the west-wind!" thus was mudjekeewis chosen father of the winds of heaven. for himself he kept the west-wind, gave the others to his children; unto wabun gave the east-wind, gave the south to shawondasee, and the north-wind, wild and cruel, to the fierce kabibonokka. young and beautiful was wabun; he it was who brought the morning, he it was whose silver arrows chased the dark o'er hill and valley; he it was whose cheeks were painted with the brightest streaks of crimson, and whose voice awoke the village, called the deer, and called the hunter. lonely in the sky was wabun; though the birds sang gayly to him, though the wild-flowers of the meadow filled the air with odors for him; though the forests and the rivers sang and shouted at his coming, still his heart was sad within him, for he was alone in heaven. but one morning, gazing earthward, while the village still was sleeping, and the fog lay on the river, like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, he beheld a maiden walking all alone upon a meadow, gathering water-flags and rushes by a river in the meadow. every morning, gazing earthward, still the first thing he beheld there was her blue eyes looking at him, two blue lakes among the rushes. and he loved the lonely maiden, who thus waited for his coming; for they both were solitary, she on earth and he in heaven. and he wooed her with caresses, wooed her with his smile of sunshine, with his flattering words he wooed her, with his sighing and his singing, gentlest whispers in the branches, softest music, sweetest odors, till he drew her to his bosom, folded in his robes of crimson, till into a star he changed her, trembling still upon his bosom; and forever in the heavens they are seen together walking, wabun and the wabun-annung, wabun and the star of morning. but the fierce kabibonokka had his dwelling among icebergs, in the everlasting snow-drifts, in the kingdom of wabasso, in the land of the white rabbit. he it was whose hand in autumn painted all the trees with scarlet, stained the leaves with red and yellow; he it was who sent the snow-flake, sifting, hissing through the forest, froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, drove the loon and sea-gull southward, drove the cormorant and curlew to their nests of sedge and sea-tang in the realms of shawondasee. once the fierce kabibonokka issued from his lodge of snow-drifts from his home among the icebergs, and his hair, with snow besprinkled, streamed behind him like a river, like a black and wintry river, as he howled and hurried southward, over frozen lakes and moorlands. there among the reeds and rushes found he shingebis, the diver, trailing strings of fish behind him, o'er the frozen fens and moorlands, lingering still among the moorlands, though his tribe had long departed to the land of shawondasee. cried the fierce kabibonokka, "who is this that dares to brave me? dares to stay in my dominions, when the wawa has departed, when the wild-goose has gone southward, and the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, long ago departed southward? i will go into his wigwam, i will put his smouldering fire out!" and at night kabibonokka, to the lodge came wild and wailing, heaped the snow in drifts about it, shouted down into the smoke-flue, shook the lodge-poles in his fury, flapped the curtain of the door-way. shingebis, the diver, feared not, shingebis, the diver, cared not; four great logs had he for firewood, one for each moon of the winter, and for food the fishes served him. by his blazing fire he sat there, warm and merry, eating, laughing, singing, "o kabibonokka, you are but my fellow-mortal!" then kabibonokka entered, and though shingebis, the diver, felt his presence by the coldness, felt his icy breath upon him, still he did not cease his singing, still he did not leave his laughing, only turned the log a little, only made the fire burn brighter, made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. from kabibonokka's forehead, from his snow-besprinkled tresses, drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, making dints upon the ashes, as along the eaves of lodges, as from drooping boughs of hemlock, drips the melting snow in spring-time, making hollows in the snow-drifts. till at last he rose defeated, could not bear the heat and laughter, could not bear the merry singing, but rushed headlong through the door-way, stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, stamped upon the lakes and rivers, made the snow upon them harder, made the ice upon them thicker, challenged shingebis, the diver, to come forth and wrestle with him, to come forth and wrestle naked on the frozen fens and moorlands. forth went shingebis, the diver, wrestled all night with the north-wind, wrestled naked on the moorlands with the fierce kabibonokka, till his panting breath grew fainter, till his frozen grasp grew feebler, till he reeled and staggered backward, and retreated, baffled, beaten, to the kingdom of wabasso, to the land of the white rabbit, hearing still the gusty laughter, hearing shingebis, the diver, singing, "o kabibonokka, you are but my fellow-mortal!" shawondasee, fat and lazy, had his dwelling far to southward, in the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, in the never-ending summer. he it was who sent the wood-birds, sent the robin, the opechee, sent the bluebird, the owaissa, sent the shawshaw, sent the swallow, sent the wild-goose, wawa, northward, sent the melons and tobacco, and the grapes in purple clusters. from his pipe the smoke ascending filled the sky with haze and vapor, filled the air with dreamy softness, gave a twinkle to the water, touched the rugged hills with smoothness, brought the tender indian summer to the melancholy north-land, in the dreary moon of snow-shoes. listless, careless shawondasee! in his life he had one shadow, in his heart one sorrow had he. once, as he was gazing northward, far away upon a prairie he beheld a maiden standing, saw a tall and slender maiden all alone upon a prairie; brightest green were all her garments, and her hair was like the sunshine. day by day he gazed upon her, day by day he sighed with passion, day by day his heart within him grew more hot with love and longing for the maid with yellow tresses. but he was too fat and lazy to bestir himself and woo her. yes, too indolent and easy to pursue her and persuade her; so he only gazed upon her, only sat and sighed with passion for the maiden of the prairie. till one morning, looking northward, he beheld her yellow tresses changed and covered o'er with whiteness, covered as with whitest snow-flakes. "ah! my brother from the north-land, from the kingdom of wabasso, from the land of the white rabbit! you have stolen the maiden from me, you have laid your hand upon her, you have wooed and won my maiden, with your stories of the north-land!" thus the wretched shawondasee breathed into the air his sorrow; and the south-wind o'er the prairie wandered warm with sighs of passion, with the sighs of shawondasee, till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, full of thistle-down the prairie, and the maid with hair like sunshine vanished from his sight forever; never more did shawondasee see the maid with yellow tresses! poor, deluded shawondasee! 't was no woman that you gazed at, 't was no maiden that you sighed for, 't was the prairie dandelion that through all the dreamy summer you had gazed at with such longing, you had sighed for with such passion, and had puffed away forever, blown into the air with sighing. ah! deluded shawondasee! thus the four winds were divided thus the sons of mudjekeewis had their stations in the heavens, at the corners of the heavens; for himself the west-wind only kept the mighty mudjekeewis. iii hiawatha's childhood downward through the evening twilight, in the days that are forgotten, in the unremembered ages, from the full moon fell nokomis, fell the beautiful nokomis, she a wife, but not a mother. she was sporting with her women, swinging in a swing of grape-vines, when her rival the rejected, full of jealousy and hatred, cut the leafy swing asunder, cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, and nokomis fell affrighted downward through the evening twilight, on the muskoday, the meadow, on the prairie full of blossoms. "see! a star falls!" said the people; "from the sky a star is falling!" there among the ferns and mosses, there among the prairie lilies, on the muskoday, the meadow, in the moonlight and the starlight, fair nokomis bore a daughter. and she called her name wenonah, as the first-born of her daughters. and the daughter of nokomis grew up like the prairie lilies, grew a tall and slender maiden, with the beauty of the moonlight, with the beauty of the starlight. and nokomis warned her often, saying oft, and oft repeating, "oh, beware of mudjekeewis, of the west-wind, mudjekeewis; listen not to what he tells you; lie not down upon the meadow, stoop not down among the lilies, lest the west-wind come and harm you!" but she heeded not the warning, heeded not those words of wisdom, and the west-wind came at evening, walking lightly o'er the prairie, whispering to the leaves and blossoms, bending low the flowers and grasses, found the beautiful wenonah, lying there among the lilies, wooed her with his words of sweetness, wooed her with his soft caresses, till she bore a son in sorrow, bore a son of love and sorrow. thus was born my hiawatha, thus was born the child of wonder; but the daughter of nokomis, hiawatha's gentle mother, in her anguish died deserted by the west-wind, false and faithless, by the heartless mudjekeewis. for her daughter long and loudly wailed and wept the sad nokomis; "oh that i were dead!" she murmured, "oh that i were dead, as thou art! no more work, and no more weeping, wahonowin! wahonowin!" by the shores of gitche gumee, by the shining big-sea-water, stood the wigwam of nokomis, daughter of the moon, nokomis. dark behind it rose the forest, rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, rose the firs with cones upon them; bright before it beat the water, beat the clear and sunny water, beat the shining big-sea-water. there the wrinkled old nokomis nursed the little hiawatha, rocked him in his linden cradle, bedded soft in moss and rushes, safely bound with reindeer sinews; stilled his fretful wail by saying, "hush! the naked bear will hear thee!" lulled him into slumber, singing, "ewa-yea! my little owlet! who is this, that lights the wigwam? with his great eyes lights the wigwam? ewa-yea! my little owlet!" many things nokomis taught him of the stars that shine in heaven; showed him ishkoodah, the comet, ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; showed the death-dance of the spirits, warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, flaring far away to northward in the frosty nights of winter; showed the broad white road in heaven, pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, running straight across the heavens, crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. at the door on summer evenings sat the little hiawatha; heard the whispering of the pine-trees, heard the lapping of the waters, sounds of music, words of wonder; "minne-wawa!" said the pine-trees, "mudway-aushka!" said the water. saw the fire-fly, wah-wah-taysee, flitting through the dusk of evening, with the twinkle of its candle lighting up the brakes and bushes, and he sang the song of children, sang the song nokomis taught him: "wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, little, flitting, white-fire insect, little, dancing, white-fire creature, light me with your little candle, ere upon my bed i lay me, ere in sleep i close my eyelids!" saw the moon rise from the water rippling, rounding from the water, saw the flecks and shadows on it, whispered, "what is that, nokomis?" and the good nokomis answered: "once a warrior, very angry, seized his grandmother, and threw her up into the sky at midnight; right against the moon he threw her; 't is her body that you see there." saw the rainbow in the heaven, in the eastern sky, the rainbow, whispered, "what is that, nokomis?" and the good nokomis answered: "'t is the heaven of flowers you see there; all the wild-flowers of the forest, all the lilies of the prairie, when on earth they fade and perish, blossom in that heaven above us." when he heard the owls at midnight, hooting, laughing in the forest, "what is that?" he cried in terror, "what is that," he said, "nokomis?" and the good nokomis answered: "that is but the owl and owlet, talking in their native language, talking, scolding at each other." then the little hiawatha learned of every bird its language, learned their names and all their secrets, how they built their nests in summer, where they hid themselves in winter, talked with them whene'er he met them, called them "hiawatha's chickens." of all beasts he learned the language, learned their names and all their secrets, how the beavers built their lodges, where the squirrels hid their acorns, how the reindeer ran so swiftly, why the rabbit was so timid, talked with them whene'er he met them, called them "hiawatha's brothers." then iagoo, the great boaster, he the marvellous story-teller, he the traveller and the talker, he the friend of old nokomis, made a bow for hiawatha; from a branch of ash he made it, from an oak-bough made the arrows, tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, and the cord he made of deer-skin. then he said to hiawatha: "go, my son, into the forest, where the red deer herd together, kill for us a famous roebuck, kill for us a deer with antlers!" forth into the forest straightway all alone walked hiawatha proudly, with his bow and arrows; and the birds sang round him, o'er him, "do not shoot us, hiawatha!" sang the robin, the opechee, sang the bluebird, the owaissa, "do not shoot us, hiawatha!" up the oak-tree, close beside him, sprang the squirrel, adjidaumo, in and out among the branches, coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, laughed, and said between his laughing, "do not shoot me, hiawatha!" and the rabbit from his pathway leaped aside, and at a distance sat erect upon his haunches, half in fear and half in frolic, saying to the little hunter, "do not shoot me, hiawatha!" but he heeded not, nor heard them, for his thoughts were with the red deer; on their tracks his eyes were fastened, leading downward to the river, to the ford across the river, and as one in slumber walked he. hidden in the alder-bushes, there he waited till the deer came, till he saw two antlers lifted, saw two eyes look from the thicket, saw two nostrils point to windward, and a deer came down the pathway, flecked with leafy light and shadow. and his heart within him fluttered, trembled like the leaves above him, like the birch-leaf palpitated, as the deer came down the pathway. then, upon one knee uprising, hiawatha aimed an arrow; scarce a twig moved with his motion, scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, but the wary roebuck started, stamped with all his hoofs together, listened with one foot uplifted, leaped as if to meet the arrow; ah! the singing, fatal arrow, like a wasp it buzzed and stung him! dead he lay there in the forest, by the ford across the river; beat his timid heart no longer, but the heart of hiawatha throbbed and shouted and exulted, as he bore the red deer homeward, and iagoo and nokomis hailed his coming with applauses. from the red deer's hide nokomis made a cloak for hiawatha, from the red deer's flesh nokomis made a banquet to his honor. all the village came and feasted, all the guests praised hiawatha, called him strong-heart, soan-ge-taha! called him loon-heart, mahn-go-taysee! iv hiawatha and mudjekeewis out of childhood into manhood now had grown my hiawatha, skilled in all the craft of hunters, learned in all the lore of old men, in all youthful sports and pastimes, in all manly arts and labors. swift of foot was hiawatha; he could shoot an arrow from him, and run forward with such fleetness, that the arrow fell behind him! strong of arm was hiawatha; he could shoot ten arrows upward, shoot them with such strength and swiftness, that the tenth had left the bow-string ere the first to earth had fallen! he had mittens, minjekahwun, magic mittens made of deer-skin; when upon his hands he wore them, he could smite the rocks asunder, he could grind them into powder. he had moccasins enchanted, magic moccasins of deer-skin; when he bound them round his ankles, when upon his feet he tied them, at each stride a mile he measured! much he questioned old nokomis of his father mudjekeewis; learned from her the fatal secret of the beauty of his mother, of the falsehood of his father; and his heart was hot within him, like a living coal his heart was. then he said to old nokomis, "i will go to mudjekeewis, see how fares it with my father, at the doorways of the west-wind, at the portals of the sunset!" from his lodge went hiawatha, dressed for travel, armed for hunting; dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings, richly wrought with quills and wampum; on his head his eagle-feathers, round his waist his belt of wampum, in his hand his bow of ash-wood, strung with sinews of the reindeer; in his quiver oaken arrows, tipped with jasper, winged with feathers; with his mittens, minjekahwun, with his moccasins enchanted. warning said the old nokomis, "go not forth, o hiawatha! to the kingdom of the west-wind, to the realms of mudjekeewis, lest he harm you with his magic, lest he kill you with his cunning!" but the fearless hiawatha heeded not her woman's warning; forth he strode into the forest, at each stride a mile he measured; lurid seemed the sky above him, lurid seemed the earth beneath him, hot and close the air around him, filled with smoke and fiery vapors, as of burning woods and prairies, for his heart was hot within him, like a living coal his heart was. so he journeyed westward, westward, left the fleetest deer behind him, left the antelope and bison; crossed the rushing esconaba, crossed the mighty mississippi, passed the mountains of the prairie, passed the land of crows and foxes, passed the dwellings of the blackfeet, came unto the rocky mountains, to the kingdom of the west-wind, where upon the gusty summits sat the ancient mudjekeewis, ruler of the winds of heaven. filled with awe was hiawatha at the aspect of his father. on the air about him wildly tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, glared like ishkoodah, the comet, like the star with fiery tresses. filled with joy was mudjekeewis when he looked on hiawatha, saw his youth rise up before him in the face of hiawatha, saw the beauty of wenonah from the grave rise up before him. "welcome!" said he, "hiawatha, to the kingdom of the west-wind long have i been waiting for you youth is lovely, age is lonely, youth is fiery, age is frosty; you bring back the days departed, you bring back my youth of passion, and the beautiful wenonah!" many days they talked together, questioned, listened, waited, answered; much the mighty mudjekeewis boasted of his ancient prowess, of his perilous adventures, his indomitable courage, his invulnerable body. patiently sat hiawatha, listening to his father's boasting; with a smile he sat and listened, uttered neither threat nor menace, neither word nor look betrayed him, but his heart was hot within him, like a living coal his heart was. then he said, "o mudjekeewis, is there nothing that can harm you? nothing that you are afraid of?" and the mighty mudjekeewis, grand and gracious in his boasting, answered, saying, "there is nothing, nothing but the black rock yonder, nothing but the fatal wawbeek!" and he looked at hiawatha with a wise look and benignant, with a countenance paternal, looked with pride upon the beauty of his tall and graceful figure, saying, "o my hiawatha! is there anything can harm you? anything you are afraid of?" but the wary hiawatha paused awhile, as if uncertain, held his peace, as if resolving, and then answered, "there is nothing, nothing but the bulrush yonder, nothing but the great apukwa!" and as mudjekeewis, rising, stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, hiawatha cried in terror, cried in well-dissembled terror, "kago! kago! do not touch it!" "ah, kaween!" said mudjekeewis, "no indeed, i will not touch it!" then they talked of other matters; first of hiawatha's brothers, first of wabun, of the east-wind, of the south-wind, shawondasee, of the north, kabibonokka; then of hiawatha's mother, of the beautiful wenonah, of her birth upon the meadow, of her death, as old nokomis had remembered and related. and he cried, "o mudjekeewis, it was you who killed wenonah, took her young life and her beauty, broke the lily of the prairie, trampled it beneath your footsteps; you confess it! you confess it!" and the mighty mudjekeewis tossed upon the wind his tresses, bowed his hoary head in anguish, with a silent nod assented. then up started hiawatha, and with threatening look and gesture laid his hand upon the black rock, on the fatal wawbeek laid it, with his mittens, minjekahwun, rent the jutting crag asunder, smote and crushed it into fragments, hurled them madly at his father, the remorseful mudjekeewis, for his heart was hot within him, like a living coal his heart was. but the ruler of the west-wind blew the fragments backward from him, with the breathing of his nostrils, with the tempest of his anger, blew them back at his assailant; seized the bulrush, the apukwa, dragged it with its roots and fibres from the margin of the meadow, from its ooze the giant bulrush; long and loud laughed hiawatha! then began the deadly conflict, hand to hand among the mountains; from his eyry screamed the eagle, the keneu, the great war-eagle, sat upon the crags around them, wheeling flapped his wings above them. like a tall tree in the tempest bent and lashed the giant bulrush; and in masses huge and heavy crashing fell the fatal wawbeek; till the earth shook with the tumult and confusion of the battle, and the air was full of shoutings, and the thunder of the mountains, starting, answered, "baim-wawa!" back retreated mudjekeewis, rushing westward o'er the mountains, stumbling westward down the mountains, three whole days retreated fighting, still pursued by hiawatha to the doorways of the west-wind, to the portals of the sunset, to the earth's remotest border, where into the empty spaces sinks the sun, as a flamingo drops into her nest at nightfall in the melancholy marshes. "hold!" at length cried mudjekeewis, "hold, my son, my hiawatha! 't is impossible to kill me, for you cannot kill the immortal i have put you to this trial, but to know and prove your courage; now receive the prize of valor! "go back to your home and people, live among them, toil among them, cleanse the earth from all that harms it, clear the fishing-grounds and rivers, slay all monsters and magicians, all the wendigoes, the giants, all the serpents, the kenabeeks, as i slew the mishe-mokwa, slew the great bear of the mountains. "and at last when death draws near you, when the awful eyes of pauguk glare upon you in the darkness, i will share my kingdom with you, ruler shall you be thenceforward of the northwest-wind, keewaydin, of the home-wind, the keewaydin." thus was fought that famous battle in the dreadful days of shah-shah, in the days long since departed, in the kingdom of the west-wind. still the hunter sees its traces scattered far o'er hill and valley; sees the giant bulrush growing by the ponds and water-courses, sees the masses of the wawbeek lying still in every valley. homeward now went hiawatha; pleasant was the landscape round him, pleasant was the air above him, for the bitterness of anger had departed wholly from him, from his brain the thought of vengeance, from his heart the burning fever. only once his pace he slackened, only once he paused or halted, paused to purchase heads of arrows of the ancient arrow-maker, in the land of the dacotahs, where the falls of minnehaha flash and gleam among the oak-trees, laugh and leap into the valley. there the ancient arrow-maker made his arrow-heads of sandstone, arrow-heads of chalcedony, arrow-heads of flint and jasper, smoothed and sharpened at the edges, hard and polished, keen and costly. with him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, wayward as the minnehaha, with her moods of shade and sunshine, eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, feet as rapid as the river, tresses flowing like the water, and as musical a laughter: and he named her from the river, from the water-fall he named her, minnehaha, laughing water. was it then for heads of arrows, arrow-heads of chalcedony, arrow-heads of flint and jasper, that my hiawatha halted in the land of the dacotahs? was it not to see the maiden, see the face of laughing water peeping from behind the curtain, hear the rustling of her garments from behind the waving curtain, as one sees the minnehaha gleaming, glancing through the branches, as one hears the laughing water from behind its screen of branches? who shall say what thoughts and visions fill the fiery brains of young men? who shall say what dreams of beauty filled the heart of hiawatha? all he told to old nokomis, when he reached the lodge at sunset, was the meeting with his father, was his fight with mudjekeewis; not a word he said of arrows, not a word of laughing water. v hiawatha's fasting you shall hear how hiawatha prayed and fasted in the forest, not for greater skill in hunting, not for greater craft in fishing, not for triumphs in the battle, and renown among the warriors, but for profit of the people, for advantage of the nations. first he built a lodge for fasting, built a wigwam in the forest, by the shining big-sea-water, in the blithe and pleasant spring-time, in the moon of leaves he built it, and, with dreams and visions many, seven whole days and nights he fasted. on the first day of his fasting through the leafy woods he wandered; saw the deer start from the thicket, saw the rabbit in his burrow, heard the pheasant, bena, drumming, heard the squirrel, adjidaumo, rattling in his hoard of acorns, saw the pigeon, the omeme, building nests among the pinetrees, and in flocks the wild-goose, wawa, flying to the fen-lands northward, whirring, wailing far above him. "master of life!" he cried, desponding, "must our lives depend on these things?" on the next day of his fasting by the river's brink he wandered, through the muskoday, the meadow, saw the wild rice, mahnomonee, saw the blueberry, meenahga, and the strawberry, odahmin, and the gooseberry, shahbomin, and the grape-vine, the bemahgut, trailing o'er the alder-branches, filling all the air with fragrance! "master of life!" he cried, desponding, "must our lives depend on these things?" on the third day of his fasting by the lake he sat and pondered, by the still, transparent water; saw the sturgeon, nahma, leaping, scattering drops like beads of wampum, saw the yellow perch, the sahwa, like a sunbeam in the water, saw the pike, the maskenozha, and the herring, okahahwis, and the shawgashee, the crawfish! "master of life!" he cried, desponding, "must our lives depend on these things?" on the fourth day of his fasting in his lodge he lay exhausted; from his couch of leaves and branches gazing with half-open eyelids, full of shadowy dreams and visions, on the dizzy, swimming landscape, on the gleaming of the water, on the splendor of the sunset. and he saw a youth approaching, dressed in garments green and yellow, coming through the purple twilight, through the splendor of the sunset; plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, and his hair was soft and golden. standing at the open doorway, long he looked at hiawatha, looked with pity and compassion on his wasted form and features, and, in accents like the sighing of the south-wind in the tree-tops, said he, "o my hiawatha! all your prayers are heard in heaven, for you pray not like the others; not for greater skill in hunting, not for greater craft in fishing, not for triumph in the battle, nor renown among the warriors, but for profit of the people, for advantage of the nations. "from the master of life descending, i, the friend of man, mondamin, come to warn you and instruct you, how by struggle and by labor you shall gain what you have prayed for. rise up from your bed of branches, rise, o youth, and wrestle with me!" faint with famine, hiawatha started from his bed of branches, from the twilight of his wigwam forth into the flush of sunset came, and wrestled with mondamin; at his touch he felt new courage throbbing in his brain and bosom, felt new life and hope and vigor run through every nerve and fibre. so they wrestled there together in the glory of the sunset, and the more they strove and struggled, stronger still grew hiawatha; till the darkness fell around them, and the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, from her nest among the pine-trees, gave a cry of lamentation, gave a scream of pain and famine. "'t is enough!" then said mondamin, smiling upon hiawatha, "but tomorrow, when the sun sets, i will come again to try you." and he vanished, and was seen not; whether sinking as the rain sinks, whether rising as the mists rise, hiawatha saw not, knew not, only saw that he had vanished, leaving him alone and fainting, with the misty lake below him, and the reeling stars above him. on the morrow and the next day, when the sun through heaven descending, like a red and burning cinder from the hearth of the great spirit, fell into the western waters, came mondamin for the trial, for the strife with hiawatha; came as silent as the dew comes, from the empty air appearing, into empty air returning, taking shape when earth it touches, but invisible to all men in its coming and its going. thrice they wrestled there together in the glory of the sunset, till the darkness fell around them, till the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, from her nest among the pine-trees, uttered her loud cry of famine, and mondamin paused to listen. tall and beautiful he stood there, in his garments green and yellow; to and fro his plumes above him, waved and nodded with his breathing, and the sweat of the encounter stood like drops of dew upon him. and he cried, "o hiawatha! bravely have you wrestled with me, thrice have wrestled stoutly with me, and the master of life, who sees us, he will give to you the triumph!" then he smiled, and said: "to-morrow is the last day of your conflict, is the last day of your fasting. you will conquer and o'ercome me; make a bed for me to lie in, where the rain may fall upon me, where the sun may come and warm me; strip these garments, green and yellow, strip this nodding plumage from me, lay me in the earth, and make it soft and loose and light above me. "let no hand disturb my slumber, let no weed nor worm molest me, let not kahgahgee, the raven, come to haunt me and molest me, only come yourself to watch me, till i wake, and start, and quicken, till i leap into the sunshine" and thus saying, he departed; peacefully slept hiawatha, but he heard the wawonaissa, heard the whippoorwill complaining, perched upon his lonely wigwam; heard the rushing sebowisha, heard the rivulet rippling near him, talking to the darksome forest; heard the sighing of the branches, as they lifted and subsided at the passing of the night-wind, heard them, as one hears in slumber far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers: peacefully slept hiawatha. on the morrow came nokomis, on the seventh day of his fasting, came with food for hiawatha, came imploring and bewailing, lest his hunger should o'ercome him, lest his fasting should be fatal. but he tasted not, and touched not, only said to her, "nokomis, wait until the sun is setting, till the darkness falls around us, till the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, crying from the desolate marshes, tells us that the day is ended." homeward weeping went nokomis, sorrowing for her hiawatha, fearing lest his strength should fail him, lest his fasting should be fatal. he meanwhile sat weary waiting for the coming of mondamin, till the shadows, pointing eastward, lengthened over field and forest, till the sun dropped from the heaven, floating on the waters westward, as a red leaf in the autumn falls and floats upon the water, falls and sinks into its bosom. and behold! the young mondamin, with his soft and shining tresses, with his garments green and yellow, with his long and glossy plumage, stood and beckoned at the doorway. and as one in slumber walking, pale and haggard, but undaunted, from the wigwam hiawatha came and wrestled with mondamin. round about him spun the landscape, sky and forest reeled together, and his strong heart leaped within him, as the sturgeon leaps and struggles in a net to break its meshes. like a ring of fire around him blazed and flared the red horizon, and a hundred suns seemed looking at the combat of the wrestlers. suddenly upon the greensward all alone stood hiawatha, panting with his wild exertion, palpitating with the struggle; and before him breathless, lifeless, lay the youth, with hair dishevelled, plumage torn, and garments tattered, dead he lay there in the sunset. and victorious hiawatha made the grave as he commanded, stripped the garments from mondamin, stripped his tattered plumage from him, laid him in the earth, and made it soft and loose and light above him; and the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, from the melancholy moorlands, gave a cry of lamentation, gave a cry of pain and anguish! homeward then went hiawatha to the lodge of old nokomis, and the seven days of his fasting were accomplished and completed. but the place was not forgotten where he wrestled with mondamin; nor forgotten nor neglected was the grave where lay mondamin, sleeping in the rain and sunshine, where his scattered plumes and garments faded in the rain and sunshine. day by day did hiawatha go to wait and watch beside it; kept the dark mould soft above it, kept it clean from weeds and insects, drove away, with scoffs and shoutings, kahgahgee, the king of ravens. till at length a small green feather from the earth shot slowly upward, then another and another, and before the summer ended stood the maize in all its beauty, with its shining robes about it, and its long, soft, yellow tresses; and in rapture hiawatha cried aloud, "it is mondamin! yes, the friend of man, mondamin!" then he called to old nokomis and iagoo, the great boaster, showed them where the maize was growing, told them of his wondrous vision, of his wrestling and his triumph, of this new gift to the nations, which should be their food forever. and still later, when the autumn changed the long, green leaves to yellow, and the soft and juicy kernels grew like wampum hard and yellow, then the ripened ears he gathered, stripped the withered husks from off them, as he once had stripped the wrestler, gave the first feast of mondamin, and made known unto the people this new gift of the great spirit. vi hiawatha's friends two good friends had hiawatha, singled out from all the others, bound to him in closest union, and to whom he gave the right hand of his heart, in joy and sorrow; chibiabos, the musician, and the very strong man, kwasind. straight between them ran the pathway, never grew the grass upon it; singing birds, that utter falsehoods, story-tellers, mischief-makers, found no eager ear to listen, could not breed ill-will between them, for they kept each other's counsel, spake with naked hearts together, pondering much and much contriving how the tribes of men might prosper. most beloved by hiawatha was the gentle chibiabos, he the best of all musicians, he the sweetest of all singers. beautiful and childlike was he, brave as man is, soft as woman, pliant as a wand of willow, stately as a deer with antlers. when he sang, the village listened; all the warriors gathered round him, all the women came to hear him; now he stirred their souls to passion, now he melted them to pity. from the hollow reeds he fashioned flutes so musical and mellow, that the brook, the sebowisha, ceased to murmur in the woodland, that the wood-birds ceased from singing, and the squirrel, adjidaumo, ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, and the rabbit, the wabasso, sat upright to look and listen. yes, the brook, the sebowisha, pausing, said, "o chibiabos, teach my waves to flow in music, softly as your words in singing!" yes, the bluebird, the owaissa, envious, said, "o chibiabos, teach me tones as wild and wayward, teach me songs as full of frenzy!" yes, the robin, the opechee, joyous, said, "o chibiabos, teach me tones as sweet and tender, teach me songs as full of gladness!" and the whippoorwill, wawonaissa, sobbing, said, "o chibiabos, teach me tones as melancholy, teach me songs as full of sadness!" all the many sounds of nature borrowed sweetness from his singing; all the hearts of men were softened by the pathos of his music; for he sang of peace and freedom, sang of beauty, love, and longing; sang of death, and life undying in the islands of the blessed, in the kingdom of ponemah, in the land of the hereafter. very dear to hiawatha was the gentle chibiabos, he the best of all musicians, he the sweetest of all singers; for his gentleness he loved him, and the magic of his singing. dear, too, unto hiawatha was the very strong man, kwasind, he the strongest of all mortals, he the mightiest among many; for his very strength he loved him, for his strength allied to goodness. idle in his youth was kwasind, very listless, dull, and dreamy, never played with other children, never fished and never hunted, not like other children was he; but they saw that much he fasted, much his manito entreated, much besought his guardian spirit. "lazy kwasind!" said his mother, "in my work you never help me! in the summer you are roaming idly in the fields and forests; in the winter you are cowering o'er the firebrands in the wigwam! in the coldest days of winter i must break the ice for fishing; with my nets you never help me! at the door my nets are hanging, dripping, freezing with the water; go and wring them, yenadizze! go and dry them in the sunshine!" slowly, from the ashes, kwasind rose, but made no angry answer; from the lodge went forth in silence, took the nets, that hung together, dripping, freezing at the doorway; like a wisp of straw he wrung them, like a wisp of straw he broke them, could not wring them without breaking, such the strength was in his fingers. "lazy kwasind!" said his father, "in the hunt you never help me; every bow you touch is broken, snapped asunder every arrow; yet come with me to the forest, you shall bring the hunting homeward." down a narrow pass they wandered, where a brooklet led them onward, where the trail of deer and bison marked the soft mud on the margin, till they found all further passage shut against them, barred securely by the trunks of trees uprooted, lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, and forbidding further passage. "we must go back," said the old man, "o'er these logs we cannot clamber; not a woodchuck could get through them, not a squirrel clamber o'er them!" and straightway his pipe he lighted, and sat down to smoke and ponder. but before his pipe was finished, lo! the path was cleared before him; all the trunks had kwasind lifted, to the right hand, to the left hand, shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, hurled the cedars light as lances. "lazy kwasind!" said the young men, as they sported in the meadow: "why stand idly looking at us, leaning on the rock behind you? come and wrestle with the others, let us pitch the quoit together!" lazy kwasind made no answer, to their challenge made no answer, only rose, and slowly turning, seized the huge rock in his fingers, tore it from its deep foundation, poised it in the air a moment, pitched it sheer into the river, sheer into the swift pauwating, where it still is seen in summer. once as down that foaming river, down the rapids of pauwating, kwasind sailed with his companions, in the stream he saw a beaver, saw ahmeek, the king of beavers, struggling with the rushing currents, rising, sinking in the water. without speaking, without pausing, kwasind leaped into the river, plunged beneath the bubbling surface, through the whirlpools chased the beaver, followed him among the islands, stayed so long beneath the water, that his terrified companions cried, "alas! good-by to kwasind! we shall never more see kwasind!" but he reappeared triumphant, and upon his shining shoulders brought the beaver, dead and dripping, brought the king of all the beavers. and these two, as i have told you, were the friends of hiawatha, chibiabos, the musician, and the very strong man, kwasind. long they lived in peace together, spake with naked hearts together, pondering much and much contriving how the tribes of men might prosper. vii hiawatha's sailing "give me of your bark, o birch-tree! of your yellow bark, o birch-tree! growing by the rushing river, tall and stately in the valley! i a light canoe will build me, build a swift cheemaun for sailing, that shall float upon the river, like a yellow leaf in autumn, like a yellow water-lily! "lay aside your cloak, o birch-tree! lay aside your white-skin wrapper, for the summer-time is coming, and the sun is warm in heaven, and you need no white-skin wrapper!" thus aloud cried hiawatha in the solitary forest, by the rushing taquamenaw, when the birds were singing gayly, in the moon of leaves were singing, and the sun, from sleep awaking, started up and said, "behold me! gheezis, the great sun, behold me!" and the tree with all its branches rustled in the breeze of morning, saying, with a sigh of patience, "take my cloak, o hiawatha!" with his knife the tree he girdled; just beneath its lowest branches, just above the roots, he cut it, till the sap came oozing outward; down the trunk, from top to bottom, sheer he cleft the bark asunder, with a wooden wedge he raised it, stripped it from the trunk unbroken. "give me of your boughs, o cedar! of your strong and pliant branches, my canoe to make more steady, make more strong and firm beneath me!" through the summit of the cedar went a sound, a cry of horror, went a murmur of resistance; but it whispered, bending downward, "take my boughs, o hiawatha!" down he hewed the boughs of cedar, shaped them straightway to a frame-work, like two bows he formed and shaped them, like two bended bows together. "give me of your roots, o tamarack! of your fibrous roots, o larch-tree! my canoe to bind together, so to bind the ends together that the water may not enter, that the river may not wet me!" and the larch, with all its fibres, shivered in the air of morning, touched his forehead with its tassels, slid, with one long sigh of sorrow. "take them all, o hiawatha!" from the earth he tore the fibres, tore the tough roots of the larch-tree, closely sewed the bark together, bound it closely to the frame-work. "give me of your balm, o fir-tree! of your balsam and your resin, so to close the seams together that the water may not enter, that the river may not wet me!" and the fir-tree, tall and sombre, sobbed through all its robes of darkness, rattled like a shore with pebbles, answered wailing, answered weeping, "take my balm, o hiawatha!" and he took the tears of balsam, took the resin of the fir-tree, smeared therewith each seam and fissure, made each crevice safe from water. "give me of your quills, o hedgehog! all your quills, o kagh, the hedgehog! i will make a necklace of them, make a girdle for my beauty, and two stars to deck her bosom!" from a hollow tree the hedgehog with his sleepy eyes looked at him, shot his shining quills, like arrows, saying with a drowsy murmur, through the tangle of his whiskers, "take my quills, o hiawatha!" from the ground the quills he gathered, all the little shining arrows, stained them red and blue and yellow, with the juice of roots and berries; into his canoe he wrought them, round its waist a shining girdle, round its bows a gleaming necklace, on its breast two stars resplendent. thus the birch canoe was builded in the valley, by the river, in the bosom of the forest; and the forest's life was in it, all its mystery and its magic, all the lightness of the birch-tree, all the toughness of the cedar, all the larch's supple sinews; and it floated on the river like a yellow leaf in autumn, like a yellow water-lily. paddles none had hiawatha, paddles none he had or needed, for his thoughts as paddles served him, and his wishes served to guide him; swift or slow at will he glided, veered to right or left at pleasure. then he called aloud to kwasind, to his friend, the strong man, kwasind, saying, "help me clear this river of its sunken logs and sand-bars." straight into the river kwasind plunged as if he were an otter, dived as if he were a beaver, stood up to his waist in water, to his arm-pits in the river, swam and scouted in the river, tugged at sunken logs and branches, with his hands he scooped the sand-bars, with his feet the ooze and tangle. and thus sailed my hiawatha down the rushing taquamenaw, sailed through all its bends and windings, sailed through all its deeps and shallows, while his friend, the strong man, kwasind, swam the deeps, the shallows waded. up and down the river went they, in and out among its islands, cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, dragged the dead trees from its channel, made its passage safe and certain, made a pathway for the people, from its springs among the mountains, to the waters of pauwating, to the bay of taquamenaw. viii hiawatha's fishing forth upon the gitche gumee, on the shining big-sea-water, with his fishing-line of cedar, of the twisted bark of cedar, forth to catch the sturgeon nahma, mishe-nahma, king of fishes, in his birch canoe exulting all alone went hiawatha. through the clear, transparent water he could see the fishes swimming far down in the depths below him; see the yellow perch, the sahwa, like a sunbeam in the water, see the shawgashee, the craw-fish, like a spider on the bottom, on the white and sandy bottom. at the stern sat hiawatha, with his fishing-line of cedar; in his plumes the breeze of morning played as in the hemlock branches; on the bows, with tail erected, sat the squirrel, adjidaumo; in his fur the breeze of morning played as in the prairie grasses. on the white sand of the bottom lay the monster mishe-nahma, lay the sturgeon, king of fishes; through his gills he breathed the water, with his fins he fanned and winnowed, with his tail he swept the sand-floor. there he lay in all his armor; on each side a shield to guard him, plates of bone upon his forehead, down his sides and back and shoulders plates of bone with spines projecting painted was he with his war-paints, stripes of yellow, red, and azure, spots of brown and spots of sable; and he lay there on the bottom, fanning with his fins of purple, as above him hiawatha in his birch canoe came sailing, with his fishing-line of cedar. "take my bait," cried hiawatha, dawn into the depths beneath him, "take my bait, o sturgeon, nahma! come up from below the water, let us see which is the stronger!" and he dropped his line of cedar through the clear, transparent water, waited vainly for an answer, long sat waiting for an answer, and repeating loud and louder, "take my bait, o king of fishes!" quiet lay the sturgeon, nahma, fanning slowly in the water, looking up at hiawatha, listening to his call and clamor, his unnecessary tumult, till he wearied of the shouting; and he said to the kenozha, to the pike, the maskenozha, "take the bait of this rude fellow, break the line of hiawatha!" in his fingers hiawatha felt the loose line jerk and tighten, as he drew it in, it tugged so that the birch canoe stood endwise, like a birch log in the water, with the squirrel, adjidaumo, perched and frisking on the summit. full of scorn was hiawatha when he saw the fish rise upward, saw the pike, the maskenozha, coming nearer, nearer to him, and he shouted through the water, "esa! esa! shame upon you! you are but the pike, kenozha, you are not the fish i wanted, you are not the king of fishes!" reeling downward to the bottom sank the pike in great confusion, and the mighty sturgeon, nahma, said to ugudwash, the sun-fish, to the bream, with scales of crimson, "take the bait of this great boaster, break the line of hiawatha!" slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, rose the ugudwash, the sun-fish, seized the line of hiawatha, swung with all his weight upon it, made a whirlpool in the water, whirled the birch canoe in circles, round and round in gurgling eddies, till the circles in the water reached the far-off sandy beaches, till the water-flags and rushes nodded on the distant margins. but when hiawatha saw him slowly rising through the water, lifting up his disk refulgent, loud he shouted in derision, "esa! esa! shame upon you! you are ugudwash, the sun-fish, you are not the fish i wanted, you are not the king of fishes!" slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, sank the ugudwash, the sun-fish, and again the sturgeon, nahma, heard the shout of hiawatha, heard his challenge of defiance, the unnecessary tumult, ringing far across the water. from the white sand of the bottom up he rose with angry gesture, quivering in each nerve and fibre, clashing all his plates of armor, gleaming bright with all his war-paint; in his wrath he darted upward, flashing leaped into the sunshine, opened his great jaws, and swallowed both canoe and hiawatha. down into that darksome cavern plunged the headlong hiawatha, as a log on some black river shoots and plunges down the rapids, found himself in utter darkness, groped about in helpless wonder, till he felt a great heart beating, throbbing in that utter darkness. and he smote it in his anger, with his fist, the heart of nahma, felt the mighty king of fishes shudder through each nerve and fibre, heard the water gurgle round him as he leaped and staggered through it, sick at heart, and faint and weary. crosswise then did hiawatha drag his birch-canoe for safety, lest from out the jaws of nahma, in the turmoil and confusion, forth he might be hurled and perish. and the squirrel, adjidaumo, frisked and chatted very gayly, toiled and tugged with hiawatha till the labor was completed. then said hiawatha to him, "o my little friend, the squirrel, bravely have you toiled to help me; take the thanks of hiawatha, and the name which now he gives you; for hereafter and forever boys shall call you adjidaumo, tail-in-air the boys shall call you!" and again the sturgeon, nahma, gasped and quivered in the water, then was still, and drifted landward till he grated on the pebbles, till the listening hiawatha heard him grate upon the margin, felt him strand upon the pebbles, knew that nahma, king of fishes, lay there dead upon the margin. then he heard a clang and flapping, as of many wings assembling, heard a screaming and confusion, as of birds of prey contending, saw a gleam of light above him, shining through the ribs of nahma, saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, of kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, gazing at him through the opening, heard them saying to each other, "'t is our brother, hiawatha!" and he shouted from below them, cried exulting from the caverns: "o ye sea-gulls! o my brothers! i have slain the sturgeon, nahma; make the rifts a little larger, with your claws the openings widen, set me free from this dark prison, and henceforward and forever men shall speak of your achievements, calling you kayoshk, the sea-gulls, yes, kayoshk, the noble scratchers!" and the wild and clamorous sea-gulls toiled with beak and claws together, made the rifts and openings wider in the mighty ribs of nahma, and from peril and from prison, from the body of the sturgeon, from the peril of the water, they released my hiawatha. he was standing near his wigwam, on the margin of the water, and he called to old nokomis, called and beckoned to nokomis, pointed to the sturgeon, nahma, lying lifeless on the pebbles, with the sea-gulls feeding on him. "i have slain the mishe-nahma, slain the king of fishes!" said he; "look! the sea-gulls feed upon him, yes, my friends kayoshk, the sea-gulls; drive them not away, nokomis, they have saved me from great peril in the body of the sturgeon, wait until their meal is ended, till their craws are full with feasting, till they homeward fly, at sunset, to their nests among the marshes; then bring all your pots and kettles, and make oil for us in winter." and she waited till the sun set, till the pallid moon, the night-sun, rose above the tranquil water, till kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, from their banquet rose with clamor, and across the fiery sunset winged their way to far-off islands, to their nests among the rushes. to his sleep went hiawatha, and nokomis to her labor, toiling patient in the moonlight, till the sun and moon changed places, till the sky was red with sunrise, and kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, came back from the reedy islands, clamorous for their morning banquet. three whole days and nights alternate old nokomis and the sea-gulls stripped the oily flesh of nahma, till the waves washed through the rib-bones, till the sea-gulls came no longer, and upon the sands lay nothing but the skeleton of nahma. ix hiawatha and the pearl-feather on the shores of gitche gumee, of the shining big-sea-water, stood nokomis, the old woman, pointing with her finger westward, o'er the water pointing westward, to the purple clouds of sunset. fiercely the red sun descending burned his way along the heavens, set the sky on fire behind him, as war-parties, when retreating, burn the prairies on their war-trail; and the moon, the night-sun, eastward, suddenly starting from his ambush, followed fast those bloody footprints, followed in that fiery war-trail, with its glare upon his features. and nokomis, the old woman, pointing with her finger westward, spake these words to hiawatha: "yonder dwells the great pearl-feather, megissogwon, the magician, manito of wealth and wampum, guarded by his fiery serpents, guarded by the black pitch-water. you can see his fiery serpents, the kenabeek, the great serpents, coiling, playing in the water; you can see the black pitch-water stretching far away beyond them, to the purple clouds of sunset! "he it was who slew my father, by his wicked wiles and cunning, when he from the moon descended, when he came on earth to seek me. he, the mightiest of magicians, sends the fever from the marshes, sends the pestilential vapors, sends the poisonous exhalations, sends the white fog from the fen-lands, sends disease and death among us! "take your bow, o hiawatha, take your arrows, jasper-headed, take your war-club, puggawaugun, and your mittens, minjekahwun, and your birch-canoe for sailing, and the oil of mishe-nahma, so to smear its sides, that swiftly you may pass the black pitch-water; slay this merciless magician, save the people from the fever that he breathes across the fen-lands, and avenge my father's murder!" straightway then my hiawatha armed himself with all his war-gear, launched his birch-canoe for sailing; with his palm its sides he patted, said with glee, "cheemaun, my darling, o my birch-canoe! leap forward, where you see the fiery serpents, where you see the black pitch-water!" forward leaped cheemaun exulting, and the noble hiawatha sang his war-song wild and woful, and above him the war-eagle, the keneu, the great war-eagle, master of all fowls with feathers, screamed and hurtled through the heavens. soon he reached the fiery serpents, the kenabeek, the great serpents, lying huge upon the water, sparkling, rippling in the water, lying coiled across the passage, with their blazing crests uplifted, breathing fiery fogs and vapors, so that none could pass beyond them. but the fearless hiawatha cried aloud, and spake in this wise, "let me pass my way, kenabeek, let me go upon my journey!" and they answered, hissing fiercely, with their fiery breath made answer: "back, go back! o shaugodaya! back to old nokomis, faint-heart!" then the angry hiawatha raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, seized his arrows, jasper-headed, shot them fast among the serpents; every twanging of the bow-string was a war-cry and a death-cry, every whizzing of an arrow was a death-song of kenabeek. weltering in the bloody water, dead lay all the fiery serpents, and among them hiawatha harmless sailed, and cried exulting: "onward, o cheemaun, my darling! onward to the black pitch-water!" then he took the oil of nahma, and the bows and sides anointed, smeared them well with oil, that swiftly he might pass the black pitch-water. all night long he sailed upon it, sailed upon that sluggish water, covered with its mould of ages, black with rotting water-rushes, rank with flags and leaves of lilies, stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, lighted by the shimmering moonlight, and by will-o'-the-wisps illumined, fires by ghosts of dead men kindled, in their weary night-encampments. all the air was white with moonlight, all the water black with shadow, and around him the suggema, the mosquito, sang his war-song, and the fire-flies, wah-wah-taysee, waved their torches to mislead him; and the bull-frog, the dahinda, thrust his head into the moonlight, fixed his yellow eyes upon him, sobbed and sank beneath the surface; and anon a thousand whistles, answered over all the fen-lands, and the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, far off on the reedy margin, heralded the hero's coming. westward thus fared hiawatha, toward the realm of megissogwon, toward the land of the pearl-feather, till the level moon stared at him in his face stared pale and haggard, till the sun was hot behind him, till it burned upon his shoulders, and before him on the upland he could see the shining wigwam of the manito of wampum, of the mightiest of magicians. then once more cheemaun he patted, to his birch-canoe said, "onward!" and it stirred in all its fibres, and with one great bound of triumph leaped across the water-lilies, leaped through tangled flags and rushes, and upon the beach beyond them dry-shod landed hiawatha. straight he took his bow of ash-tree, on the sand one end he rested, with his knee he pressed the middle, stretched the faithful bow-string tighter, took an arrow, jasperheaded, shot it at the shining wigwam, sent it singing as a herald, as a bearer of his message, of his challenge loud and lofty: "come forth from your lodge, pearl-feather! hiawatha waits your coming!" straightway from the shining wigwam came the mighty megissogwon, tall of stature, broad of shoulder, dark and terrible in aspect, clad from head to foot in wampum, armed with all his warlike weapons, painted like the sky of morning, streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow, crested with great eagle-feathers, streaming upward, streaming outward. "well i know you, hiawatha!" cried he in a voice of thunder, in a tone of loud derision. "hasten back, o shaugodaya! hasten back among the women, back to old nokomis, faint-heart! i will slay you as you stand there, as of old i slew her father!" but my hiawatha answered, nothing daunted, fearing nothing: "big words do not smite like war-clubs, boastful breath is not a bow-string, taunts are not so sharp as arrows, deeds are better things than words are, actions mightier than boastings!" then began the greatest battle that the sun had ever looked on, that the war-birds ever witnessed. all a summer's day it lasted, from the sunrise to the sunset; for the shafts of hiawatha harmless hit the shirt of wampum, harmless fell the blows he dealt it with his mittens, minjekahwun, harmless fell the heavy war-club; it could dash the rocks asunder, but it could not break the meshes of that magic shirt of wampum. till at sunset hiawatha, leaning on his bow of ash-tree, wounded, weary, and desponding, with his mighty war-club broken, with his mittens torn and tattered, and three useless arrows only, paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, from whose branches trailed the mosses, and whose trunk was coated over with the dead-man's moccasin-leather, with the fungus white and yellow. suddenly from the boughs above him sang the mama, the woodpecker: "aim your arrows, hiawatha, at the head of megissogwon, strike the tuft of hair upon it, at their roots the long black tresses; there alone can he be wounded!" winged with feathers, tipped with jasper, swift flew hiawatha's arrow, just as megissogwon, stooping, raised a heavy stone to throw it. full upon the crown it struck him, at the roots of his long tresses, and he reeled and staggered forward, plunging like a wounded bison, yes, like pezhekee, the bison, when the snow is on the prairie. swifter flew the second arrow, in the pathway of the other, piercing deeper than the other, wounding sorer than the other; and the knees of megissogwon shook like windy reeds beneath him, bent and trembled like the rushes. but the third and latest arrow swiftest flew, and wounded sorest, and the mighty megissogwon saw the fiery eyes of pauguk, saw the eyes of death glare at him, heard his voice call in the darkness; at the feet of hiawatha lifeless lay the great pearl-feather, lay the mightiest of magicians. then the grateful hiawatha called the mama, the woodpecker, from his perch among the branches of the melancholy pine-tree, and, in honor of his service, stained with blood the tuft of feathers on the little head of mama; even to this day he wears it, wears the tuft of crimson feathers, as a symbol of his service. then he stripped the shirt of wampum from the back of megissogwon, as a trophy of the battle, as a signal of his conquest. on the shore he left the body, half on land and half in water, in the sand his feet were buried, and his face was in the water. and above him, wheeled and clamored the keneu, the great war-eagle, sailing round in narrower circles, hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. from the wigwam hiawatha bore the wealth of megissogwon, all his wealth of skins and wampum, furs of bison and of beaver, furs of sable and of ermine, wampum belts and strings and pouches, quivers wrought with beads of wampum, filled with arrows, silver-headed. homeward then he sailed exulting, homeward through the black pitch-water, homeward through the weltering serpents, with the trophies of the battle, with a shout and song of triumph. on the shore stood old nokomis, on the shore stood chibiabos, and the very strong man, kwasind, waiting for the hero's coming, listening to his songs of triumph. and the people of the village welcomed him with songs and dances, made a joyous feast, and shouted: "honor be to hiawatha! he has slain the great pearl-feather, slain the mightiest of magicians, him, who sent the fiery fever, sent the white fog from the fen-lands, sent disease and death among us!" ever dear to hiawatha was the memory of mama! and in token of his friendship, as a mark of his remembrance, he adorned and decked his pipe-stem with the crimson tuft of feathers, with the blood-red crest of mama. but the wealth of megissogwon, all the trophies of the battle, he divided with his people, shared it equally among them. x hiawatha's wooing "as unto the bow the cord is, so unto the man is woman; though she bends him, she obeys him, though she draws him, yet she follows; useless each without the other!" thus the youthful hiawatha said within himself and pondered, much perplexed by various feelings, listless, longing, hoping, fearing, dreaming still of minnehaha, of the lovely laughing water, in the land of the dacotahs. "wed a maiden of your people," warning said the old nokomis; "go not eastward, go not westward, for a stranger, whom we know not! like a fire upon the hearth-stone is a neighbor's homely daughter, like the starlight or the moonlight is the handsomest of strangers!" thus dissuading spake nokomis, and my hiawatha answered only this: "dear old nokomis, very pleasant is the firelight, but i like the starlight better, better do i like the moonlight!" gravely then said old nokomis: "bring not here an idle maiden, bring not here a useless woman, hands unskilful, feet unwilling; bring a wife with nimble fingers, heart and hand that move together, feet that run on willing errands!" smiling answered hiawatha: "in the land of the dacotahs lives the arrow-maker's daughter, minnehaha, laughing water, handsomest of all the women. i will bring her to your wigwam, she shall run upon your errands, be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, be the sunlight of my people!" still dissuading said nokomis: "bring not to my lodge a stranger from the land of the dacotahs! very fierce are the dacotahs, often is there war between us, there are feuds yet unforgotten, wounds that ache and still may open!" laughing answered hiawatha: "for that reason, if no other, would i wed the fair dacotah, that our tribes might be united, that old feuds might be forgotten, and old wounds be healed forever!" thus departed hiawatha to the land of the dacotahs, to the land of handsome women; striding over moor and meadow, through interminable forests, through uninterrupted silence. with his moccasins of magic, at each stride a mile he measured; yet the way seemed long before him, and his heart outran his footsteps; and he journeyed without resting, till he heard the cataract's laughter, heard the falls of minnehaha calling to him through the silence. "pleasant is the sound!" he murmured, "pleasant is the voice that calls me!" on the outskirts of the forests, 'twixt the shadow and the sunshine, herds of fallow deer were feeding, but they saw not hiawatha; to his bow he whispered, "fail not!" to his arrow whispered, "swerve not!" sent it singing on its errand, to the red heart of the roebuck; threw the deer across his shoulder, and sped forward without pausing. at the doorway of his wigwam sat the ancient arrow-maker, in the land of the dacotahs, making arrow-heads of jasper, arrow-heads of chalcedony. at his side, in all her beauty, sat the lovely minnehaha, sat his daughter, laughing water, plaiting mats of flags and rushes of the past the old man's thoughts were, and the maiden's of the future. he was thinking, as he sat there, of the days when with such arrows he had struck the deer and bison, on the muskoday, the meadow; shot the wild goose, flying southward on the wing, the clamorous wawa; thinking of the great war-parties, how they came to buy his arrows, could not fight without his arrows. ah, no more such noble warriors could be found on earth as they were! now the men were all like women, only used their tongues for weapons! she was thinking of a hunter, from another tribe and country, young and tall and very handsome, who one morning, in the spring-time, came to buy her father's arrows, sat and rested in the wigwam, lingered long about the doorway, looking back as he departed. she had heard her father praise him, praise his courage and his wisdom; would he come again for arrows to the falls of minnehaha? on the mat her hands lay idle, and her eyes were very dreamy. through their thoughts they heard a footstep, heard a rustling in the branches, and with glowing cheek and forehead, with the deer upon his shoulders, suddenly from out the woodlands hiawatha stood before them. straight the ancient arrow-maker looked up gravely from his labor, laid aside the unfinished arrow, bade him enter at the doorway, saying, as he rose to meet him, "hiawatha, you are welcome!" at the feet of laughing water hiawatha laid his burden, threw the red deer from his shoulders; and the maiden looked up at him, looked up from her mat of rushes, said with gentle look and accent, "you are welcome, hiawatha!" very spacious was the wigwam, made of deer-skins dressed and whitened, with the gods of the dacotahs drawn and painted on its curtains, and so tall the doorway, hardly hiawatha stooped to enter, hardly touched his eagle-feathers as he entered at the doorway. then uprose the laughing water, from the ground fair minnehaha, laid aside her mat unfinished, brought forth food and set before them, water brought them from the brooklet, gave them food in earthen vessels, gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, listened while the guest was speaking, listened while her father answered, but not once her lips she opened, not a single word she uttered. yes, as in a dream she listened to the words of hiawatha, as he talked of old nokomis, who had nursed him in his childhood, as he told of his companions, chibiabos, the musician, and the very strong man, kwasind, and of happiness and plenty in the land of the ojibways, in the pleasant land and peaceful. "after many years of warfare, many years of strife and bloodshed, there is peace between the ojibways and the tribe of the dacotahs." thus continued hiawatha, and then added, speaking slowly, "that this peace may last forever, and our hands be clasped more closely, and our hearts be more united, give me as my wife this maiden, minnehaha, laughing water, loveliest of dacotah women!" and the ancient arrow-maker paused a moment ere he answered, smoked a little while in silence, looked at hiawatha proudly, fondly looked at laughing water, and made answer very gravely: "yes, if minnehaha wishes; let your heart speak, minnehaha!" and the lovely laughing water seemed more lovely as she stood there, neither willing nor reluctant, as she went to hiawatha, softly took the seat beside him, while she said, and blushed to say it, "i will follow you, my husband!" this was hiawatha's wooing! thus it was he won the daughter of the ancient arrow-maker, in the land of the dacotahs! from the wigwam he departed, leading with him laughing water; hand in hand they went together, through the woodland and the meadow, left the old man standing lonely at the doorway of his wigwam, heard the falls of minnehaha calling to them from the distance, crying to them from afar off, "fare thee well, o minnehaha!" and the ancient arrow-maker turned again unto his labor, sat down by his sunny doorway, murmuring to himself, and saying: "thus it is our daughters leave us, those we love, and those who love us! just when they have learned to help us, when we are old and lean upon them, comes a youth with flaunting feathers, with his flute of reeds, a stranger wanders piping through the village, beckons to the fairest maiden, and she follows where he leads her, leaving all things for the stranger!" pleasant was the journey homeward, through interminable forests, over meadow, over mountain, over river, hill, and hollow. short it seemed to hiawatha, though they journeyed very slowly, though his pace he checked and slackened to the steps of laughing water. over wide and rushing rivers in his arms he bore the maiden; light he thought her as a feather, as the plume upon his head-gear; cleared the tangled pathway for her, bent aside the swaying branches, made at night a lodge of branches, and a bed with boughs of hemlock, and a fire before the doorway with the dry cones of the pine-tree. all the travelling winds went with them, o'er the meadows, through the forest; all the stars of night looked at them, watched with sleepless eyes their slumber; from his ambush in the oak-tree peeped the squirrel, adjidaumo, watched with eager eyes the lovers; and the rabbit, the wabasso, scampered from the path before them, peering, peeping from his burrow, sat erect upon his haunches, watched with curious eyes the lovers. pleasant was the journey homeward! all the birds sang loud and sweetly songs of happiness and heart's-ease; sang the bluebird, the owaissa, "happy are you, hiawatha, having such a wife to love you!" sang the robin, the opechee, "happy are you, laughing water, having such a noble husband!" from the sky the sun benignant looked upon them through the branches, saying to them, "o my children, love is sunshine, hate is shadow, life is checkered shade and sunshine, rule by love, o hiawatha!" from the sky the moon looked at them, filled the lodge with mystic splendors, whispered to them, "o my children, day is restless, night is quiet, man imperious, woman feeble; half is mine, although i follow; rule by patience, laughing water!" thus it was they journeyed homeward; thus it was that hiawatha to the lodge of old nokomis brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, brought the sunshine of his people, minnehaha, laughing water, handsomest of all the women in the land of the dacotahs, in the land of handsome women. xi hiawatha's wedding-feast you shall hear how pau-puk-keewis, how the handsome yenadizze danced at hiawatha's wedding; how the gentle chibiabos, he the sweetest of musicians, sang his songs of love and longing; how iagoo, the great boaster, he the marvellous story-teller, told his tales of strange adventure, that the feast might be more joyous, that the time might pass more gayly, and the guests be more contented. sumptuous was the feast nokomis made at hiawatha's wedding; all the bowls were made of bass-wood, white and polished very smoothly, all the spoons of horn of bison, black and polished very smoothly. she had sent through all the village messengers with wands of willow, as a sign of invitation, as a token of the feasting; and the wedding guests assembled, clad in all their richest raiment, robes of fur and belts of wampum, splendid with their paint and plumage, beautiful with beads and tassels. first they ate the sturgeon, nahma, and the pike, the maskenozha, caught and cooked by old nokomis; then on pemican they feasted, pemican and buffalo marrow, haunch of deer and hump of bison, yellow cakes of the mondamin, and the wild rice of the river. but the gracious hiawatha, and the lovely laughing water, and the careful old nokomis, tasted not the food before them, only waited on the others only served their guests in silence. and when all the guests had finished, old nokomis, brisk and busy, from an ample pouch of otter, filled the red-stone pipes for smoking with tobacco from the south-land, mixed with bark of the red willow, and with herbs and leaves of fragrance. then she said, "o pau-puk-keewis, dance for us your merry dances, dance the beggar's dance to please us, that the feast may be more joyous, that the time may pass more gayly, and our guests be more contented!" then the handsome pau-puk-keewis, he the idle yenadizze, he the merry mischief-maker, whom the people called the storm-fool, rose among the guests assembled. skilled was he in sports and pastimes, in the merry dance of snow-shoes, in the play of quoits and ball-play; skilled was he in games of hazard, in all games of skill and hazard, pugasaing, the bowl and counters, kuntassoo, the game of plum-stones. though the warriors called him faint-heart, called him coward, shaugodaya, idler, gambler, yenadizze, little heeded he their jesting, little cared he for their insults, for the women and the maidens loved the handsome pau-puk-keewis. he was dressed in shirt of doeskin, white and soft, and fringed with ermine, all inwrought with beads of wampum; he was dressed in deer-skin leggings, fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, and in moccasins of buck-skin, thick with quills and beads embroidered. on his head were plumes of swan's down, on his heels were tails of foxes, in one hand a fan of feathers, and a pipe was in the other. barred with streaks of red and yellow, streaks of blue and bright vermilion, shone the face of pau-puk-keewis. from his forehead fell his tresses, smooth, and parted like a woman's, shining bright with oil, and plaited, hung with braids of scented grasses, as among the guests assembled, to the sound of flutes and singing, to the sound of drums and voices, rose the handsome pau-puk-keewis, and began his mystic dances. first he danced a solemn measure, very slow in step and gesture, in and out among the pine-trees, through the shadows and the sunshine, treading softly like a panther. then more swiftly and still swifter, whirling, spinning round in circles, leaping o'er the guests assembled, eddying round and round the wigwam, till the leaves went whirling with him, till the dust and wind together swept in eddies round about him. then along the sandy margin of the lake, the big-sea-water, on he sped with frenzied gestures, stamped upon the sand, and tossed it wildly in the air around him; till the wind became a whirlwind, till the sand was blown and sifted like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, heaping all the shores with sand dunes, sand hills of the nagow wudjoo! thus the merry pau-puk-keewis danced his beggar's dance to please them, and, returning, sat down laughing there among the guests assembled, sat and fanned himself serenely with his fan of turkey-feathers. then they said to chibiabos, to the friend of hiawatha, to the sweetest of all singers, to the best of all musicians, "sing to us, o chibiabos! songs of love and songs of longing, that the feast may be more joyous, that the time may pass more gayly, and our guests be more contented!" and the gentle chibiabos sang in accents sweet and tender, sang in tones of deep emotion, songs of love and songs of longing; looking still at hiawatha, looking at fair laughing water, sang he softly, sang in this wise: "onaway! awake, beloved! thou the wild-flower of the forest! thou the wild-bird of the prairie! thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like! "if thou only lookest at me, i am happy, i am happy, as the lilies of the prairie, when they feel the dew upon them! "sweet thy breath is as the fragrance of the wild-flowers in the morning, as their fragrance is at evening, in the moon when leaves are falling. "does not all the blood within me leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, as the springs to meet the sunshine, in the moon when nights are brightest? "onaway! my heart sings to thee, sings with joy when thou art near me, as the sighing, singing branches in the pleasant moon of strawberries! "when thou art not pleased, beloved, then my heart is sad and darkened, as the shining river darkens when the clouds drop shadows on it! "when thou smilest, my beloved, then my troubled heart is brightened, as in sunshine gleam the ripples that the cold wind makes in rivers. "smiles the earth, and smile the waters, smile the cloudless skies above us, but i lose the way of smiling when thou art no longer near me! "i myself, myself! behold me! blood of my beating heart, behold me! oh awake, awake, beloved! onaway! awake, beloved!" thus the gentle chibiabos sang his song of love and longing; and iagoo, the great boaster, he the marvellous story-teller, he the friend of old nokomis, jealous of the sweet musician, jealous of the applause they gave him, saw in all the eyes around him, saw in all their looks and gestures, that the wedding guests assembled longed to hear his pleasant stories, his immeasurable falsehoods. very boastful was iagoo; never heard he an adventure but himself had met a greater; never any deed of daring but himself had done a bolder; never any marvellous story but himself could tell a stranger. would you listen to his boasting, would you only give him credence, no one ever shot an arrow half so far and high as he had; ever caught so many fishes, ever killed so many reindeer, ever trapped so many beaver! none could run so fast as he could, none could dive so deep as he could, none could swim so far as he could; none had made so many journeys, none had seen so many wonders, as this wonderful iagoo, as this marvellous story-teller! thus his name became a by-word and a jest among the people; and whene'er a boastful hunter praised his own address too highly, or a warrior, home returning, talked too much of his achievements, all his hearers cried, "iagoo! here's iagoo come among us!" he it was who carved the cradle of the little hiawatha, carved its framework out of linden, bound it strong with reindeer sinews; he it was who taught him later how to make his bows and arrows, how to make the bows of ash-tree, and the arrows of the oak-tree. so among the guests assembled at my hiawatha's wedding sat iagoo, old and ugly, sat the marvellous story-teller. and they said, "o good iagoo, tell us now a tale of wonder, tell us of some strange adventure, that the feast may be more joyous, that the time may pass more gayly, and our guests be more contented!" and iagoo answered straightway, "you shall hear a tale of wonder, you shall hear the strange adventures of osseo, the magician, from the evening star descending." xii the son of the evening star can it be the sun descending o'er the level plain of water? or the red swan floating, flying, wounded by the magic arrow, staining all the waves with crimson, with the crimson of its life-blood, filling all the air with splendor, with the splendor of its plumage? yes; it is the sun descending, sinking down into the water; all the sky is stained with purple, all the water flushed with crimson! no; it is the red swan floating, diving down beneath the water; to the sky its wings are lifted, with its blood the waves are reddened! over it the star of evening melts and trembles through the purple, hangs suspended in the twilight. no; it is a bead of wampum on the robes of the great spirit as he passes through the twilight, walks in silence through the heavens. this with joy beheld iagoo and he said in haste: "behold it! see the sacred star of evening! you shall hear a tale of wonder, hear the story of osseo, son of the evening star, osseo! "once, in days no more remembered, ages nearer the beginning, when the heavens were closer to us, and the gods were more familiar, in the north-land lived a hunter, with ten young and comely daughters, tall and lithe as wands of willow; only oweenee, the youngest, she the wilful and the wayward, she the silent, dreamy maiden, was the fairest of the sisters. "all these women married warriors, married brave and haughty husbands; only oweenee, the youngest, laughed and flouted all her lovers, all her young and handsome suitors, and then married old osseo, old osseo, poor and ugly, broken with age and weak with coughing, always coughing like a squirrel. "ah, but beautiful within him was the spirit of osseo, from the evening star descended, star of evening, star of woman, star of tenderness and passion! all its fire was in his bosom, all its beauty in his spirit, all its mystery in his being, all its splendor in his language! "and her lovers, the rejected, handsome men with belts of wampum, handsome men with paint and feathers. pointed at her in derision, followed her with jest and laughter. but she said: 'i care not for you, care not for your belts of wampum, care not for your paint and feathers, care not for your jests and laughter; i am happy with osseo!' "once to some great feast invited, through the damp and dusk of evening, walked together the ten sisters, walked together with their husbands; slowly followed old osseo, with fair oweenee beside him; all the others chatted gayly, these two only walked in silence. "at the western sky osseo gazed intent, as if imploring, often stopped and gazed imploring at the trembling star of evening, at the tender star of woman; and they heard him murmur softly, 'ah, showain nemeshin, nosa! pity, pity me, my father!' "'listen!' said the eldest sister, 'he is praying to his father! what a pity that the old man does not stumble in the pathway, does not break his neck by falling!' and they laughed till all the forest rang with their unseemly laughter. "on their pathway through the woodlands lay an oak, by storms uprooted, lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, buried half in leaves and mosses, mouldering, crumbling, huge and hollow. and osseo, when he saw it, gave a shout, a cry of anguish, leaped into its yawning cavern, at one end went in an old man, wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly; from the other came a young man, tall and straight and strong and handsome. "thus osseo was transfigured, thus restored to youth and beauty; but, alas for good osseo, and for oweenee, the faithful! strangely, too, was she transfigured. changed into a weak old woman, with a staff she tottered onward, wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly! and the sisters and their husbands laughed until the echoing forest rang with their unseemly laughter. "but osseo turned not from her, walked with slower step beside her, took her hand, as brown and withered as an oak-leaf is in winter, called her sweetheart, nenemoosha, soothed her with soft words of kindness, till they reached the lodge of feasting, till they sat down in the wigwam, sacred to the star of evening, to the tender star of woman. "wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming, at the banquet sat osseo; all were merry, all were happy, all were joyous but osseo. neither food nor drink he tasted, neither did he speak nor listen; but as one bewildered sat he, looking dreamily and sadly, first at oweenee, then upward at the gleaming sky above them. "then a voice was heard, a whisper, coming from the starry distance, coming from the empty vastness, low, and musical, and tender; and the voice said: 'o osseo! o my son, my best beloved! broken are the spells that bound you, all the charms of the magicians, all the magic powers of evil; come to me; ascend, osseo! "'taste the food that stands before you: it is blessed and enchanted, it has magic virtues in it, it will change you to a spirit. all your bowls and all your kettles shall be wood and clay no longer; but the bowls be changed to wampum, and the kettles shall be silver; they shall shine like shells of scarlet, like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. "'and the women shall no longer bear the dreary doom of labor, but be changed to birds, and glisten with the beauty of the starlight, painted with the dusky splendors of the skies and clouds of evening!' "what osseo heard as whispers, what as words he comprehended, was but music to the others, music as of birds afar off, of the whippoorwill afar off, of the lonely wawonaissa singing in the darksome forest. "then the lodge began to tremble, straight began to shake and tremble, and they felt it rising, rising, slowly through the air ascending, from the darkness of the tree-tops forth into the dewy starlight, till it passed the topmost branches; and behold! the wooden dishes all were changed to shells of scarlet! and behold! the earthen kettles all were changed to bowls of silver! and the roof-poles of the wigwam were as glittering rods of silver, and the roof of bark upon them as the shining shards of beetles. "then osseo gazed around him, and he saw the nine fair sisters, all the sisters and their husbands, changed to birds of various plumage. some were jays and some were magpies, others thrushes, others blackbirds; and they hopped, and sang, and twittered, perked and fluttered all their feathers, strutted in their shining plumage, and their tails like fans unfolded. "only oweenee, the youngest, was not changed, but sat in silence, wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, looking sadly at the others; till osseo, gazing upward, gave another cry of anguish, such a cry as he had uttered by the oak-tree in the forest. "then returned her youth and beauty, and her soiled and tattered garments were transformed to robes of ermine, and her staff became a feather, yes, a shining silver feather! "and again the wigwam trembled, swayed and rushed through airy currents, through transparent cloud and vapor, and amid celestial splendors on the evening star alighted, as a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, as a leaf drops on a river, as the thistledown on water. "forth with cheerful words of welcome came the father of osseo, he with radiant locks of silver, he with eyes serene and tender. and he said: `my son, osseo, hang the cage of birds you bring there, hang the cage with rods of silver, and the birds with glistening feathers, at the doorway of my wigwam.' "at the door he hung the bird-cage, and they entered in and gladly listened to osseo's father, ruler of the star of evening, as he said: `o my osseo! i have had compassion on you, given you back your youth and beauty, into birds of various plumage changed your sisters and their husbands; changed them thus because they mocked you in the figure of the old man, in that aspect sad and wrinkled, could not see your heart of passion, could not see your youth immortal; only oweenee, the faithful, saw your naked heart and loved you. "`in the lodge that glimmers yonder, in the little star that twinkles through the vapors, on the left hand, lives the envious evil spirit, the wabeno, the magician, who transformed you to an old man. take heed lest his beams fall on you, for the rays he darts around him are the power of his enchantment, are the arrows that he uses.' "many years, in peace and quiet, on the peaceful star of evening dwelt osseo with his father; many years, in song and flutter, at the doorway of the wigwam, hung the cage with rods of silver, and fair oweenee, the faithful, bore a son unto osseo, with the beauty of his mother, with the courage of his father. "and the boy grew up and prospered, and osseo, to delight him, made him little bows and arrows, opened the great cage of silver, and let loose his aunts and uncles, all those birds with glossy feathers, for his little son to shoot at. "round and round they wheeled and darted, filled the evening star with music, with their songs of joy and freedom filled the evening star with splendor, with the fluttering of their plumage; till the boy, the little hunter, bent his bow and shot an arrow, shot a swift and fatal arrow, and a bird, with shining feathers, at his feet fell wounded sorely. "but, o wondrous transformation! `t was no bird he saw before him, `t was a beautiful young woman, with the arrow in her bosom! "when her blood fell on the planet, on the sacred star of evening, broken was the spell of magic, powerless was the strange enchantment, and the youth, the fearless bowman, suddenly felt himself descending, held by unseen hands, but sinking downward through the empty spaces, downward through the clouds and vapors, till he rested on an island, on an island, green and grassy, yonder in the big-sea-water. "after him he saw descending all the birds with shining feathers, fluttering, falling, wafted downward, like the painted leaves of autumn; and the lodge with poles of silver, with its roof like wings of beetles, like the shining shards of beetles, by the winds of heaven uplifted, slowly sank upon the island, bringing back the good osseo, bringing oweenee, the faithful. "then the birds, again transfigured, reassumed the shape of mortals, took their shape, but not their stature; they remained as little people, like the pygmies, the puk-wudjies, and on pleasant nights of summer, when the evening star was shining, hand in hand they danced together on the island's craggy headlands, on the sand-beach low and level. "still their glittering lodge is seen there, on the tranquil summer evenings, and upon the shore the fisher sometimes hears their happy voices, sees them dancing in the starlight !" when the story was completed, when the wondrous tale was ended, looking round upon his listeners, solemnly iagoo added: "there are great men, i have known such, whom their people understand not, whom they even make a jest of, scoff and jeer at in derision. from the story of osseo let us learn the fate of jesters!" all the wedding guests delighted listened to the marvellous story, listened laughing and applauding, and they whispered to each other: "does he mean himself, i wonder? and are we the aunts and uncles?" then again sang chibiabos, sang a song of love and longing, in those accents sweet and tender, in those tones of pensive sadness, sang a maiden's lamentation for her lover, her algonquin. "when i think of my beloved, ah me! think of my beloved, when my heart is thinking of him, o my sweetheart, my algonquin! "ah me! when i parted from him, round my neck he hung the wampum, as a pledge, the snow-white wampum, o my sweetheart, my algonquin! "'i will go with you,' he whispered, 'ah me! to your native country; let me go with you,' he whispered, 'o my sweetheart, my algonquin!' 'far away, away,' i answered, 'very far away,' i answered, 'ah me! is my native country, o my sweetheart, my algonquin!' "when i looked back to behold him, where we parted, to behold him, after me he still was gazing, o my sweetheart, my algonquin! "by the tree he still was standing, by the fallen tree was standing, that had dropped into the water, o my sweetheart, my algonquin! "when i think of my beloved, ah me! think of my beloved, when my heart is thinking of him, o my sweetheart, my algonquin!" such was hiawatha's wedding, such the dance of pau-puk-keewis, such the story of iagoo, such the songs of chibiabos; thus the wedding banquet ended, and the wedding guests departed, leaving hiawatha happy with the night and minnehaha. xiii blessing the cornfields sing, o song of hiawatha, of the happy days that followed, in the land of the ojibways, in the pleasant land and peaceful! sing the mysteries of mondamin, sing the blessing of the cornfields! buried was the bloody hatchet, buried was the dreadful war-club, buried were all warlike weapons, and the war-cry was forgotten. there was peace among the nations; unmolested roved the hunters, built the birch canoe for sailing, caught the fish in lake and river, shot the deer and trapped the beaver; unmolested worked the women, made their sugar from the maple, gathered wild rice in the meadows, dressed the skins of deer and beaver. all around the happy village stood the maize-fields, green and shining, waved the green plumes of mondamin, waved his soft and sunny tresses, filling all the land with plenty. `t was the women who in spring-time planted the broad fields and fruitful, buried in the earth mondamin; `t was the women who in autumn stripped the yellow husks of harvest, stripped the garments from mondamin, even as hiawatha taught them. once, when all the maize was planted, hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, spake and said to minnehaha, to his wife, the laughing water: "you shall bless to-night the cornfields, draw a magic circle round them, to protect them from destruction, blast of mildew, blight of insect, wagemin, the thief of cornfields, paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear. "in the night, when all is silence, in the night, when all is darkness, when the spirit of sleep, nepahwin, shuts the doors of all the wigwams, so that not an ear can hear you, so that not an eye can see you, rise up from your bed in silence, lay aside your garments wholly, walk around the fields you planted, round the borders of the cornfields, covered by your tresses only, robed with darkness as a garment. "thus the fields shall be more fruitful, and the passing of your footsteps draw a magic circle round them, so that neither blight nor mildew, neither burrowing worm nor insect, shall pass o'er the magic circle; not the dragon-fly, kwo-ne-she, nor the spider, subbekashe, nor the grasshopper, pah-puk-keena; nor the mighty caterpillar, way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin, king of all the caterpillars!" on the tree-tops near the cornfields sat the hungry crows and ravens, kahgahgee, the king of ravens, with his band of black marauders. and they laughed at hiawatha, till the tree-tops shook with laughter, with their melancholy laughter, at the words of hiawatha. "hear him!" said they; "hear the wise man, hear the plots of hiawatha!" when the noiseless night descended broad and dark o'er field and forest, when the mournful wawonaissa sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, and the spirit of sleep, nepahwin, shut the doors of all the wigwams, from her bed rose laughing water, laid aside her garments wholly, and with darkness clothed and guarded, unashamed and unaffrighted, walked securely round the cornfields, drew the sacred, magic circle of her footprints round the cornfields. no one but the midnight only saw her beauty in the darkness, no one but the wawonaissa heard the panting of her bosom guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her closely in his sacred mantle, so that none might see her beauty, so that none might boast, "i saw her!" on the morrow, as the day dawned, kahgahgee, the king of ravens, gathered all his black marauders, crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, and descended, fast and fearless, on the fields of hiawatha, on the grave of the mondamin. "we will drag mondamin," said they, "from the grave where he is buried, spite of all the magic circles laughing water draws around it, spite of all the sacred footprints minnehaha stamps upon it!" but the wary hiawatha, ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, had o'erheard the scornful laughter when they mocked him from the tree-tops. "kaw!" he said, "my friends the ravens! kahgahgee, my king of ravens! i will teach you all a lesson that shall not be soon forgotten!" he had risen before the daybreak, he had spread o'er all the cornfields snares to catch the black marauders, and was lying now in ambush in the neighboring grove of pine-trees, waiting for the crows and blackbirds, waiting for the jays and ravens. soon they came with caw and clamor, rush of wings and cry of voices, to their work of devastation, settling down upon the cornfields, delving deep with beak and talon, for the body of mondamin. and with all their craft and cunning, all their skill in wiles of warfare, they perceived no danger near them, till their claws became entangled, till they found themselves imprisoned in the snares of hiawatha. from his place of ambush came he, striding terrible among them, and so awful was his aspect that the bravest quailed with terror. without mercy he destroyed them right and left, by tens and twenties, and their wretched, lifeless bodies hung aloft on poles for scarecrows round the consecrated cornfields, as a signal of his vengeance, as a warning to marauders. only kahgahgee, the leader, kahgahgee, the king of ravens, he alone was spared among them as a hostage for his people. with his prisoner-string he bound him, led him captive to his wigwam, tied him fast with cords of elm-bark to the ridge-pole of his wigwam. "kahgahgee, my raven!" said he, "you the leader of the robbers, you the plotter of this mischief, the contriver of this outrage, i will keep you, i will hold you, as a hostage for your people, as a pledge of good behavior!" and he left him, grim and sulky, sitting in the morning sunshine on the summit of the wigwam, croaking fiercely his displeasure, flapping his great sable pinions, vainly struggling for his freedom, vainly calling on his people! summer passed, and shawondasee breathed his sighs o'er all the landscape, from the south-land sent his ardor, wafted kisses warm and tender; and the maize-field grew and ripened, till it stood in all the splendor of its garments green and yellow, of its tassels and its plumage, and the maize-ears full and shining gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure. then nokomis, the old woman, spake, and said to minnehaha: "'t is the moon when, leaves are falling; all the wild rice has been gathered, and the maize is ripe and ready; let us gather in the harvest, let us wrestle with mondamin, strip him of his plumes and tassels, of his garments green and yellow!" and the merry laughing water went rejoicing from the wigwam, with nokomis, old and wrinkled, and they called the women round them, called the young men and the maidens, to the harvest of the cornfields, to the husking of the maize-ear. on the border of the forest, underneath the fragrant pine-trees, sat the old men and the warriors smoking in the pleasant shadow. in uninterrupted silence looked they at the gamesome labor of the young men and the women; listened to their noisy talking, to their laughter and their singing, heard them chattering like the magpies, heard them laughing like the blue-jays, heard them singing like the robins. and whene'er some lucky maiden found a red ear in the husking, found a maize-ear red as blood is, "nushka!" cried they all together, "nushka! you shall have a sweetheart, you shall have a handsome husband!" "ugh!" the old men all responded from their seats beneath the pine-trees. and whene'er a youth or maiden found a crooked ear in husking, found a maize-ear in the husking blighted, mildewed, or misshapen, then they laughed and sang together, crept and limped about the cornfields, mimicked in their gait and gestures some old man, bent almost double, singing singly or together: "wagemin, the thief of cornfields! paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear!" till the cornfields rang with laughter, till from hiawatha's wigwam kahgahgee, the king of ravens, screamed and quivered in his anger, and from all the neighboring tree-tops cawed and croaked the black marauders. "ugh!" the old men all responded, from their seats beneath the pine-trees! xiv picture-writing in those days said hiawatha, "lo! how all things fade and perish! from the memory of the old men pass away the great traditions, the achievements of the warriors, the adventures of the hunters, all the wisdom of the medas, all the craft of the wabenos, all the marvellous dreams and visions of the jossakeeds, the prophets! "great men die and are forgotten, wise men speak; their words of wisdom perish in the ears that hear them, do not reach the generations that, as yet unborn, are waiting in the great, mysterious darkness of the speechless days that shall be! "on the grave-posts of our fathers are no signs, no figures painted; who are in those graves we know not, only know they are our fathers. of what kith they are and kindred, from what old, ancestral totem, be it eagle, bear, or beaver, they descended, this we know not, only know they are our fathers. "face to face we speak together, but we cannot speak when absent, cannot send our voices from us to the friends that dwell afar off; cannot send a secret message, but the bearer learns our secret, may pervert it, may betray it, may reveal it unto others." thus said hiawatha, walking in the solitary forest, pondering, musing in the forest, on the welfare of his people. from his pouch he took his colors, took his paints of different colors, on the smooth bark of a birch-tree painted many shapes and figures, wonderful and mystic figures, and each figure had a meaning, each some word or thought suggested. gitche manito the mighty, he, the master of life, was painted as an egg, with points projecting to the four winds of the heavens. everywhere is the great spirit, was the meaning of this symbol. mitche manito the mighty, he the dreadful spirit of evil, as a serpent was depicted, as kenabeek, the great serpent. very crafty, very cunning, is the creeping spirit of evil, was the meaning of this symbol. life and death he drew as circles, life was white, but death was darkened; sun and moon and stars he painted, man and beast, and fish and reptile, forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers. for the earth he drew a straight line, for the sky a bow above it; white the space between for daytime, filled with little stars for night-time; on the left a point for sunrise, on the right a point for sunset, on the top a point for noontide, and for rain and cloudy weather waving lines descending from it. footprints pointing towards a wigwam were a sign of invitation, were a sign of guests assembling; bloody hands with palms uplifted were a symbol of destruction, were a hostile sign and symbol. all these things did hiawatha show unto his wondering people, and interpreted their meaning, and he said: "behold, your grave-posts have no mark, no sign, nor symbol, go and paint them all with figures; each one with its household symbol, with its own ancestral totem; so that those who follow after may distinguish them and know them." and they painted on the grave-posts on the graves yet unforgotten, each his own ancestral totem, each the symbol of his household; figures of the bear and reindeer, of the turtle, crane, and beaver, each inverted as a token that the owner was departed, that the chief who bore the symbol lay beneath in dust and ashes. and the jossakeeds, the prophets, the wabenos, the magicians, and the medicine-men, the medas, painted upon bark and deer-skin figures for the songs they chanted, for each song a separate symbol, figures mystical and awful, figures strange and brightly colored; and each figure had its meaning, each some magic song suggested. the great spirit, the creator, flashing light through all the heaven; the great serpent, the kenabeek, with his bloody crest erected, creeping, looking into heaven; in the sky the sun, that listens, and the moon eclipsed and dying; owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, and the cormorant, bird of magic; headless men, that walk the heavens, bodies lying pierced with arrows, bloody hands of death uplifted, flags on graves, and great war-captains grasping both the earth and heaven! such as these the shapes they painted on the birch-bark and the deer-skin; songs of war and songs of hunting, songs of medicine and of magic, all were written in these figures, for each figure had its meaning, each its separate song recorded. nor forgotten was the love-song, the most subtle of all medicines, the most potent spell of magic, dangerous more than war or hunting! thus the love-song was recorded, symbol and interpretation. first a human figure standing, painted in the brightest scarlet; `t is the lover, the musician, and the meaning is, "my painting makes me powerful over others." then the figure seated, singing, playing on a drum of magic, and the interpretation, "listen! `t is my voice you hear, my singing!" then the same red figure seated in the shelter of a wigwam, and the meaning of the symbol, "i will come and sit beside you in the mystery of my passion!" then two figures, man and woman, standing hand in hand together with their hands so clasped together that they seemed in one united, and the words thus represented are, "i see your heart within you, and your cheeks are red with blushes!" next the maiden on an island, in the centre of an island; and the song this shape suggested was, "though you were at a distance, were upon some far-off island, such the spell i cast upon you, such the magic power of passion, i could straightway draw you to me!" then the figure of the maiden sleeping, and the lover near her, whispering to her in her slumbers, saying, "though you were far from me in the land of sleep and silence, still the voice of love would reach you!" and the last of all the figures was a heart within a circle, drawn within a magic circle; and the image had this meaning: "naked lies your heart before me, to your naked heart i whisper!" thus it was that hiawatha, in his wisdom, taught the people all the mysteries of painting, all the art of picture-writing, on the smooth bark of the birch-tree, on the white skin of the reindeer, on the grave-posts of the village. xv hiawatha's lamentation in those days the evil spirits, all the manitos of mischief, fearing hiawatha's wisdom, and his love for chibiabos, jealous of their faithful friendship, and their noble words and actions, made at length a league against them, to molest them and destroy them. hiawatha, wise and wary, often said to chibiabos, "o my brother! do not leave me, lest the evil spirits harm you!" chibiabos, young and heedless, laughing shook his coal-black tresses, answered ever sweet and childlike, "do not fear for me, o brother! harm and evil come not near me!" once when peboan, the winter, roofed with ice the big-sea-water, when the snow-flakes, whirling downward, hissed among the withered oak-leaves, changed the pine-trees into wigwams, covered all the earth with silence, armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes, heeding not his brother's warning, fearing not the evil spirits, forth to hunt the deer with antlers all alone went chibiabos. right across the big-sea-water sprang with speed the deer before him. with the wind and snow he followed, o'er the treacherous ice he followed, wild with all the fierce commotion and the rapture of the hunting. but beneath, the evil spirits lay in ambush, waiting for him, broke the treacherous ice beneath him, dragged him downward to the bottom, buried in the sand his body. unktahee, the god of water, he the god of the dacotahs, drowned him in the deep abysses of the lake of gitche gumee. from the headlands hiawatha sent forth such a wail of anguish, such a fearful lamentation, that the bison paused to listen, and the wolves howled from the prairies, and the thunder in the distance starting answered "baim-wawa!" then his face with black he painted, with his robe his head he covered, in his wigwam sat lamenting, seven long weeks he sat lamenting, uttering still this moan of sorrow: "he is dead, the sweet musician! he the sweetest of all singers! he has gone from us forever, he has moved a little nearer to the master of all music, to the master of all singing! o my brother, chibiabos!" and the melancholy fir-trees waved their dark green fans above him, waved their purple cones above him, sighing with him to console him, mingling with his lamentation their complaining, their lamenting. came the spring, and all the forest looked in vain for chibiabos; sighed the rivulet, sebowisha, sighed the rushes in the meadow. from the tree-tops sang the bluebird, sang the bluebird, the owaissa, "chibiabos! chibiabos! he is dead, the sweet musician!" from the wigwam sang the robin, sang the robin, the opechee, "chibiabos! chibiabos! he is dead, the sweetest singer!" and at night through all the forest went the whippoorwill complaining, wailing went the wawonaissa, "chibiabos! chibiabos! he is dead, the sweet musician! he the sweetest of all singers!" then the medicine-men, the medas, the magicians, the wabenos, and the jossakeeds, the prophets, came to visit hiawatha; built a sacred lodge beside him, to appease him, to console him, walked in silent, grave procession, bearing each a pouch of healing, skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, filled with magic roots and simples, filled with very potent medicines. when he heard their steps approaching, hiawatha ceased lamenting, called no more on chibiabos; naught he questioned, naught he answered, but his mournful head uncovered, from his face the mourning colors washed he slowly and in silence, slowly and in silence followed onward to the sacred wigwam. there a magic drink they gave him, made of nahma-wusk, the spearmint, and wabeno-wusk, the yarrow, roots of power, and herbs of healing; beat their drums, and shook their rattles; chanted singly and in chorus, mystic songs like these, they chanted. "i myself, myself! behold me! `t is the great gray eagle talking; come, ye white crows, come and hear him! the loud-speaking thunder helps me; all the unseen spirits help me; i can hear their voices calling, all around the sky i hear them! i can blow you strong, my brother, i can heal you, hiawatha!" "hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus, "wayha-way!" the mystic chorus. friends of mine are all the serpents! hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk! mahng, the white loon, i can kill him; i can shoot your heart and kill it! i can blow you strong, my brother, i can heal you, hiawatha !" "hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus, "wayhaway!" the mystic chorus. "i myself, myself! the prophet! when i speak the wigwam trembles, shakes the sacred lodge with terror, hands unseen begin to shake it! when i walk, the sky i tread on bends and makes a noise beneath me! i can blow you strong, my brother! rise and speak, o hiawatha!" "hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus, "way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus. then they shook their medicine-pouches o'er the head of hiawatha, danced their medicine-dance around him; and upstarting wild and haggard, like a man from dreams awakened, he was healed of all his madness. as the clouds are swept from heaven, straightway from his brain departed all his moody melancholy; as the ice is swept from rivers, straightway from his heart departed all his sorrow and affliction. then they summoned chibiabos from his grave beneath the waters, from the sands of gitche gumee summoned hiawatha's brother. and so mighty was the magic of that cry and invocation, that he heard it as he lay there underneath the big-sea-water; from the sand he rose and listened, heard the music and the singing, came, obedient to the summons, to the doorway of the wigwam, but to enter they forbade him. through a chink a coal they gave him, through the door a burning fire-brand; ruler in the land of spirits, ruler o'er the dead, they made him, telling him a fire to kindle for all those that died thereafter, camp-fires for their night encampments on their solitary journey to the kingdom of ponemah, to the land of the hereafter. from the village of his childhood, from the homes of those who knew him, passing silent through the forest, like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, slowly vanished chibiabos! where he passed, the branches moved not, where he trod, the grasses bent not, and the fallen leaves of last year made no sound beneath his footstep. four whole days he journeyed onward down the pathway of the dead men; on the dead-man's strawberry feasted, crossed the melancholy river, on the swinging log he crossed it, came unto the lake of silver, in the stone canoe was carried to the islands of the blessed, to the land of ghosts and shadows. on that journey, moving slowly, many weary spirits saw he, panting under heavy burdens, laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows, robes of fur, and pots and kettles, and with food that friends had given for that solitary journey. "ay! why do the living," said they, "lay such heavy burdens on us! better were it to go naked, better were it to go fasting, than to bear such heavy burdens on our long and weary journey!" forth then issued hiawatha, wandered eastward, wandered westward, teaching men the use of simples and the antidotes for poisons, and the cure of all diseases. thus was first made known to mortals all the mystery of medamin, all the sacred art of healing. xvi pau-puk-keewis you shall hear how pau-puk-keewis, he, the handsome yenadizze, whom the people called the storm-fool, vexed the village with disturbance; you shall hear of all his mischief, and his flight from hiawatha, and his wondrous transmigrations, and the end of his adventures. on the shores of gitche gumee, on the dunes of nagow wudjoo, by the shining big-sea-water stood the lodge of pau-puk-keewis. it was he who in his frenzy whirled these drifting sands together, on the dunes of nagow wudjoo, when, among the guests assembled, he so merrily and madly danced at hiawatha's wedding, danced the beggar's dance to please them. now, in search of new adventures, from his lodge went pau-puk-keewis, came with speed into the village, found the young men all assembled in the lodge of old iagoo, listening to his monstrous stories, to his wonderful adventures. he was telling them the story of ojeeg, the summer-maker, how he made a hole in heaven, how he climbed up into heaven, and let out the summer-weather, the perpetual, pleasant summer; how the otter first essayed it; how the beaver, lynx, and badger tried in turn the great achievement, from the summit of the mountain smote their fists against the heavens, smote against the sky their foreheads, cracked the sky, but could not break it; how the wolverine, uprising, made him ready for the encounter, bent his knees down, like a squirrel, drew his arms back, like a cricket. "once he leaped," said old iagoo, "once he leaped, and lo! above him bent the sky, as ice in rivers when the waters rise beneath it; twice he leaped, and lo! above him cracked the sky, as ice in rivers when the freshet is at highest! thrice he leaped, and lo! above him broke the shattered sky asunder, and he disappeared within it, and ojeeg, the fisher weasel, with a bound went in behind him!" "hark you!" shouted pau-puk-keewis as he entered at the doorway; "i am tired of all this talking, tired of old iagoo's stories, tired of hiawatha's wisdom. here is something to amuse you, better than this endless talking." then from out his pouch of wolf-skin forth he drew, with solemn manner, all the game of bowl and counters, pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. white on one side were they painted, and vermilion on the other; two kenabeeks or great serpents, two ininewug or wedge-men, one great war-club, pugamaugun, and one slender fish, the keego, four round pieces, ozawabeeks, and three sheshebwug or ducklings. all were made of bone and painted, all except the ozawabeeks; these were brass, on one side burnished, and were black upon the other. in a wooden bowl he placed them, shook and jostled them together, threw them on the ground before him, thus exclaiming and explaining: "red side up are all the pieces, and one great kenabeek standing on the bright side of a brass piece, on a burnished ozawabeek; thirteen tens and eight are counted." then again he shook the pieces, shook and jostled them together, threw them on the ground before him, still exclaiming and explaining: "white are both the great kenabeeks, white the ininewug, the wedge-men, red are all the other pieces; five tens and an eight are counted." thus he taught the game of hazard, thus displayed it and explained it, running through its various chances, various changes, various meanings: twenty curious eyes stared at him, full of eagerness stared at him. "many games," said old iagoo, "many games of skill and hazard have i seen in different nations, have i played in different countries. he who plays with old iagoo must have very nimble fingers; though you think yourself so skilful, i can beat you, pau-puk-keewis, i can even give you lessons in your game of bowl and counters!" so they sat and played together, all the old men and the young men, played for dresses, weapons, wampum, played till midnight, played till morning, played until the yenadizze, till the cunning pau-puk-keewis, of their treasures had despoiled them, of the best of all their dresses, shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, belts of wampum, crests of feathers, warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. twenty eyes glared wildly at him, like the eyes of wolves glared at him. said the lucky pau-puk-keewis: "in my wigwam i am lonely, in my wanderings and adventures i have need of a companion, fain would have a meshinauwa, an attendant and pipe-bearer. i will venture all these winnings, all these garments heaped about me, all this wampum, all these feathers, on a single throw will venture all against the young man yonder!" `t was a youth of sixteen summers, `t was a nephew of iagoo; face-in-a-mist, the people called him. as the fire burns in a pipe-head dusky red beneath the ashes, so beneath his shaggy eyebrows glowed the eyes of old iagoo. "ugh!" he answered very fiercely; "ugh!" they answered all and each one. seized the wooden bowl the old man, closely in his bony fingers clutched the fatal bowl, onagon, shook it fiercely and with fury, made the pieces ring together as he threw them down before him. red were both the great kenabeeks, red the ininewug, the wedge-men, red the sheshebwug, the ducklings, black the four brass ozawabeeks, white alone the fish, the keego; only five the pieces counted! then the smiling pau-puk-keewis shook the bowl and threw the pieces; lightly in the air he tossed them, and they fell about him scattered; dark and bright the ozawabeeks, red and white the other pieces, and upright among the others one ininewug was standing, even as crafty pau-puk-keewis stood alone among the players, saying, "five tens! mine the game is," twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, like the eyes of wolves glared at him, as he turned and left the wigwam, followed by his meshinauwa, by the nephew of iagoo, by the tall and graceful stripling, bearing in his arms the winnings, shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. "carry them," said pau-puk-keewis, pointing with his fan of feathers, "to my wigwam far to eastward, on the dunes of nagow wudjoo!" hot and red with smoke and gambling were the eyes of pau-puk-keewis as he came forth to the freshness of the pleasant summer morning. all the birds were singing gayly, all the streamlets flowing swiftly, and the heart of pau-puk-keewis sang with pleasure as the birds sing, beat with triumph like the streamlets, as he wandered through the village, in the early gray of morning, with his fan of turkey-feathers, with his plumes and tufts of swan's down, till he reached the farthest wigwam, reached the lodge of hiawatha. silent was it and deserted; no one met him at the doorway, no one came to bid him welcome; but the birds were singing round it, in and out and round the doorway, hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, and aloft upon the ridge-pole kahgahgee, the king of ravens, sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, flapped his wings at pau-puk-keewis. "all are gone! the lodge is empty!" thus it was spake pau-puk-keewis, in his heart resolving mischief "gone is wary hiawatha, gone the silly laughing water, gone nokomis, the old woman, and the lodge is left unguarded!" by the neck he seized the raven, whirled it round him like a rattle, like a medicine-pouch he shook it, strangled kahgahgee, the raven, from the ridge-pole of the wigwam left its lifeless body hanging, as an insult to its master, as a taunt to hiawatha. with a stealthy step he entered, round the lodge in wild disorder threw the household things about him, piled together in confusion bowls of wood and earthen kettles, robes of buffalo and beaver, skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, as an insult to nokomis, as a taunt to minnehaha. then departed pau-puk-keewis, whistling, singing through the forest, whistling gayly to the squirrels, who from hollow boughs above him dropped their acorn-shells upon him, singing gayly to the wood birds, who from out the leafy darkness answered with a song as merry. then he climbed the rocky headlands, looking o'er the gitche gumee, perched himself upon their summit, waiting full of mirth and mischief the return of hiawatha. stretched upon his back he lay there; far below him splashed the waters, plashed and washed the dreamy waters; far above him swam the heavens, swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; round him hovered, fluttered, rustled hiawatha's mountain chickens, flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, almost brushed him with their pinions. and he killed them as he lay there, slaughtered them by tens and twenties, threw their bodies down the headland, threw them on the beach below him, till at length kayoshk, the sea-gull, perched upon a crag above them, shouted: "it is pau-puk-keewis! he is slaying us by hundreds! send a message to our brother, tidings send to hiawatha!" xvii the hunting of pau-puk-keewis full of wrath was hiawatha when he came into the village, found the people in confusion, heard of all the misdemeanors, all the malice and the mischief, of the cunning pau-puk-keewis. hard his breath came through his nostrils, through his teeth he buzzed and muttered words of anger and resentment, hot and humming, like a hornet. "i will slay this pau-puk-keewis, slay this mischief-maker!" said he. "not so long and wide the world is, not so rude and rough the way is, that my wrath shall not attain him, that my vengeance shall not reach him!" then in swift pursuit departed hiawatha and the hunters on the trail of pau-puk-keewis, through the forest, where he passed it, to the headlands where he rested; but they found not pau-puk-keewis, only in the trampled grasses, in the whortleberry-bushes, found the couch where he had rested, found the impress of his body. from the lowlands far beneath them, from the muskoday, the meadow, pau-puk-keewis, turning backward, made a gesture of defiance, made a gesture of derision; and aloud cried hiawatha, from the summit of the mountains: "not so long and wide the world is, not so rude and rough the way is, but my wrath shall overtake you, and my vengeance shall attain you!" over rock and over river, through bush, and brake, and forest, ran the cunning pau-puk-keewis; like an antelope he bounded, till he came unto a streamlet in the middle of the forest, to a streamlet still and tranquil, that had overflowed its margin, to a dam made by the beavers, to a pond of quiet water, where knee-deep the trees were standing, where the water lilies floated, where the rushes waved and whispered. on the dam stood pau-puk-keewis, on the dam of trunks and branches, through whose chinks the water spouted, o'er whose summit flowed the streamlet. from the bottom rose the beaver, looked with two great eyes of wonder, eyes that seemed to ask a question, at the stranger, pau-puk-keewis. on the dam stood pau-puk-keewis, o'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, flowed the bright and silvery water, and he spake unto the beaver, with a smile he spake in this wise: "o my friend ahmeek, the beaver, cool and pleasant is the water; let me dive into the water, let me rest there in your lodges; change me, too, into a beaver!" cautiously replied the beaver, with reserve he thus made answer: "let me first consult the others, let me ask the other beavers." down he sank into the water, heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, down among the leaves and branches, brown and matted at the bottom. on the dam stood pau-puk-keewis, o'er his ankles flowed the streamlet, spouted through the chinks below him, dashed upon the stones beneath him, spread serene and calm before him, and the sunshine and the shadows fell in flecks and gleams upon him, fell in little shining patches, through the waving, rustling branches. from the bottom rose the beavers, silently above the surface rose one head and then another, till the pond seemed full of beavers, full of black and shining faces. to the beavers pau-puk-keewis spake entreating, said in this wise: "very pleasant is your dwelling, o my friends! and safe from danger; can you not, with all your cunning, all your wisdom and contrivance, change me, too, into a beaver?" "yes!" replied ahmeek, the beaver, he the king of all the beavers, "let yourself slide down among us, down into the tranquil water." down into the pond among them silently sank pau-puk-keewis; black became his shirt of deer-skin, black his moccasins and leggings, in a broad black tail behind him spread his fox-tails and his fringes; he was changed into a beaver. "make me large," said pau-puk-keewis, "make me large and make me larger, larger than the other beavers." "yes," the beaver chief responded, "when our lodge below you enter, in our wigwam we will make you ten times larger than the others." thus into the clear, brown water silently sank pau-puk-keewis: found the bottom covered over with the trunks of trees and branches, hoards of food against the winter, piles and heaps against the famine; found the lodge with arching doorway, leading into spacious chambers. here they made him large and larger, made him largest of the beavers, ten times larger than the others. "you shall be our ruler," said they; "chief and king of all the beavers." but not long had pau-puk-keewis sat in state among the beavers, when there came a voice, of warning from the watchman at his station in the water-flags and lilies, saying, "here is hiawatha! hiawatha with his hunters!" then they heard a cry above them, heard a shouting and a tramping, heard a crashing and a rushing, and the water round and o'er them sank and sucked away in eddies, and they knew their dam was broken. on the lodge's roof the hunters leaped, and broke it all asunder; streamed the sunshine through the crevice, sprang the beavers through the doorway, hid themselves in deeper water, in the channel of the streamlet; but the mighty pau-puk-keewis could not pass beneath the doorway; he was puffed with pride and feeding, he was swollen like a bladder. through the roof looked hiawatha, cried aloud, "o pau-puk-keewis vain are all your craft and cunning, vain your manifold disguises! well i know you, pau-puk-keewis!" with their clubs they beat and bruised him, beat to death poor pau-puk-keewis, pounded him as maize is pounded, till his skull was crushed to pieces. six tall hunters, lithe and limber, bore him home on poles and branches, bore the body of the beaver; but the ghost, the jeebi in him, thought and felt as pau-puk-keewis, still lived on as pau-puk-keewis. and it fluttered, strove, and struggled, waving hither, waving thither, as the curtains of a wigwam struggle with their thongs of deer-skin, when the wintry wind is blowing; till it drew itself together, till it rose up from the body, till it took the form and features of the cunning pau-puk-keewis vanishing into the forest. but the wary hiawatha saw the figure ere it vanished, saw the form of pau-puk-keewis glide into the soft blue shadow of the pine-trees of the forest; toward the squares of white beyond it, toward an opening in the forest. like a wind it rushed and panted, bending all the boughs before it, and behind it, as the rain comes, came the steps of hiawatha. to a lake with many islands came the breathless pau-puk-keewis, where among the water-lilies pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing; through the tufts of rushes floating, steering through the reedy islands. now their broad black beaks they lifted, now they plunged beneath the water, now they darkened in the shadow, now they brightened in the sunshine. "pishnekuh!" cried pau-puk-keewis, "pishnekuh! my brothers!" said he, "change me to a brant with plumage, with a shining neck and feathers, make me large, and make me larger, ten times larger than the others." straightway to a brant they changed him, with two huge and dusky pinions, with a bosom smooth and rounded, with a bill like two great paddles, made him larger than the others, ten times larger than the largest, just as, shouting from the forest, on the shore stood hiawatha. up they rose with cry and clamor, with a whir and beat of pinions, rose up from the reedy islands, from the water-flags and lilies. and they said to pau-puk-keewis: "in your flying, look not downward, take good heed and look not downward, lest some strange mischance should happen, lest some great mishap befall you!" fast and far they fled to northward, fast and far through mist and sunshine, fed among the moors and fen-lands, slept among the reeds and rushes. on the morrow as they journeyed, buoyed and lifted by the south-wind, wafted onward by the south-wind, blowing fresh and strong behind them, rose a sound of human voices, rose a clamor from beneath them, from the lodges of a village, from the people miles beneath them. for the people of the village saw the flock of brant with wonder, saw the wings of pau-puk-keewis flapping far up in the ether, broader than two doorway curtains. pau-puk-keewis heard the shouting, knew the voice of hiawatha, knew the outcry of iagoo, and, forgetful of the warning, drew his neck in, and looked downward, and the wind that blew behind him caught his mighty fan of feathers, sent him wheeling, whirling downward! all in vain did pau-puk-keewis struggle to regain his balance! whirling round and round and downward, he beheld in turn the village and in turn the flock above him, saw the village coming nearer, and the flock receding farther, heard the voices growing louder, heard the shouting and the laughter; saw no more the flocks above him, only saw the earth beneath him; dead out of the empty heaven, dead among the shouting people, with a heavy sound and sullen, fell the brant with broken pinions. but his soul, his ghost, his shadow, still survived as pau-puk-keewis, took again the form and features of the handsome yenadizze, and again went rushing onward, followed fast by hiawatha, crying: "not so wide the world is, not so long and rough the way is, but my wrath shall overtake you, but my vengeance shall attain you!" and so near he came, so near him, that his hand was stretched to seize him, his right hand to seize and hold him, when the cunning pau-puk-keewis whirled and spun about in circles, fanned the air into a whirlwind, danced the dust and leaves about him, and amid the whirling eddies sprang into a hollow oak-tree, changed himself into a serpent, gliding out through root and rubbish. with his right hand hiawatha smote amain the hollow oak-tree, rent it into shreds and splinters, left it lying there in fragments. but in vain; for pau-puk-keewis, once again in human figure, full in sight ran on before him, sped away in gust and whirlwind, on the shores of gitche gumee, westward by the big-sea-water, came unto the rocky headlands, to the pictured rocks of sandstone, looking over lake and landscape. and the old man of the mountain, he the manito of mountains, opened wide his rocky doorways, opened wide his deep abysses, giving pau-puk-keewis shelter in his caverns dark and dreary, bidding pau-puk-keewis welcome to his gloomy lodge of sandstone. there without stood hiawatha, found the doorways closed against him, with his mittens, minjekahwun, smote great caverns in the sandstone, cried aloud in tones of thunder, "open! i am hiawatha!" but the old man of the mountain opened not, and made no answer from the silent crags of sandstone, from the gloomy rock abysses. then he raised his hands to heaven, called imploring on the tempest, called waywassimo, the lightning, and the thunder, annemeekee; and they came with night and darkness, sweeping down the big-sea-water from the distant thunder mountains; and the trembling pau-puk-keewis heard the footsteps of the thunder, saw the red eyes of the lightning, was afraid, and crouched and trembled. then waywassimo, the lightning, smote the doorways of the caverns, with his war-club smote the doorways, smote the jutting crags of sandstone, and the thunder, annemeekee, shouted down into the caverns, saying, "where is pau-puk-keewis!" and the crags fell, and beneath them dead among the rocky ruins lay the cunning pau-puk-keewis, lay the handsome yenadizze, slain in his own human figure. ended were his wild adventures, ended were his tricks and gambols, ended all his craft and cunning, ended all his mischief-making, all his gambling and his dancing, all his wooing of the maidens. then the noble hiawatha took his soul, his ghost, his shadow, spake and said: "o pau-puk-keewis, never more in human figure shall you search for new adventures; never more with jest and laughter dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds; but above there in the heavens you shall soar and sail in circles; i will change you to an eagle, to keneu, the great war-eagle, chief of all the fowls with feathers, chief of hiawatha's chickens." and the name of pau-puk-keewis lingers still among the people, lingers still among the singers, and among the story-tellers; and in winter, when the snow-flakes whirl in eddies round the lodges, when the wind in gusty tumult o'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, "there," they cry, "comes pau-puk-keewis, he is dancing through the village, he is gathering in his harvest!" xviii the death of kwasind far and wide among the nations spread the name and fame of kwasind; no man dared to strive with kwasind, no man could compete with kwasind. but the mischievous puk-wudjies, they the envious little people, they the fairies and the pygmies, plotted and conspired against him. "if this hateful kwasind," said they, "if this great, outrageous fellow goes on thus a little longer, tearing everything he touches, rending everything to pieces, filling all the world with wonder, what becomes of the puk-wudjies? who will care for the puk-wudjies? he will tread us down like mushrooms, drive us all into the water, give our bodies to be eaten by the wicked nee-ba-naw-baigs, by the spirits of the water!" so the angry little people all conspired against the strong man, all conspired to murder kwasind, yes, to rid the world of kwasind, the audacious, overbearing, heartless, haughty, dangerous kwasind! now this wondrous strength of kwasind in his crown alone was seated; in his crown too was his weakness; there alone could he be wounded, nowhere else could weapon pierce him, nowhere else could weapon harm him. even there the only weapon that could wound him, that could slay him, was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, was the blue cone of the fir-tree. this was kwasind's fatal secret, known to no man among mortals; but the cunning little people, the puk-wudjies, knew the secret, knew the only way to kill him. so they gathered cones together, gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree, gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, in the woods by taquamenaw, brought them to the river's margin, heaped them in great piles together, where the red rocks from the margin jutting overhang the river. there they lay in wait for kwasind, the malicious little people. `t was an afternoon in summer; very hot and still the air was, very smooth the gliding river, motionless the sleeping shadows: insects glistened in the sunshine, insects skated on the water, filled the drowsy air with buzzing, with a far resounding war-cry. down the river came the strong man, in his birch canoe came kwasind, floating slowly down the current of the sluggish taquamenaw, very languid with the weather, very sleepy with the silence. from the overhanging branches, from the tassels of the birch-trees, soft the spirit of sleep descended; by his airy hosts surrounded, his invisible attendants, came the spirit of sleep, nepahwin; like a burnished dush-kwo-ne-she, like a dragon-fly, he hovered o'er the drowsy head of kwasind. to his ear there came a murmur as of waves upon a sea-shore, as of far-off tumbling waters, as of winds among the pine-trees; and he felt upon his forehead blows of little airy war-clubs, wielded by the slumbrous legions of the spirit of sleep, nepahwin, as of some one breathing on him. at the first blow of their war-clubs, fell a drowsiness on kwasind; at the second blow they smote him, motionless his paddle rested; at the third, before his vision reeled the landscape into darkness, very sound asleep was kwasind. so he floated down the river, like a blind man seated upright, floated down the taquamenaw, underneath the trembling birch-trees, underneath the wooded headlands, underneath the war encampment of the pygmies, the puk-wudjies. there they stood, all armed and waiting, hurled the pine-cones down upon him, struck him on his brawny shoulders, on his crown defenceless struck him. "death to kwasind!" was the sudden war-cry of the little people. and he sideways swayed and tumbled, sideways fell into the river, plunged beneath the sluggish water headlong, as an otter plunges; and the birch canoe, abandoned, drifted empty down the river, bottom upward swerved and drifted: nothing more was seen of kwasind. but the memory of the strong man lingered long among the people, and whenever through the forest raged and roared the wintry tempest, and the branches, tossed and troubled, creaked and groaned and split asunder, "kwasind!" cried they; "that is kwasind! he is gathering in his fire-wood!" xix the ghosts never stoops the soaring vulture on his quarry in the desert, on the sick or wounded bison, but another vulture, watching from his high aerial look-out, sees the downward plunge, and follows; and a third pursues the second, coming from the invisible ether, first a speck, and then a vulture, till the air is dark with pinions. so disasters come not singly; but as if they watched and waited, scanning one another's motions, when the first descends, the others follow, follow, gathering flock-wise round their victim, sick and wounded, first a shadow, then a sorrow, till the air is dark with anguish. now, o'er all the dreary north-land, mighty peboan, the winter, breathing on the lakes and rivers, into stone had changed their waters. from his hair he shook the snow-flakes, till the plains were strewn with whiteness, one uninterrupted level, as if, stooping, the creator with his hand had smoothed them over. through the forest, wide and wailing, roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes; in the village worked the women, pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin; and the young men played together on the ice the noisy ball-play, on the plain the dance of snow-shoes. one dark evening, after sundown, in her wigwam laughing water sat with old nokomis, waiting for the steps of hiawatha homeward from the hunt returning. on their faces gleamed the firelight, painting them with streaks of crimson, in the eyes of old nokomis glimmered like the watery moonlight, in the eyes of laughing water glistened like the sun in water; and behind them crouched their shadows in the corners of the wigwam, and the smoke in wreaths above them climbed and crowded through the smoke-flue. then the curtain of the doorway from without was slowly lifted; brighter glowed the fire a moment, and a moment swerved the smoke-wreath, as two women entered softly, passed the doorway uninvited, without word of salutation, without sign of recognition, sat down in the farthest corner, crouching low among the shadows. from their aspect and their garments, strangers seemed they in the village; very pale and haggard were they, as they sat there sad and silent, trembling, cowering with the shadows. was it the wind above the smoke-flue, muttering down into the wigwam? was it the owl, the koko-koho, hooting from the dismal forest? sure a voice said in the silence: "these are corpses clad in garments, these are ghosts that come to haunt you, from the kingdom of ponemah, from the land of the hereafter!" homeward now came hiawatha from his hunting in the forest, with the snow upon his tresses, and the red deer on his shoulders. at the feet of laughing water down he threw his lifeless burden; nobler, handsomer she thought him, than when first he came to woo her, first threw down the deer before her, as a token of his wishes, as a promise of the future. then he turned and saw the strangers, cowering, crouching with the shadows; said within himself, "who are they? what strange guests has minnehaha?" but he questioned not the strangers, only spake to bid them welcome to his lodge, his food, his fireside. when the evening meal was ready, and the deer had been divided, both the pallid guests, the strangers, springing from among the shadows, seized upon the choicest portions, seized the white fat of the roebuck, set apart for laughing water, for the wife of hiawatha; without asking, without thanking, eagerly devoured the morsels, flitted back among the shadows in the corner of the wigwam. not a word spake hiawatha, not a motion made nokomis, not a gesture laughing water; not a change came o'er their features; only minnehaha softly whispered, saying, "they are famished; let them do what best delights them; let them eat, for they are famished." many a daylight dawned and darkened, many a night shook off the daylight as the pine shakes off the snow-flakes from the midnight of its branches; day by day the guests unmoving sat there silent in the wigwam; but by night, in storm or starlight, forth they went into the forest, bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, bringing pine-cones for the burning, always sad and always silent. and whenever hiawatha came from fishing or from hunting, when the evening meal was ready, and the food had been divided, gliding from their darksome corner, came the pallid guests, the strangers, seized upon the choicest portions set aside for laughing water, and without rebuke or question flitted back among the shadows. never once had hiawatha by a word or look reproved them; never once had old nokomis made a gesture of impatience; never once had laughing water shown resentment at the outrage. all had they endured in silence, that the rights of guest and stranger, that the virtue of free-giving, by a look might not be lessened, by a word might not be broken. once at midnight hiawatha, ever wakeful, ever watchful, in the wigwam, dimly lighted by the brands that still were burning, by the glimmering, flickering firelight heard a sighing, oft repeated, from his couch rose hiawatha, from his shaggy hides of bison, pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, saw the pallid guests, the shadows, sitting upright on their couches, weeping in the silent midnight. and he said: "o guests! why is it that your hearts are so afflicted, that you sob so in the midnight? has perchance the old nokomis, has my wife, my minnehaha, wronged or grieved you by unkindness, failed in hospitable duties?" then the shadows ceased from weeping, ceased from sobbing and lamenting, and they said, with gentle voices: "we are ghosts of the departed, souls of those who once were with you. from the realms of chibiabos hither have we come to try you, hither have we come to warn you. "cries of grief and lamentation reach us in the blessed islands; cries of anguish from the living, calling back their friends departed, sadden us with useless sorrow. therefore have we come to try you; no one knows us, no one heeds us. we are but a burden to you, and we see that the departed have no place among the living. "think of this, o hiawatha! speak of it to all the people, that henceforward and forever they no more with lamentations sadden the souls of the departed in the islands of the blessed. "do not lay such heavy burdens in the graves of those you bury, not such weight of furs and wampum, not such weight of pots and kettles, for the spirits faint beneath them. only give them food to carry, only give them fire to light them. "four days is the spirit's journey to the land of ghosts and shadows, four its lonely night encampments; four times must their fires be lighted. therefore, when the dead are buried, let a fire, as night approaches, four times on the grave be kindled, that the soul upon its journey may not lack the cheerful firelight, may not grope about in darkness. "farewell, noble hiawatha! we have put you to the trial, to the proof have put your patience, by the insult of our presence, by the outrage of our actions. we have found you great and noble. fail not in the greater trial, faint not in the harder struggle." when they ceased, a sudden darkness fell and filled the silent wigwam. hiawatha heard a rustle as of garments trailing by him, heard the curtain of the doorway lifted by a hand he saw not, felt the cold breath of the night air, for a moment saw the starlight; but he saw the ghosts no longer, saw no more the wandering spirits from the kingdom of ponemah, from the land of the hereafter. xx the famine oh the long and dreary winter! oh the cold and cruel winter! ever thicker, thicker, thicker froze the ice on lake and river, ever deeper, deeper, deeper fell the snow o'er all the landscape, fell the covering snow, and drifted through the forest, round the village. hardly from his buried wigwam could the hunter force a passage; with his mittens and his snow-shoes vainly walked he through the forest, sought for bird or beast and found none, saw no track of deer or rabbit, in the snow beheld no footprints, in the ghastly, gleaming forest fell, and could not rise from weakness, perished there from cold and hunger. oh the famine and the fever! oh the wasting of the famine! oh the blasting of the fever! oh the wailing of the children! oh the anguish of the women! all the earth was sick and famished; hungry was the air around them, hungry was the sky above them, and the hungry stars in heaven like the eyes of wolves glared at them! into hiawatha's wigwam came two other guests, as silent as the ghosts were, and as gloomy, waited not to be invited did not parley at the doorway sat there without word of welcome in the seat of laughing water; looked with haggard eyes and hollow at the face of laughing water. and the foremost said: "behold me! i am famine, bukadawin!" and the other said: "behold me! i am fever, ahkosewin!" and the lovely minnehaha shuddered as they looked upon her, shuddered at the words they uttered, lay down on her bed in silence, hid her face, but made no answer; lay there trembling, freezing, burning at the looks they cast upon her, at the fearful words they uttered. forth into the empty forest rushed the maddened hiawatha; in his heart was deadly sorrow, in his face a stony firmness; on his brow the sweat of anguish started, but it froze and fell not. wrapped in furs and armed for hunting, with his mighty bow of ash-tree, with his quiver full of arrows, with his mittens, minjekahwun, into the vast and vacant forest on his snow-shoes strode he forward. "gitche manito, the mighty!" cried he with his face uplifted in that bitter hour of anguish, "give your children food, o father! give us food, or we must perish! give me food for minnehaha, for my dying minnehaha!" through the far-resounding forest, through the forest vast and vacant rang that cry of desolation, but there came no other answer than the echo of his crying, than the echo of the woodlands, "minnehaha! minnehaha!" all day long roved hiawatha in that melancholy forest, through the shadow of whose thickets, in the pleasant days of summer, of that ne'er forgotten summer, he had brought his young wife homeward from the land of the dacotahs; when the birds sang in the thickets, and the streamlets laughed and glistened, and the air was full of fragrance, and the lovely laughing water said with voice that did not tremble, "i will follow you, my husband!" in the wigwam with nokomis, with those gloomy guests that watched her, with the famine and the fever, she was lying, the beloved, she, the dying minnehaha. "hark!" she said; "i hear a rushing, hear a roaring and a rushing, hear the falls of minnehaha calling to me from a distance!" "no, my child!" said old nokomis, "`t is the night-wind in the pine-trees!" "look!" she said; "i see my father standing lonely at his doorway, beckoning to me from his wigwam in the land of the dacotahs!" "no, my child!" said old nokomis. "`t is the smoke, that waves and beckons!" "ah!" said she, "the eyes of pauguk glare upon me in the darkness, i can feel his icy fingers clasping mine amid the darkness! hiawatha! hiawatha!" and the desolate hiawatha, far away amid the forest, miles away among the mountains, heard that sudden cry of anguish, heard the voice of minnehaha calling to him in the darkness, "hiawatha! hiawatha!" over snow-fields waste and pathless, under snow-encumbered branches, homeward hurried hiawatha, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, heard nokomis moaning, wailing: "wahonowin! wahonowin! would that i had perished for you, would that i were dead as you are! wahonowin! wahonowin!" and he rushed into the wigwam, saw the old nokomis slowly rocking to and fro and moaning, saw his lovely minnehaha lying dead and cold before him, and his bursting heart within him uttered such a cry of anguish, that the forest moaned and shuddered, that the very stars in heaven shook and trembled with his anguish. then he sat down, still and speechless, on the bed of minnehaha, at the feet of laughing water, at those willing feet, that never more would lightly run to meet him, never more would lightly follow. with both hands his face he covered, seven long days and nights he sat there, as if in a swoon he sat there, speechless, motionless, unconscious of the daylight or the darkness. then they buried minnehaha; in the snow a grave they made her in the forest deep and darksome underneath the moaning hemlocks; clothed her in her richest garments wrapped her in her robes of ermine, covered her with snow, like ermine; thus they buried minnehaha. and at night a fire was lighted, on her grave four times was kindled, for her soul upon its journey to the islands of the blessed. from his doorway hiawatha saw it burning in the forest, lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; from his sleepless bed uprising, from the bed of minnehaha, stood and watched it at the doorway, that it might not be extinguished, might not leave her in the darkness. "farewell!" said he, "minnehaha! farewell, o my laughing water! all my heart is buried with you, all my thoughts go onward with you! come not back again to labor, come not back again to suffer, where the famine and the fever wear the heart and waste the body. soon my task will be completed, soon your footsteps i shall follow to the islands of the blessed, to the kingdom of ponemah, to the land of the hereafter!" xxi the white man's foot in his lodge beside a river, close beside a frozen river, sat an old man, sad and lonely. white his hair was as a snow-drift; dull and low his fire was burning, and the old man shook and trembled, folded in his waubewyon, in his tattered white-skin-wrapper, hearing nothing but the tempest as it roared along the forest, seeing nothing but the snow-storm, as it whirled and hissed and drifted. all the coals were white with ashes, and the fire was slowly dying, as a young man, walking lightly, at the open doorway entered. red with blood of youth his cheeks were, soft his eyes, as stars in spring-time, bound his forehead was with grasses; bound and plumed with scented grasses, on his lips a smile of beauty, filling all the lodge with sunshine, in his hand a bunch of blossoms filling all the lodge with sweetness. "ah, my son!" exclaimed the old man, "happy are my eyes to see you. sit here on the mat beside me, sit here by the dying embers, let us pass the night together, tell me of your strange adventures, of the lands where you have travelled; i will tell you of my prowess, of my many deeds of wonder." from his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, very old and strangely fashioned; made of red stone was the pipe-head, and the stem a reed with feathers; filled the pipe with bark of willow, placed a burning coal upon it, gave it to his guest, the stranger, and began to speak in this wise: "when i blow my breath about me, when i breathe upon the landscape, motionless are all the rivers, hard as stone becomes the water!" and the young man answered, smiling: "when i blow my breath about me, when i breathe upon the landscape, flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, singing, onward rush the rivers!" "when i shake my hoary tresses," said the old man darkly frowning, "all the land with snow is covered; all the leaves from all the branches fall and fade and die and wither, for i breathe, and lo! they are not. from the waters and the marshes, rise the wild goose and the heron, fly away to distant regions, for i speak, and lo! they are not. and where'er my footsteps wander, all the wild beasts of the forest hide themselves in holes and caverns, and the earth becomes as flintstone!" "when i shake my flowing ringlets," said the young man, softly laughing, "showers of rain fall warm and welcome, plants lift up their heads rejoicing, back unto their lakes and marshes come the wild goose and the heron, homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, sing the bluebird and the robin, and where'er my footsteps wander, all the meadows wave with blossoms, all the woodlands ring with music, all the trees are dark with foliage!" while they spake, the night departed: from the distant realms of wabun, from his shining lodge of silver, like a warrior robed and painted, came the sun, and said, "behold me gheezis, the great sun, behold me!" then the old man's tongue was speechless and the air grew warm and pleasant, and upon the wigwam sweetly sang the bluebird and the robin, and the stream began to murmur, and a scent of growing grasses through the lodge was gently wafted. and segwun, the youthful stranger, more distinctly in the daylight saw the icy face before him; it was peboan, the winter! from his eyes the tears were flowing, as from melting lakes the streamlets, and his body shrunk and dwindled as the shouting sun ascended, till into the air it faded, till into the ground it vanished, and the young man saw before him, on the hearth-stone of the wigwam, where the fire had smoked and smouldered, saw the earliest flower of spring-time, saw the beauty of the spring-time, saw the miskodeed in blossom. thus it was that in the north-land after that unheard-of coldness, that intolerable winter, came the spring with all its splendor, all its birds and all its blossoms, all its flowers and leaves and grasses. sailing on the wind to northward, flying in great flocks, like arrows, like huge arrows shot through heaven, passed the swan, the mahnahbezee, speaking almost as a man speaks; and in long lines waving, bending like a bow-string snapped asunder, came the white goose, waw-be-wawa; and in pairs, or singly flying, mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, the blue heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, and the grouse, the mushkodasa. in the thickets and the meadows piped the bluebird, the owaissa, on the summit of the lodges sang the robin, the opechee, in the covert of the pine-trees cooed the pigeon, the omemee; and the sorrowing hiawatha, speechless in his infinite sorrow, heard their voices calling to him, went forth from his gloomy doorway, stood and gazed into the heaven, gazed upon the earth and waters. from his wanderings far to eastward, from the regions of the morning, from the shining land of wabun, homeward now returned iagoo, the great traveller, the great boaster, full of new and strange adventures, marvels many and many wonders. and the people of the village listened to him as he told them of his marvellous adventures, laughing answered him in this wise: "ugh! it is indeed iagoo! no one else beholds such wonders!" he had seen, he said, a water bigger than the big-sea-water, broader than the gitche gumee, bitter so that none could drink it! at each other looked the warriors, looked the women at each other, smiled, and said, "it cannot be so!" "kaw!" they said, "it cannot be so!" o'er it, said he, o'er this water came a great canoe with pinions, a canoe with wings came flying, bigger than a grove of pine-trees, taller than the tallest tree-tops! and the old men and the women looked and tittered at each other; "kaw!" they said, "we don't believe it!" from its mouth, he said, to greet him, came waywassimo, the lightning, came the thunder, annemeekee! and the warriors and the women laughed aloud at poor iagoo; "kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!" in it, said he, came a people, in the great canoe with pinions came, he said, a hundred warriors; painted white were all their faces and with hair their chins were covered! and the warriors and the women laughed and shouted in derision, like the ravens on the tree-tops, like the crows upon the hemlocks. "kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us! do not think that we believe them!" only hiawatha laughed not, but he gravely spake and answered to their jeering and their jesting: "true is all iagoo tells us; i have seen it in a vision, seen the great canoe with pinions, seen the people with white faces, seen the coming of this bearded people of the wooden vessel from the regions of the morning, from the shining land of wabun. "gitche manito, the mighty, the great spirit, the creator, sends them hither on his errand. sends them to us with his message. wheresoe'er they move, before them swarms the stinging fly, the ahmo, swarms the bee, the honey-maker; wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them springs a flower unknown among us, springs the white-man's foot in blossom. "let us welcome, then, the strangers, hail them as our friends and brothers, and the heart's right hand of friendship give them when they come to see us. gitche manito, the mighty, said this to me in my vision. "i beheld, too, in that vision all the secrets of the future, of the distant days that shall be. i beheld the westward marches of the unknown, crowded nations. all the land was full of people, restless, struggling, toiling, striving, speaking many tongues, yet feeling but one heart-beat in their bosoms. in the woodlands rang their axes, smoked their towns in all the valleys, over all the lakes and rivers rushed their great canoes of thunder. "then a darker, drearier vision passed before me, vague and cloud-like; i beheld our nation scattered, all forgetful of my counsels, weakened, warring with each other: saw the remnants of our people sweeping westward, wild and woful, like the cloud-rack of a tempest, like the withered leaves of autumn!" xxii hiawatha's departure by the shore of gitche gumee, by the shining big-sea-water, at the doorway of his wigwam, in the pleasant summer morning, hiawatha stood and waited. all the air was full of freshness, all the earth was bright and joyous, and before him, through the sunshine, westward toward the neighboring forest passed in golden swarms the ahmo, passed the bees, the honey-makers, burning, singing in the sunshine. bright above him shone the heavens, level spread the lake before him; from its bosom leaped the sturgeon, sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; on its margin the great forest stood reflected in the water, every tree-top had its shadow, motionless beneath the water. from the brow of hiawatha gone was every trace of sorrow, as the fog from off the water, as the mist from off the meadow. with a smile of joy and triumph, with a look of exultation, as of one who in a vision sees what is to be, but is not, stood and waited hiawatha. toward the sun his hands were lifted, both the palms spread out against it, and between the parted fingers fell the sunshine on his features, flecked with light his naked shoulders, as it falls and flecks an oak-tree through the rifted leaves and branches. o'er the water floating, flying, something in the hazy distance, something in the mists of morning, loomed and lifted from the water, now seemed floating, now seemed flying, coming nearer, nearer, nearer. was it shingebis the diver? or the pelican, the shada? or the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah? or the white goose, waw-be-wawa, with the water dripping, flashing, from its glossy neck and feathers? it was neither goose nor diver, neither pelican nor heron, o'er the water floating, flying, through the shining mist of morning, but a birch canoe with paddles, rising, sinking on the water, dripping, flashing in the sunshine; and within it came a people from the distant land of wabun, from the farthest realms of morning came the black-robe chief, the prophet, he the priest of prayer, the pale-face, with his guides and his companions. and the noble hiawatha, with his hands aloft extended, held aloft in sign of welcome, waited, full of exultation, till the birch canoe with paddles grated on the shining pebbles, stranded on the sandy margin, till the black-robe chief, the pale-face, with the cross upon his bosom, landed on the sandy margin. then the joyous hiawatha cried aloud and spake in this wise: "beautiful is the sun, o strangers, when you come so far to see us! all our town in peace awaits you, all our doors stand open for you; you shall enter all our wigwams, for the heart's right hand we give you. "never bloomed the earth so gayly, never shone the sun so brightly, as to-day they shine and blossom when you come so far to see us! never was our lake so tranquil, nor so free from rocks, and sand-bars; for your birch canoe in passing has removed both rock and sand-bar. "never before had our tobacco such a sweet and pleasant flavor, never the broad leaves of our cornfields were so beautiful to look on, as they seem to us this morning, when you come so far to see us!" and the black-robe chief made answer, stammered in his speech a little, speaking words yet unfamiliar: "peace be with you, hiawatha, peace be with you and your people, peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, peace of christ, and joy of mary!" then the generous hiawatha led the strangers to his wigwam, seated them on skins of bison, seated them on skins of ermine, and the careful old nokomis brought them food in bowls of basswood, water brought in birchen dippers, and the calumet, the peace-pipe, filled and lighted for their smoking. all the old men of the village, all the warriors of the nation, all the jossakeeds, the prophets, the magicians, the wabenos, and the medicine-men, the medas, came to bid the strangers welcome; "it is well", they said, "o brothers, that you come so far to see us!" in a circle round the doorway, with their pipes they sat in silence, waiting to behold the strangers, waiting to receive their message; till the black-robe chief, the pale-face, from the wigwam came to greet them, stammering in his speech a little, speaking words yet unfamiliar; "it is well," they said, "o brother, that you come so far to see us!" then the black-robe chief, the prophet, told his message to the people, told the purport of his mission, told them of the virgin mary, and her blessed son, the saviour, how in distant lands and ages he had lived on earth as we do; how he fasted, prayed, and labored; how the jews, the tribe accursed, mocked him, scourged him, crucified him; how he rose from where they laid him, walked again with his disciples, and ascended into heaven. and the chiefs made answer, saying: "we have listened to your message, we have heard your words of wisdom, we will think on what you tell us. it is well for us, o brothers, that you come so far to see us!" then they rose up and departed each one homeward to his wigwam, to the young men and the women told the story of the strangers whom the master of life had sent them from the shining land of wabun. heavy with the heat and silence grew the afternoon of summer; with a drowsy sound the forest whispered round the sultry wigwam, with a sound of sleep the water rippled on the beach below it; from the cornfields shrill and ceaseless sang the grasshopper, pah-puk-keena; and the guests of hiawatha, weary with the heat of summer, slumbered in the sultry wigwam. slowly o'er the simmering landscape fell the evening's dusk and coolness, and the long and level sunbeams shot their spears into the forest, breaking through its shields of shadow, rushed into each secret ambush, searched each thicket, dingle, hollow; still the guests of hiawatha slumbered in the silent wigwam. from his place rose hiawatha, bade farewell to old nokomis, spake in whispers, spake in this wise, did not wake the guests, that slumbered. "i am going, o nokomis, on a long and distant journey, to the portals of the sunset. to the regions of the home-wind, of the northwest-wind, keewaydin. but these guests i leave behind me, in your watch and ward i leave them; see that never harm comes near them, see that never fear molests them, never danger nor suspicion, never want of food or shelter, in the lodge of hiawatha!" forth into the village went he, bade farewell to all the warriors, bade farewell to all the young men, spake persuading, spake in this wise: "i am going, o my people, on a long and distant journey; many moons and many winters will have come, and will have vanished, ere i come again to see you. but my guests i leave behind me; listen to their words of wisdom, listen to the truth they tell you, for the master of life has sent them from the land of light and morning!" on the shore stood hiawatha, turned and waved his hand at parting; on the clear and luminous water launched his birch canoe for sailing, from the pebbles of the margin shoved it forth into the water; whispered to it, "westward! westward!" and with speed it darted forward. and the evening sun descending set the clouds on fire with redness, burned the broad sky, like a prairie, left upon the level water one long track and trail of splendor, down whose stream, as down a river, westward, westward hiawatha sailed into the fiery sunset, sailed into the purple vapors, sailed into the dusk of evening: and the people from the margin watched him floating, rising, sinking, till the birch canoe seemed lifted high into that sea of splendor, till it sank into the vapors like the new moon slowly, slowly sinking in the purple distance. and they said, "farewell forever!" said, "farewell, o hiawatha!" and the forests, dark and lonely, moved through all their depths of darkness, sighed, "farewell, o hiawatha!" and the waves upon the margin rising, rippling on the pebbles, sobbed, "farewell, o hiawatha!" and the heron, the shuh-shuh-gah, from her haunts among the fen-lands, screamed, "farewell, o hiawatha!" thus departed hiawatha, hiawatha the beloved, in the glory of the sunset, in the purple mists of evening, to the regions of the home-wind, of the northwest-wind, keewaydin, to the islands of the blessed, to the kingdom of ponemah, to the land of the hereafter! vocabulary adjidau'mo, the red squirrel ahdeek', the reindeer ahmeek', the beaver annemee'kee, the thunder apuk'wa, a bulrush baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder bemah'gut, the grape-vine chemaun', a birch canoe chetowaik', the plover chibia'bos, a musician; friend of hiawatha; ruler of the land of spirits dahin'da, the bull frog dush-kwo-ne'-she or kwo-ne'-she, the dragon fly esa, shame upon you ewa-yea', lullaby gitche gu'mee, the big-sea-water, lake superior gitche man'ito, the great spirit, the master of life gushkewau', the darkness hiawa'tha, the prophet, the teacher, son of mudjekeewis, the west-wind and wenonah, daughter of nokomis ia'goo, a great boaster and story-teller inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the game of the bowl ishkoodah', fire, a comet jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit joss'akeed, a prophet kabibonok'ka, the north-wind ka'go, do not kahgahgee', the raven kaw, no kaween', no indeed kayoshk', the sea-gull kee'go, a fish keeway'din, the northwest wind, the home-wind kena'beek, a serpent keneu', the great war-eagle keno'zha, the pickerel ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl kuntasoo', the game of plumstones kwa'sind, the strong man kwo-ne'-she, or dush-kwo-ne'-she, the dragon-fly mahnahbe'zee, the swan mahng, the loon mahnomo'nee, wild rice ma'ma, the woodpecker me'da, a medicine-man meenah'ga, the blueberry megissog'won, the great pearl-feather, a magician, and the manito of wealth meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer minjekah'wun, hiawatha's mittens minneha'ha, laughing water; wife of hiawatha; a water-fall in a stream running into the mississippi between fort snelling and the falls of st. anthony minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the wind in the trees mishe-mo'kwa, the great bear mishe-nah'ma, the great sturgeon miskodeed', the spring-beauty, the claytonia virginica monda'min, indian corn moon of bright nights, april moon of leaves, may moon of strawberries, june moon of the falling leaves, september moon of snow-shoes, november mudjekee'wis, the west-wind; father of hiawatha mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a shore mushkoda'sa, the grouse nah'ma, the sturgeon nah'ma-wusk, spearmint na'gow wudj'oo, the sand dunes of lake superior nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits nenemoo'sha, sweetheart nepah'win, sleep noko'mis, a grandmother, mother of wenonah no'sa, my father nush'ka, look! look! odah'min, the strawberry okahha'wis, the fresh-water herring ome'mee, the pigeon ona'gon, a bowl opechee', the robin osse'o, son of the evening star owais'sa, the blue-bird oweenee', wife of osseo ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or copper in the game of the bowl pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper pau'guk, death pau-puk-kee'wis, the handsome yenadizze, the son of storm fool pe'boan, winter pem'ican, meat of the deer or buffalo dried and pounded pezhekee', the bison pishnekuh', the brant pone'mah, hereafter puggawau'gun, a war-club puk-wudj'ies, little wild men of the woods; pygmies sah-sah-je'wun, rapids segwun', spring sha'da, the pelican shahbo'min, the gooseberry shah-shah, long ago shaugoda'ya, a coward shawgashee', the craw-fish shawonda'see, the south-wind shaw-shaw, the swallow shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in the game of the bowl shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe showain'neme'shin, pity me shuh-shuh-gah', the blue heron soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted subbeka'she, the spider sugge'me, the mosquito to'tem, family coat-of-arms ugh, yes ugudwash', the sun-fish unktahee', the god of water wabas'so, the rabbit, the north wabe'no, a magician, a juggler wabe'no-wusk, yarrow wa'bun, the east-wind wa'bun an'nung, the star of the east, the morning star wahono'win, a cry of lamentation wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper wa'wa, the wild goose waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar weno'nah, the eldest daughter; hiawatha's mother, daughter of nokomis yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an indian dandy this ebook was created by charles aldarondo (pg@aldarondo.net). hyperion by henry wadsworth longfellow 1882 contents. book i. epigraph chapter i. the hero. chapter ii. the christ of andernach. chapter iii. homunculus. chapter iv. the landlady's daughter. chapter v. jean paul, the only-one. chapter vi. heidelberg and the baron. chapter vii. lives of scholars. chapter viii. literary fame. book ii. epigraph chapter i. spring. chapter ii. a colloquy. chapter iii. owl-towers. chapter iv. a beer-scandal. chapter v. the white lady's slipper and the passion-flower. chapter vi. glimpses into cloud-land. chapter vii. mill-wheels and other wheels. chapter viii. old humbug. chapter ix. the daylight of the dwarfs, and the falling star. chapter x. the parting. book iii. epigraph chapter i. summer-time. chapter ii. foot-travelling. chapter iii. interlachen. chapter iv. the evening and the morning star. chapter v. a rainy day. chapter vi. after dinner, and after the manner of the best critics. chapter vii. take care! chapter viii. the fountain of oblivion. chapter ix. a talk on the stairs. book iv. epigraph chapter i. a miserere. chapter ii. curfew bells. chapter iii. shadows on the wall. chapter iv. musical sufferings of john kreisler. chapter v. saint gilgen. chapter vi. saint wolfgang. chapter vii. the story of brother bernardus. chapter viii. foot-prints of angels. chapter ix. the last pang. book i. epigraph "who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, who ne'er the mournful, midnight hours weeping upon his bed has sate, he knows you not, ye heavenly powers." chapter i. the hero. in john lyly's endymion, sir topas is made to say; "dost thou know what a poet is? why, fool, a poet is as much as one should say,--a poet!" and thou, reader, dost thou know what a hero is? why, a hero is as much as one should say,--a hero! some romance-writers, however, say much more than this. nay, the old lombard, matteo maria bojardo, set all the church-bells in scandiano ringing, merely because he had found a name for one of his heroes. here, also, shall church-bells be rung, but more solemnly. the setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. the brightness of our life is gone. shadows of evening fall around us, and the world seems but a dim reflection,--itself a broader shadow. we look forward into the coming, lonely night. the soul withdraws into itself. then stars arise, and the night is holy. paul flemming had experienced this, though still young. the friend of his youth was dead. the bough had broken "under the burden of the unripe fruit." and when, after a season, he looked up again from the blindness of his sorrow, all things seemed unreal. like the man, whose sight had been restored by miracle, he beheld men, as trees, walking. his household gods were broken. he had no home. his sympathies cried aloud from his desolate soul, and there came no answer from the busy, turbulent world around him. he did not willingly give way to grief. he struggled to be cheerful,--to be strong. but he could no longer look into the familiar faces of his friends. he could no longer live alone, where he had lived with her. he went abroad, that the sea might be between him and the grave. alas! betweenhim and his sorrow there could be no sea, but that of time. he had already passed many months in lonely wandering, and was now pursuing his way along the rhine, to the south of germany. he had journeyed the same way before, in brighter days and a brighter season of the year, in the may of life and in the month of may. he knew the beauteous river all by heart;--every rock and ruin, every echo, every legend. the ancient castles, grim and hoar, that had taken root as it were on the cliffs,--they were all his; for his thoughts dwelt in them, and the wind told him tales. he had passed a sleepless night at rolandseck, and had risen before daybreak. he opened the window of the balcony to hear the rushing of the rhine. it was a damp december morning; and clouds were passing over the sky,--thin, vapory clouds, whose snow-white skirts were "often spotted with golden tears, which men call stars." the day dawned slowly; and, in the mingling of daylightand starlight, the island and cloister of nonnenwerth made together but one broad, dark shadow on the silver breast of the river. beyond, rose the summits of the siebengebirg. solemn and dark, like a monk, stood the drachenfels, in his hood of mist, and rearward extended the curtain of mountains, back to the wolkenburg,--the castle of the clouds. but flemming thought not of the scene before him. sorrow unspeakable was upon his spirit in that lonely hour; and, hiding his face in his hands, he exclaimed aloud; "spirit of the past! look not so mournfully at me with thy great, tearful eyes! touch me not with thy cold hand! breathe not upon me with the icy breath of the grave! chant no more that dirge of sorrow, through the long and silent watches of the night!" mournful voices from afar seemed to answer, "treuenfels!" and he remembered how others had suffered, and his heart grew still. slowly the landscape brightened. down therushing stream came a boat, with its white wings spread, and darted like a swallow through the narrow pass of god's-help. the boatmen were singing, but not the song of roland the brave, which was heard of old by the weeping hildegund, as she sat within the walls of that cloister, which now looked forth in the pale morning from amid the leafless linden trees. the dim traditions of those gray old times rose in the traveller's memory; for the ruined tower of rolandseck was still looking down upon the kloster nonnenwerth, as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed the faithful paladin to stone, and he were watching still to see the form of his beloved one come forth, not from her cloister, but from her grave. thus the brazen clasps of the book of legends were opened, and, on the page illuminated by the misty rays of the rising sun, he read again the tales of liba, and the mournful bride of argenfels, and siegfried, the mighty slayer of the dragon. meanwhile the mists had risen from the rhine, and the whole air was filled with golden vapor, through which hebeheld the sun, hanging in heaven like a drop of blood. even thus shone the sun within him, amid the wintry vapors, uprising from the valley of the shadow of death, through which flowed the stream of his life,--sighing, sighing! chapter ii. the christ of andernach. paul flemming resumed his solitary journey. the morning was still misty, but not cold. across the rhine the sun came wading through the reddish vapors; and soft and silver-white outspread the broad river, without a ripple upon its surface, or visible motion of the ever-moving current. a little vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at anchor, keel to keel with another, that lay right under it, its own apparition,--and all was silent, and calm, and beautiful. the road was for the most part solitary; for there are few travellers upon the rhine in winter. peasant women were at work in the vineyards; climbing up the slippery hill-sides, like beasts of burden, with large baskets of manureupon their backs. and once during the morning, a band of apprentices, with knapsacks, passed by, singing, "the rhine! the rhine! a blessing on the rhine!" o, the pride of the german heart in this noble river! and right it is; for, of all the rivers of this beautiful earth, there is none so beautiful as this. there is hardly a league of its whole course, from its cradle in the snowy alps to its grave in the sands of holland, which boasts not its peculiar charms. by heavens! if i were a german i would be proud of it too; and of the clustering grapes, that hang about its temples, as it reels onward through vineyards, in a triumphal march, like bacchus, crowned and drunken. but i will not attempt to describe the rhine; it would make this chapter much too long. and to do it well, one should write like a god; and his style flow onward royally with breaks and dashes, like the waters of that royal river, and antique, quaint, and gothic times, be reflected in it. alas! this evening my style flows not at all. flow, then, into this smoke-colored goblet, thou blood of the rhine! out of thy prison-house,--out of thy long-necked, tapering flask, in shape not unlike a church-spire among thy native hills; and, from the crystal belfry, loud ring the merry tinkling bells, while i drink a health to my hero, in whose heart is sadness, and in whose ears the bells of andernach are ringing noon. he is threading his way alone through a narrow alley, and now up a flight of stone steps, and along the city wall, towards that old round tower, built by the archbishop frederick of cologne in the twelfth century. it has a romantic interest in his eyes; for he has still in his mind and heart that beautiful sketch of carové, in which is described a day on the tower of andernach. he finds the old keeper and his wife still there; and the old keeper closes the door behind him slowly, as of old, lest he should jam too hard the poor souls in purgatory, whose fate it is to suffer in the cracks of doors and hinges. but alas! alas! the daughter, the maiden with long, dark eyelashes! she is asleep in her little grave, under the linden trees of feldkirche, with rosemary in her folded hands! flemming returned to the hotel disappointed. as he passed along the narrow streets, he was dreaming of many things; but mostly of the keeper's daughter, asleep in the churchyard of feldkirche. suddenly, on turning the corner of an ancient, gloomy church, his attention was arrested by a little chapel in an angle of the wall. it was only a small thatched roof, like a bird's nest; under which stood a rude wooden image of the saviour on the cross. a real crown of thorns was upon his head, which was bowed downward, as if in the death agony; and drops of blood were falling down his cheeks, and from his hands and feet and side. the face was haggard and ghastly beyond all expression; and wore a look of unutterable bodily anguish. the rude sculptor had given it this, but his art could go no farther. the sublimity of death in a dying saviour, the expiring god-likeness of jesus of nazareth was not there. the artist had caught no heavenly inspiration from his theme. all was coarse, harsh, and revolting to a sensitive mind; and flemming turned away with a shudder, as he saw this fearful image gazing at him, with its fixed and half-shut eyes. he soon reached the hotel, but that face of agony still haunted him. he could not refrain from speaking of it to a very old woman, who sat knitting by the window of the dining-room, in a high-backed, old-fashioned arm-chair. i believe she was the innkeeper's grandmother. at all events she was old enough to be so. she took off her owl-eyed spectacles, and, as she wiped the glasses with her handkerchief, said; "thou dear heaven! is it possible! did you never hear of the christ of andernach?" flemming answered in the negative. "thou dear heaven!" continued the old woman. "it is a very wonderful story; and a true one, as every good christian in andernach will tell you. and it all happened before the deathof my blessed man, four years ago, let me see,--yes, four years ago, come christmas." here the old woman stopped speaking, but went on with her knitting. other thoughts seemed to occupy her mind. she was thinking, no doubt, of her blessed man, as german widows call their dead husbands. but flemming having expressed an ardent wish to hear the wonderful story, she told it, in nearly the following words. "there was once a poor old woman in andernach whose name was frau martha, and she lived all alone in a house by herself, and loved all the saints and the blessed virgin, and was as good as an angel, and sold pies down by the rheinkrahn. but her house was very old, and the roof-tiles were broken, and she was too poor to get new ones, and the rain kept coming in, and no christian soul in andernach would help her. but the frau martha was a good woman, and never did anybody any harm, but went to mass every morning, and sold pies by the rheinkrahn. now one dark, windy night, when all the good christians in andernachwere abed and asleep in the feathers, frau martha, who slept under the roof, heard a great noise over her head, and in her chamber, drip! drip! drip! as if the rain were dropping down through the broken tiles. dear soul! and sure enough it was. and then there was a pounding and hammering overhead, as if somebody were at work on the roof; and she thought it was pelz-nickel tearing the tiles off, because she had not been to confession often enough. so she began to pray; and the faster she said her pater-noster and her ave-maria, the faster pelz-nickel pounded and pulled; and drip! drip! drip! it went all round her in the dark chamber, till the poor woman was frightened out of her wits, and ran to the window to call for help. then in a moment all was still,--death-still. but she saw a light streaming through the mist and rain, and a great shadow on the house opposite. and then somebody came down from the top of her house by a ladder, and had a lantern in his hand; and he took the ladder on his shoulder and went down thestreet. but she could not see clearly, because the window was streaked with rain. and in the morning the old broken tiles were found scattered about the street, and there were new ones on the roof, and the old house has never leaked to this blessed day. "as soon as mass was over frau martha told the priest what had happened, and he said it was not pelz-nickel, but, without doubt, st. castor or st. florian. then she went to the market and told frau bridget all about it; and frau bridget said, that, two nights before, hans claus, the cooper, had heard a great pounding in his shop, and in the morning found new hoops on all his old hogsheads; and that a man with a lantern and a ladder had been seen riding out of town at midnight on a donkey, and that the same night the old windmill, at kloster st. thomas, had been mended up, and the old gate of the churchyard at feldkirche made as good as new, though nobody knew how the man got across the river. then frau martha went down to the rheinkrahn and told all thesestories over again; and the old ferryman of fahr said he could tell something about it; for, the very night that the churchyard-gate was mended, he was lying awake in his bed, because he could not sleep, and he heard a loud knocking at the door, and somebody calling to him to get up and set him over the river. and when he got up, he saw a man down by the river with a lantern and a ladder; but as he was going down to him, the man blew out the light, and it was so dark he could not see who he was; and his boat was old and leaky, and he was afraid to set him over in the dark; but the man said he must be in andernach that night; and so he set him over. and after they had crossed the river, he watched the man, till he came to an image of the holy virgin, and saw him put the ladder against the wall, and go up and light his lamp, and then walk along the street. and in the morning he found his old boat all caulked, and tight, and painted red, and he could not for his blessed life tell who did it, unless it werethe man with the lantern. dear soul! how strange it was! "and so it went on for some time; and, whenever the man with the lantern had been seen walking through the street at night, so sure as the morning came, some work had been done for the sake of some good soul; and everybody knew he did it; and yet nobody could find out who he was, nor where he lived;--for, whenever they came near him, he blew out his light, and turned down another street, and, if they followed him, he suddenly disappeared, nobody could tell how. and some said it was rübezahl; and some, pelz-nickel; and some, st. anthony-on-the-health. "now one stormy night a poor, sinful creature was wandering about the streets, with her babe in her arms, and she was hungry, and cold, and no soul in andernach would take her in. and when she came to the church, where the great crucifix stands, she saw no light in the little chapel at the corner; but she sat down on a stone at the foot of the cross and began to pray, and prayed, till she fell asleep, with her poor little babe on her bosom. but she did not sleep long; for a bright light shone full in her face; and, when she opened her eyes, she saw a pale man, with a lantern, standing right before her. he was almost naked; and there was blood upon his hands and body, and great tears in his beautiful eyes, and his face was like the face of the saviour on the cross. not a single word did he say to the poor woman; but looked at her compassionately, and gave her a loaf of bread, and took the little babe in his arms, and kissed it. then the mother looked up to the great crucifix, but there was no image there; and she shrieked and fell down as if she were dead. and there she was found with her child; and a few days after they both died, and were buried together in one grave. and nobody would have believed her story, if a woman, who lived at the corner, had not gone to the window, when she heard the scream, and seen the figure hang the lantern up in its place, and then set the ladder against the wall, and go up and nailitself to the cross. since that night it has never moved again. ach! herr je!" such was the legend of the christ of andernach, as the old woman in spectacles told it to flemming. it made a painful impression on his sick and morbid soul; and he felt now for the first time in full force, how great is the power of popular superstition. the post-chaise was now at the door, and flemming was soon on the road to coblentz, a city which stands upon the rhine, at the mouth of the mosel, opposite ehrenbreitstein. it is by no means a long drive from andernach to coblentz; and the only incident which occurred to enliven the way was the appearance of a fat, red-faced man on horseback, trotting slowly towards andernach. as they met, the mad little postilion gave him a friendly cut with his whip, and broke out into an exclamation, which showed he was from münster; "jesmariosp! my friend! how is the man in the custom-house?" now to any candid mind this would seem a fair question enough; but not so thought the red-faced man on horseback; for he waxed exceedingly angry, and replied, as the chaise whirled by; "the devil take you, and your westphalian ham, and pumpernickel!" flemming called to his servant, and the servant to the postilion, for an explanation of this short dialogue; and the explanation was, that on the belfry of the kaufhaus in coblentz, is a huge head, with a brazen helmet and a beard; and whenever the clock strikes, at each stroke of the hammer, this giant's head opens its great jaws and smites its teeth together, as if, like the brazen head of friar bacon, it would say; "time was; time is; time is past." this figure is known through all the country round about, as "the man in the custom-house"; and, when a friend in the country meets a friend from coblentz, instead of saying, "how are all the good people in coblentz?"--he says, "how is the man in the custom-house?" thus the giant has a great partto play in the town; and thus ended the first day of flemming's rhine-journey; and the only good deed he had done was to give an alms to a poor beggar woman, who lifted up her trembling hands and exclaimed; "thou blessed babe!" chapter iii. homunculus. after all, a journey up the rhine, in the mists and solitude of december, is not so unpleasant as the reader may perhaps imagine. you have the whole road and river to yourself. nobody is on the wing; hardly a single traveller. the ruins are the same; and the river, and the outlines of the hills; and there are few living figures in the landscape to wake you from your musings, distract your thoughts, and cover you with dust. thus, likewise, thought our traveller, as he continued his journey on the morrow. the day is overcast, and the clouds threaten rain or snow. why does he stop at the little village of capellen? because, right above him on the high cliff, the glorious ruin of stolzenfels is looking at him with itshollow eyes, and beckoning to him with its gigantic finger, as if to say; "come up hither, and i will tell thee an old tale." therefore he alights, and goes up the narrow village lane, and up the stone steps, and up the steep pathway, and throws himself into the arms of that ancient ruin, and holds his breath, to hear the quick footsteps of the falling snow, like the footsteps of angels descending upon earth. and that ancient ruin speaks to him with its hollow voice, and says; "beware of dreams! beware of the illusions of fancy! beware of the solemn deceivings of thy vast desires! beneath me flows the rhine, and, like the stream of time, it flows amid the ruins of the past. i see myself therein, and i know that i am old. thou, too, shalt be old. be wise in season. like the stream of thy life, runs the stream beneath us. down from the distant alps,--out into the wide world, it bursts away, like a youth from the house of his fathers. broad-breasted and strong, and with earnest endeavours, like manhood, it makes itself a way through these difficultmountain passes. and at length, in its old age, its stops, and its steps are weary and slow, and it sinks into the sand, and, through its grave, passes into the great ocean, which is its eternity. thus shall it be with thee. "in ancient times there dwelt within these halls a follower of jesus of jerusalem,--an archbishop in the church of christ. he gave himself up to dreams; to the illusions of fancy; to the vast desires of the human soul. he sought after the impossible. he sought after the elixir of life,--the philosopher's stone. the wealth, that should have fed the poor, was melted in his crucibles. within these walls the eagle of the clouds sucked the blood of the red lion, and received the spiritual love of the green dragon, but alas! was childless. in solitude and utter silence did the disciple of the hermetic philosophy toil from day to day, from night to night. from the place where thou standest, he gazed at evening upon hills, and vales, and waters spread beneath him; and saw how the setting sun had changed them allto gold, by an alchymy more cunning than his own. he saw the world beneath his feet; and said in his heart, that he alone was wise. alas! he read more willingly in the book of paracelsus, than in the book of nature; and, believing that `where reason hath experience, faith hath no mind,' would fain have made unto himself a child, not as nature teaches us, but as the philosopher taught,--a poor homunculus, in a glass bottle. and he died poor and childless!" whether it were worth while to climb the stolzenfels to hear such a homily as this, some persons may perhaps doubt. but paul flemming doubted not. he laid the lesson to heart; and it would have saved him many an hour of sorrow, if he had learned that lesson better, and remembered it longer. in ancient times, there stood in the citadel of athens three statues of minerva. the first was of olive wood, and, according to popular tradition, had fallen from heaven. the second was of bronze, commemorating the victory of marathon; and the third of gold and ivory,--a great miracle of art, in the age of pericles. and thus in the citadel of time stands man himself. in childhood, shaped of soft and delicate wood, just fallen from heaven; in manhood, a statue of bronze, commemorating struggle and victory; and lastly, in the maturity of age, perfectly shaped in gold and ivory,--a miracle of art! flemming had already lived through the oliveage. he was passing into the age of bronze, into his early manhood; and in his hands the flowers of paradise were changing to the sword and shield. and this reminds me, that i have not yet described my hero. i will do it now, as he stands looking down on the glorious landscape;--but in few words. both in person and character he resembled harold, the fair-hair of norway, who is described, in the old icelandic death-song of regner hairy-breeches, as "the young chief so proud of his flowing locks; he who spent his mornings among the young maidens; he who loved toconverse with the handsome widows." this was an amiable weakness; and it sometimes led him into mischief. imagination was the ruling power of his mind. his thoughts were twin-born; the thought itself, and its figurative semblance in the outer world. thus, through the quiet, still waters of his soul each image floated double, "swan and shadow." these traits of character, a good heart and a poetic imagination, made his life joyous and the world beautiful; till at length death cut down the sweet, blue flower, that bloomed beside him, and wounded him with that sharp sickle, so that he bowed his head, and would fain have been bound up in the same sheaf with the sweet, blue flower. then the world seemed to him less beautiful, and life became earnest. it would have been well if he could have forgotten the past; that he might not so mournfully have lived in it, but might have enjoyed and improved the present. but this his heart refused to do; and ever, as he floated upon the great sea of life, he looked down through thetransparent waters, checkered with sunshine and shade, into the vast chambers of the mighty deep, in which his happier days had sunk, and wherein they were lying still visible, like golden sands, and precious stones, and pearls; and, half in despair, half in hope, he grasped downward after them again, and drew back his hand, filled only with seaweed, and dripping with briny tears!--and between him and those golden sands, a radiant image floated, like the spirit in dante's paradise, singing "ave-maria!" and while it sang, down-sinking, and slowly vanishing away. the truth is, that in all things he acted more from impulse than from fixed principle; as is the case with most young men. indeed, his principles hardly had time to take root; for he pulled them all up, every now and then, as children do the flowers they have planted,--to see if they are growing. yet there was much in him which was good; for underneath the flowers and green-sward of poetry, and the good principles which would have taken root, had he given them time, therelay a strong and healthy soil of common sense,--freshened by living springs of feeling, and enriched by many faded hopes, that had fallen upon it like dead leaves. chapter iv. the landlady's daughter. "allez fuchs! allez lustig!" cried the impatient postilion to his horses, in accents, which, like the wild echo of the lurley felsen, came first from one side of the river, and then from the other,--that is to say, in words alternately french and german. the truth is, he was tired of waiting; and when flemming had at length resumed his seat in the post-chaise, the poor horses had to make up the time lost in dreams on the mountain. this is far oftener the case, than most people imagine. one half of the world has to sweat and groan, that the other half may dream. it would have been a difficult task for the traveller or his postilion to persuade the horses, that these dreams were all for their good. the next stopping-place was the little tavern of the star, an out-of-the-way corner in the town of salzig. it stands on the banks of the rhine; and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water's edge, rise the mountains of liebenstein and sternenfels, each with its ruined castle. these are the brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at each other face to face; and beneath them in the valley stands a cloister,--meek emblem of that orphan child, they both so passionately loved. in a small, flat-bottomed boat did the landlady's daughter row flemming "over the rhine-stream, rapid and roaring wide." she was a beautiful girl of sixteen; with black hair, and dark, lovely eyes, and a face that had a story to tell. how different faces are in this particular! some of them speak not. they are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date. others are great family bibles, with all the old and new testament written in them. others are mother goose and nursery tales;--others bad tragedies or pickle-herring farces; and others, like that of the landlady's daughter at the star, sweet love-anthologies, and songs of the affections. it was on that account, that flemming said to her, as they glided out into the swift stream; "my dear child! do you know the story of the liebenstein?" "the story of the liebenstein," she answered, "i got by heart, when i was a little child." and here her large, dark, passionate eyes looked into flemming's, and he doubted not, that she had learned the story far too soon, and far too well. that story he longed to hear, as if it were unknown to him; for he knew that the girl, who had got it by heart when a child, would tell it as it should be told. so he begged her to repeat the story, which she was but too glad to do; for she loved and believed it, as if it had all been written in the bible. but before she began, she rested a moment on her oars, and taking the crucifix, which hung suspended from her neck, kissed it, and then let it sink down into her bosom, as if it were an anchor she was letting down into her heart. meanwhile her moist, dark eyes were turned to heaven. perhaps her soul was walking with the souls of cunizza, and rahab, and mary magdalen. or perhaps she was thinking of that nun, of whom st. gregory says, in his dialogues, that, having greedily eaten a lettuce in a garden, without making the sign of the cross, she found herself soon after possessed with a devil. the probability, however, is, that she was looking up to the ruined castles only, and not to heaven, for she soon began her story, and told flemming how, a great, great many years ago, an old man lived in the liebenstein with his two sons; and how both the young men loved the lady geraldine, an orphan, under their father's care; and how the elder brother went away in despair, and the younger was betrothed to the lady geraldine; and how they were as happy as aschenputtel and the prince. and then the holy saint bernard came and carried away all the young men to the war, just as napoleon did afterwards; and the young lord went to the holy land, and the lady geraldine sat in her tower and wept, and waited for her lover's return, while the old father built the sternenfels for them to live in when they were married. and when it was finished, the old man died; and the elder brother came back and lived in the liebenstein, and took care of the gentle lady. ere long there came news from the holy land, that the war was over; and the heart of the gentle lady beat with joy, till she heard that her faithless lover was coming back with a greek wife,--the wicked man! and then she went into a convent and became a holy nun. so the young lord of sternenfels came home, and lived in his castle in great splendor with the greek woman, who was a wicked woman, and did what she ought not to do. but the elder brother was angry for the wrong done the gentle lady, and challenged the lord of sternenfels to single combat. and, while they were fighting with their great swords in the valley of bornhofen behind the castle, the convent bells began to ring, and the lady geraldine came forth with a train of nuns alldressed in white, and made the brothers friends again, and told them she was the bride of heaven, and happier in her convent than she could have been in the liebenstein or the sternenfels. and when the brothers returned, they found that the false greek wife had gone away with another knight. so they lived together in peace, and were never married. and when they died--" "lisbeth! lisbeth!" cried a sharp voice from the shore, "lisbeth! where are you taking the gentleman?" this recalled the poor girl to her senses; and she saw how fast they were floating down stream. for in telling the story she had forgotten every thing else, and the swift current had swept them down to the tall walnut trees of kamp. they landed in front of the capucin monastery. lisbeth led the way through the little village, and turning to the right pointed up the romantic, lonely valley which leads to the liebenstein, and even offered to go up. but flemming patted her cheek and shook his head. he went up the valley alone. chapter v. jean paul, the only-one. the man in the play, who wished for `some forty pounds of lovely beef, placed in a mediterranean sea of brewis,' might have seen his ample desires almost realized at the table d'hôte of the rheinischen hof, in mayence, where flemming dined that day. at the head of the table sat a gentleman, with a smooth, broad forehead, and large, intelligent eyes. he was from baireuth in franconia; and talked about poetry and jean paul, to a pale, romantic-looking lady on his right. there was music all dinner-time, at the other end of the hall; a harp and a horn and a voice; so that a great part of the fat gentleman's conversation with the pale lady was lost to flemming, who sat opposite to her, and could look right into her large, melancholy eyes. but what heheard, so much interested him,--indeed, the very name of the beloved jean paul would have been enough for this,--that he ventured to join in the conversation, and asked the german if he had known the poet personally. "yes; i knew him well," replied the stranger. "i am a native of baireuth, where he passed the best years of his life. in my mind the man and the author are closely united. i never read a page of his writings without hearing his voice, and seeing his form before me. there he sits, with his majestic, mountainous forehead, his mild blue eyes, and finely cut nose and mouth; his massive frame clad loosely and carelessly in an old green frock, from the pockets of which the corners of books project, and perhaps the end of a loaf of bread, and the nose of a bottle;--a straw hat, lined with green, lying near him; a huge walking-stick in his hand, and at his feet a white poodle, with pink eyes and a string round his neck. you would sooner have taken him for a master-carpenter than for a poet. is he a favorite author of yours?" flemming answered in the affirmative. "but a foreigner must find it exceedingly difficult to understand him," said the gentleman. "it is by no means an easy task for us germans." "i have always observed," replied flemming, "that the true understanding and appreciation of a poet depend more upon individual, than upon national character. if there be a sympathy between the minds of writer and reader, the bounds and barriers of a foreign tongue are soon overleaped. if you once understand an author's character, the comprehension of his writings becomes easy." "very true," replied the german, "and the character of richter is too marked to be easily misunderstood. its prominent traits are tenderness and manliness,--qualities, which are seldom found united in so high a degree as in him. over all he sees, over all he writes, are spread the sunbeams of a cheerful spirit,--the light of inexhaustible human love. every sound of human joy and of human sorrow finds a deep-resoundingecho in his bosom. in every man, he loves his humanity only, not his superiority. the avowed object of all his literary labors was to raise up again the down-sunken faith in god, virtue, and immortality; and, in an egotistical, revolutionary age, to warm again our human sympathies, which have now grown cold. and not less boundless is his love for nature,--for this outward, beautiful world. he embraces it all in his arms." "yes," answered flemming, almost taking the words out of the stranger's mouth, "for in his mind all things become idealized. he seems to describe himself when he describes the hero of his titan, as a child, rocking in a high wind upon the branches of a full-blossomed apple-tree, and, as its summit, blown abroad by the wind, now sunk him in deep green, and now tossed him aloft in deep blue and glancing sunshine,--in his imagination stood that tree gigantic;--it grew alone in the universe, as if it were the tree of eternal life; its roots struck down into the abyss; the white and red clouds hung as blossoms upon it; the moon asfruit; the little stars sparkled like dew, and albano reposed in its measureless summit; and a storm swayed the summit out of day into night, and out of night into day." "yet the spirit of love," interrupted the franconian, "was not weakness, but strength. it was united in him with great manliness. the sword of his spirit had been forged and beaten by poverty. its temper had been tried by a thirty years' war. it was not broken, not even blunted; but rather strengthened and sharpened by the blows it gave and received. and, possessing this noble spirit of humanity, endurance, and self-denial, he made literature his profession; as if he had been divinely commissioned to write. he seems to have cared for nothing else, to have thought of nothing else, than living quietly and making books. he says, that he felt it his duty, not to enjoy, nor to acquire, but to write; and boasted, that he had made as many books as he had lived years." "and what do you germans consider the prominent characteristics of his genius?" "most undoubtedly his wild imagination and his playfulness. he throws over all things a strange and magic coloring. you are startled at the boldness and beauty of his figures and illustrations, which are scattered everywhere with a reckless prodigality;--multitudinous, like the blossoms of early summer,--and as fragrant and beautiful. with a thousand extravagances are mingled ten thousand beauties of thought and expression, which kindle the reader's imagination, and lead it onward in a bold flight, through the glow of sunrise and sunset, and the dewy coldness and starlight of summer nights. he is difficult to understand,--intricate,-strange,--drawing his illustrations from every by-corner of science, art, and nature,--a comet, among the bright stars of german literature. when you read his works, it is as if you were climbing a high mountain, in merry company, to see the sun rise. at times you are enveloped in mist,--the morning wind sweeps by you with a shout,--you hear the far-off muttering thunders. wide beneath you spreads the landscape,--field, meadow, town, and winding river. the ringing of distant church-bells, or the sound of solemn village clock, reaches you;--then arises the sweet and manifold fragrance of flowers,--the birds begin to sing,--the vapors roll away,--up comes the glorious sun,--you revel like the lark in the sunshine and bright blue heaven, and all is a delirious dream of soul and sense,--when suddenly a friend at your elbow laughs aloud, and offers you a piece of bologna sausage. as in real life, so in his writings,--the serious and the comic, the sublime and the grotesque, the pathetic and the ludicrous are mingled together. at times he is sententious, energetic, simple; then again, obscure and diffuse. his thoughts are like mummies embalmed in spices, and wrapped about with curious envelopements; but within these the thoughts themselves are kings. at times glad, beautiful images, airy forms, move by you, graceful, harmonious;--at times the glaring, wild-looking fancies, chained together by hyphens, brackets, and dashes, brave and base, high and low, all in their motley dresses, go sweeping down the dusty page, like the galley-slaves, that sweep the streets of rome, where you may chance to see the nobleman and the peasant manacled together." flemming smiled at the german's warmth, to which the presence of the lady, and the laubenheimer wine, seemed each to have contributed something, and then said; "better an outlaw, than not free!--these are his own words. and thus he changes at his will. like the god thor, of the old northern mythology, he now holds forth the seven bright stars in the bright heaven above us, and now hides himself in clouds, and pounds away with his great hammer." "and yet this is not affectation in him," rejoined the german. "it is his nature, it is jean paul. and the figures and ornaments of his style, wild, fantastic, and oft-times startling, like those in gothic cathedrals, are not merely what they seem, but massive coignes and buttresses, which support the fabric. remove them, and the roofand walls fall in. and through these gurgoyles, these wild faces, carved upon spouts and gutters, flow out, like gathered rain, the bright, abundant thoughts, that have fallen from heaven. "and all he does, is done with a kind of serious playfulness. he is a sea-monster, disporting himself on the broad ocean; his very sport is earnest; there is something majestic and serious about it. in every thing there is strength, a rough good-nature, all sunshine overhead, and underneath the heavy moaning of the sea. well may he be called `jean paul, the only-one.'" with such discourse the hour of dinner passed; and after dinner flemming went to the cathedral. they were singing vespers. a beadle, dressed in blue, with a cocked hat, and a crimson sash and collar, was strutting, like a turkey, along the aisles. this important gentleman conducted flemming through the church, and showed him the choir, with its heavy-sculptured stalls of oak, and the beautiful figures in brown stone, over the bishops' tombs. he then led him, by a side-door, into theold and ruined cloisters of st. willigis. through the low gothic arches the sunshine streamed upon the pavement of tombstones, whose images and inscriptions are mostly effaced by the footsteps of many generations. there stands the tomb of frauenlob, the minnesinger. his face is sculptured on an entablature in the wall; a fine, strongly-marked, and serious countenance. below it is a bas-relief, representing the poet's funeral. he is carried to his grave by ladies, whose praise he sang, and thereby won the name of frauenlob. "this then," said flemming, "is the grave, not of praise-god bare-bones, but of praise-the-ladies meissen, who wrote songs `somewhat of lust, and somewhat of love.' but where sleeps the dust of his rival and foe, sweet master bartholomew rainbow?" he meant this for an aside; but the turkey-cock picked it up and answered; "i do not know. he did not belong to this parish." it was already night, when flemming crossedthe roman bridge over the nahe, and entered the town of bingen. he stopped at the white horse; and, before going to bed, looked out into the dim starlight from his window towards the rhine, and his heart leaped up to behold the bold outline of the neighbouring hills crested with gothic ruins;--which in the morning proved to be only a high, slated roof with fantastic chimneys. the morning was bright and frosty; and the river tinged with gay colors from the rising sun. a soft, thin vapor floated in the air. in the sunbeams flashed the hoar-frost, like silver stars; and through a long avenue of trees, whose dripping branches bent and scattered pearls before him, paul flemming journeyed on in triumph. i will not prolong this journey, for i am weary and way-worn, and would fain be at heidelberg with my readers, and my hero. it was already night when he reached the manheim gate, and drove down the long hauptstrasse so slowly, that it seemed to him endless. the shops werelighted on each side of the street, and he saw faces at the windows here and there, and figures passing in the lamp-light, visible for a moment and then swallowed up in the darkness. the thoughts that filled his mind were strange; as are always the thoughts of a traveller, who enters for the first time a strange city. this little world had been going on for centuries before he came; and would go on for centuries after he was gone. of all the thousands who inhabited it he knew nothing; and what knew they, or thought, of the stranger, who, in that close post-chaise, weary with travel, and chilled by the evening wind, was slowly rumbling over the paved street! truly, this world can go on without us, if we would but think so. if it had been a hearse instead of a post-chaise, it would have been all the same to the people of heidelberg,--though by no means the same to paul flemming. but at the farther end of the city, near the castle and the carls-thor, one warm heart was waiting to receive him; and this was the german heart of his friend, the baron of hohenfels, with whom he was to pass the winter in heidelberg. no sooner had the carriage stopped at the irongrated gate, and the postilion blown his horn, to announce the arrival of a traveller, than the baron was seen among the servants at the door; and, a few moments afterwards, the two long-absent friends were in each other's arms, and flemming received a kiss upon each cheek, and another on the mouth, as the pledge and seal of the german's friendship. they held each other long by the hand, and looked into each other's faces, and saw themselves in each other's eyes, both literally and figuratively; literally, inasmuch as the images were there; and figuratively, inasmuch as each was imagining what the other thought of him, after the lapse of some years. in friendly hopes and questionings and answers, the evening glided away at the supper-table, where many more things were discussed than the roasted hare, and the johannisberger; and they sat late into the night, conversing of the thoughts and feelings and delights, which fill the hearts of young men, who have already enjoyed and suffered, and hoped and been disappointed. chapter vi. heidelberg and the baron. high and hoar on the forehead of the jettenbühl stands the castle of heidelberg. behind it rise the oak-crested hills of the geissberg and the kaiserstuhl; and in front, from the broad terrace of masonry, you can almost throw a stone upon the roofs of the city, so close do they lie beneath. above this terrace rises the broad front of the chapel of saint udalrich. on the left, stands the slender octagon tower of the horologe, and, on the right, a huge round tower, battered and shattered by the mace of war, shores up with its broad shoulders the beautiful palace and garden-terrace of elisabeth, wife of the pfalzgraf frederick. in the rear are older palaces and towers, forming a vast, irregular quadrangle;--rodolph's ancientcastle, with its gothic gloriette and fantastic gables; the giant's tower, guarding the drawbridge over the moat; the rent tower, with the linden-trees growing on its summit, and the magnificent rittersaal of otho-henry, count palatine of the rhine and grand seneschal of the holy roman empire. from the gardens behind the castle, you pass under the archway of the giant's tower into the great court-yard. the diverse architecture of different ages strikes the eye; and curious sculptures. in niches on the wall of saint udalrich's chapel stand rows of knights in armour, all broken and dismembered; and on the front of otho's rittersaal, the heroes of jewish history and classic fable. you enter the open and desolate chambers of the ruin; and on every side are medallions and family arms; the globe of the empire and the golden fleece, or the eagle of the cæsars, resting on the escutcheons of bavaria and the palatinate. over the windows and door-ways and chimney-pieces, are sculptures and mouldings of exquisite workmanship; and the eyeis bewildered by the profusion of caryatides, and arabesques, and rosettes, and fan-like flutings, and garlands of fruits and flowers and acorns, and bullocks'-heads with draperies of foliage, and muzzles of lions, holding rings in their teeth. the cunning hand of art was busy for six centuries, in raising and adorning these walls; the mailed hands of time and war have defaced and overthrown them in less than two. next to the alhambra of granada, the castle of heidelberg is the most magnificent ruin of the middle ages. in the valley below flows the rushing stream of the neckar. close from its margin, on the opposite side, rises the mountain of all saints, crowned with the ruins of a convent; and up the valley stretches the mountain-curtain of the odenwald. so close and many are the hills, which eastward shut the valley in, that the river seems a lake. but westward it opens, upon the broad plain of the rhine, like the mouth of a trumpet; and like the blast of a trumpet is at times the wintry wind through this narrow mountain pass. the blue alsatian hills rise beyond; and, on a platform or strip of level land, between the neckar and the mountains, right under the castle, stands the city of heidelberg; as the old song says, "a pleasant city, when it has done raining." something of this did paul flemming behold, when he rose the next morning and looked from his window. it was a warm, vapory morning, and a struggle was going on between the mist and the rising sun. the sun had taken the hill-tops, but the mist still kept possession of the valley and the town. the steeple of the great church rose through a dense mass of snow-white clouds; and eastward, on the hills, the dim vapors were rolling across the windows of the ruined castle, like the fiery smoke of a great conflagration. it seemed to him an image of the rising of the sun of truth on a benighted world; its light streamed through the ruins of centuries; and, down in the valley of time, the cross on the christian church caught its rays, though the priests were singing in mist and darkness below. in the warm breakfast-parlour he found the baron, waiting for him. he was lying upon a sofa, in morning gown and purple-velvet slippers, both with flowers upon them. he had a guitar in his hand, and a pipe in his mouth, at the same time smoking, playing, and humming his favorite song from goethe; "the water rushed, the water swelled, a fisher sat thereby." flemming could hardly refrain from laughing at the sight of his friend; and told him it reminded him of a street-musician he once saw in aix-la-chapelle, who was playing upon six instruments at once; having a helmet with bells on his head, a pan's-reed in his cravat, a fiddle in his hand, a triangle on his knee, cymbals on his heels, and on his back a bass-drum, which he played with his elbows. to tell the truth, the baron of hohenfels was rather a miscellaneous youth, rather a universal genius. he pursued all things with eagerness, but for a short time only; music, poetry, painting, pleasure, even the study of the pandects. hisfeelings were keenly alive to the enjoyment of life. his great defect was, that he was too much in love with human nature. but by the power of imagination, in him, the bearded goat was changed to a bright capricornus:--no longer an animal on earth, but a constellation in heaven. an easy and indolent disposition made him gentle and childlike in his manners; and, in short, the beauty of his character, like that of the precious opal, was owing to a defect in its organization. his person was tall and slightly built; his hair light; and his eyes blue, and as beautiful as those of a girl. in the tones of his voice, there was something indescribably gentle and winning; and he spoke the german language, with the soft, musical accent of his native province of curland. in his manners, if he had not `antinous' easy sway,' he had at least an easy sway of his own. such, in few words, was the bosom friend of flemming. "and what do you think of heidelberg and the old castle up there?" said he, as they seated themselves at the breakfast-table. "last night the town seemed very long to me," replied flemming; "and as to the castle, i have as yet had but a glimpse of it through the mist. they tell me there is nothing finer in its way, excepting the alhambra of granada; and no doubt i shall find it so. only i wish the stone were gray and not red. but, red or gray, i foresee that i shall waste many a long hour in its desolate halls. pray, does anybody live up there now-a-days?" "nobody," answered the baron, "but the man, who shows the heidelberg ton, and monsieur charles de grainberg, a frenchman, who has been there sketching ever since the year eighteen-hundred and ten. he has, moreover, written a super-magnificent description of the ruin, in which he says, that during the day only birds of prey disturb it with their piercing cries, and at night, screech-owls, and other fallow deer. these are his own words. you must buy his book and his sketches." "yes, the quotation and the tone of your voice will certainly persuade me so to do." "take his or none, my friend, for you will find no others. and seriously, his sketches are very good. there is one on the wall there, which is beautiful, save and except that straddle-bug figure among the bushes in the corner." "but is there no ghost, no haunted chamber in the old castle?" asked flemming, after casting a hasty glance at the picture. "oh, certainly," replied the baron; "there are two. there is the ghost of the virgin mary in ruprecht's tower, and the devil in the dungeon." "ha! that is grand!" exclaimed flemming, with evident delight. "tell me the whole story, quickly! i am as curious as a child." "it is a tale of the times of louis the debonnaire," said the baron, with a smile; "a mouldy tradition of a credulous age. his brother frederick lived here in the castle with him, and had a flirtation with leonore von luzelstein, a lady of the court, whom he afterwards despised, and was consequently most cordially hated by her. frompolitical motives he was equally hateful to certain petty german tyrants, who, in order to effect his ruin, accused him of heresy. but his brother louis would not deliver him up to their fury, and they resolved to effect by stratagem, what they could not by intrigue. accordingly, leonore von luzelstein, disguised as the virgin mary, and the father confessor of the elector, in the costume of satan, made their appearance in the elector's bed-chamber at midnight, and frightened him so horribly, that he consented to deliver up his brother into the hands of two black knights, who pretended to be ambassadors from the vehm-gericht. they proceeded together to frederick's chamber; where luckily old gemmingen, a brave soldier, kept guard behind the arras. the monk went foremost in his satanic garb; but, no sooner had he set foot in the prince's bed-chamber, than the brave gemmingen drew his sword, and said quaintly, `die, wretch!' and so he died. the rest took to their heels, and were heard of no more. and now the souls of leonore and the monk haunt the scene of their midnight crime. you will find the story in grainberg's book, worked up with a kind of red-morocco and burnt-cork sublimity, and great melo-dramatic clanking of chains, and hooting of owls, and other fallow deer!" "after breakfast," said flemming, "we will go up to the castle. i must get acquainted with this mirror of owls, this modern till eulenspiegel. see what a glorious morning we have! it is truly a wondrous winter! what summer sunshine; what soft venetian fogs! how the wanton, treacherous air coquets with the old gray-beard trees! such weather makes the grass and our beards grow apace! but we have an old saying in english, that winter never rots in the sky. so he will come down at last in his old-fashioned, mealy coat. we shall have snow in spring; and the blossoms will be all snow-flakes. and afterwards a summer, which will be no summer, but, as jean paul says, only a winter painted green. is it not so?" "unless i am much deceived in the climate of heidelberg," replied the baron, "we shall not have to wait long for snow. we have sudden changes here, and i should not marvel much if it snowed before night." "the greater reason for making good use of the morning sunshine, then. let us hasten to the castle, after which my heart yearns." chapter vii. lives of scholars. the forebodings of the baron proved true. in the afternoon the weather changed. the western wind began to blow, and its breath drew a cloud-veil over the face of heaven, as a breath does over the human face in a mirror. soon the snow began to fall. athwart the distant landscape it swept like a white mist. the storm-wind came from the alsatian hills, and struck the dense clouds aslant through the air. and ever faster fell the snow, a roaring torrent from those mountainous clouds. the setting sun glared wildly from the summit of the hills, and sank like a burning ship at sea, wrecked in the tempest. thus the evening set in; and winter stood at the gate wagging his white and shaggy beard, like an old harper, chanting an old rhyme:--"how cold it is! how cold it is!" "i like such a storm as this," said flemming, who stood at the window, looking out into the tempest and the gathering darkness. "the silent falling of snow is to me one of the most solemn things in nature. the fall of autumnal leaves does not so much affect me. but the driving storm is grand. it startles me; it awakens me. it is wild and woful, like my own soul. i cannot help thinking of the sea; how the waves run and toss their arms about,--and the wind plays on those great harps, made by the shrouds and masts of ships. winter is here in earnest! whew! how the old churl whistles and threshes the snow! sleet and rain are falling too. already the trees are bearded with icicles; and the two broad branches of yonder pine look like the white mustache of some old german baron." "and to-morrow it will look more wintry still," said his friend. "we shall wake up and find that the frost-spirit has been at work all night building gothic cathedrals on our windows, just as the devil built the cathedral of cologne. sodraw the curtains, and come sit here by the warm fire." "and now," said flemming, having done as his friend desired, "tell me something of heidelberg and its university. i suppose we shall lead about as solitary and studious a life here as we did of yore in little göttingen, with nothing to amuse us, save our own day-dreams." "pretty much so," replied the baron; "which cannot fail to please you, since you are in pursuit of tranquillity. as to the university, it is, as you know, one of the oldest in germany. it was founded in the fourteenth century by the count palatine ruprecht, and had in the first year more than five hundred students, all busily committing to memory, after the old scholastic wise, the rules of grammar versified by alexander de villa dei, and the extracts made by peter the spaniard from michel psellus's synopsis of aristotle's organon, and the categories, with porphory's commentaries. truly, i do not much wonder, that eregina scotus should have been put to death byhis scholars with their penknives. they must have been pushed to the very verge of despair." "what a strange picture a university presents to the imagination. the lives of scholars in their cloistered stillness;--literary men of retired habits, and professors who study sixteen hours a day, and never see the world but on a sunday. nature has, no doubt, for some wise purpose, placed in their hearts this love of literary labor and seclusion. otherwise, who would feed the undying lamp of thought? but for such men as these, a blast of wind through the chinks and crannies of this old world, or the flapping of a conqueror's banner, would blow it out forever. the light of the soul is easily extinguished. and whenever i reflect upon these things i become aware of the great importance, in a nation's history, of the individual fame of scholars and literary men. i fear, that it is far greater than the world is willing to acknowledge; or, perhaps i should say, than the world has thought of acknowledging. blot out from england's history the names of chaucer, shakspere, spenser, and milton only, and how much of her glory would you blot out with them! take from italy such names as dante, petrarch, boccaccio, michel angelo, and raphael, and how much would still be wanting to the completeness of her glory! how would the history of spain look if the leaves were torn out, on which are written the names of cervantes, lope de vega, and calderon! what would be the fame of portugal, without her camoens; of france, without her racine, and rabelais, and voltaire; or germany, without her martin luther, her goethe, and schiller!--nay, what were the nations of old, without their philosophers, poets, and historians! tell me, do not these men in all ages and in all places, emblazon with bright colors the armorial bearings of their country? yes, and far more than this; for in all ages and all places they give humanity assurance of its greatness; and say; call not this time or people wholly barbarous; for thus much, even then and there, could the human mind achieve! but the boisterous world has hardlythought of acknowledging all this. therein it has shown itself somewhat ungrateful. else, whence the great reproach, the general scorn, the loud derision, with which, to take a familiar example, the monks of the middle ages are regarded! that they slept their lives away is most untrue. for in an age when books were few,--so few, so precious, that they were often chained to their oaken shelves with iron chains, like galley-slaves to their benches, these men, with their laborious hands, copied upon parchment all the lore and wisdom of the past, and transmitted it to us. perhaps it is not too much to say, that, but for these monks, not one line of the classics would have reached our day. surely, then, we can pardon something to those superstitious ages, perhaps even the mysticism of the scholastic philosophy, since, after all, we can find no harm in it, only the mistaking of the possible for the real, and the high aspirings of the human mind after a long-sought and unknown somewhat. i think the name of martin luther, the monk of wittemberg, alone sufficient to redeem all monkhoodfrom the reproach of laziness! if this will not, perhaps the vast folios of thomas aquinas will;--or the countless manuscripts, still treasured in old libraries, whose yellow and wrinkled pages remind one of the hands that wrote them, and the faces that once bent over them." "an eloquent homily," said the baron laughing, "a most touching appeal in behalf of suffering humanity! for my part, i am no friend of this entire seclusion from the world. it has a very injurious effect on the mind of a scholar. the chinese proverb is true; a single conversation across the table with a wise man, is better than ten years' mere study of books. i have known some of these literary men, who thus shut themselves up from the world. their minds never come in contact with those of their fellow-men. they read little. they think much. they are mere dreamers. they know not what is new nor what is old. they often strike upon trains of thought, which stand written in good authors some century or so back, and are even current in the mouths of men aroundthem. but they know it not; and imagine they are bringing forward something very original, when they publish their thoughts." "it reminds me," replied flemming, "of what dr. johnson said of goldsmith, when he proposed to travel abroad in order to bring home improvements;--`he will bring home a wheelbarrow, and call that an improvement.' it is unfortunately the same with some of these scholars." "and the worst of it is," said the baron, "that, in solitude, some fixed idea will often take root in the mind, and grow till it overshadow all one's thoughts. to this must all opinions come; no thought can enter there, which shall not be wedded to the fixed idea. there it remains, and grows. it is like the watchman's wife, in the tower of waiblingen, who grew to such a size, that she could not get down the narrow stair-case; and, when her husband died, his successor was forced to marry the fat widow in the tower." "i remember an old english comedy," said flemming laughing, "in which a scholar is described, as a creature, that can strike fire in the morning at his tinder-box,--put on a pair of lined slippers,--sit ruminating till dinner, and then go to his meat when the bell rings;--one that hath a peculiar gift in a cough, and a license to spit;--or, if you will have him defined by negatives, he is one that cannot make a good leg;--one that cannot eat a mess of broth cleanly. what think you of that?" "that it is just as people are always represented in english comedy," said the baron. "the portrait is over-charged,--caricatured." "and yet," continued flemming, "no longer ago than yesterday, in the preface of a work by dr. rosenkranz, professor of philosophy in the university of halle, i read this passage." he opened a book and read. "here in halle, where we have no public garden and no tivoli, no london exchange, no paris chamber of deputies, no berlin nor vienna theatres, no strassburg minster, nor salzburg alps,--no grecian ruins nor fantastic catholicism, in fine, nothing, which after one's daily task is finished, can divert and refresh him, without his knowing or caring how,--i consider the sight of a proof-sheet quite as delightful as a walk in the prater of vienna. i fill my pipe very quietly, take out my ink-stand and pens, seat myself in the corner of my sofa, read, correct, and now for the first time really set about thinking what i have written. to see this origin of a book, this metamorphosis of manuscript into print, is a delight to which i give myself up entirely. look you, this melancholy pleasure, which would have furnished the departed voss with worthy matter for more than one blessed idyl--(the more so, as on such occasions, i am generally arrayed in a morning gown, though i am sorry to say, not a calamanco one, with great flowers;) this melancholy pleasure was already grown here in halle to a sweet, pedantic habit. since i began my hermit's life here, i have been printing; and so long as i remain here, i shall keep on printing. in all probability, i shall die with a proof-sheet in my hand." "this," said flemming, closing the book, "is no caricature by a writer of comedy, but a portrait by a man's own hand. we can see by it how easily, under certain circumstances, one may glide into habits of seclusion, and in a kind of undress, slipshod hardihood, with a pipe and a proof-sheet, defy the world. into this state scholars have too often fallen; thus giving some ground for the prevalent opinion, that scholarship and rusticity are inseparable. to me, i confess, it is painful to see the scholar and the world assume so often a hostile attitude, and set each other at defiance. surely, it is a characteristic trait of a great and liberal mind, that it recognises humanity in all its forms and conditions. i am a student;--and always, when i sit alone at night, i recognise the divinity of the student, as she reveals herself to me in the smoke of the midnight lamp. but, because solitude and books are not unpleasant to me,--nay, wished-for,--sought after,--shall i say to my brother, thou fool! shall i take the world by the beard and say, thou art old, and mad!--shall i look society in the face and say, thou art heartless!--heartless! beware of that word! life, says very wisely the good jean paul, life in every shape, should be precious to us, for the same reason that the turks carefully collect every scrap of paper that comes in their way, because the name of god may be written upon it. nothing is more true than this, yet nothing more neglected!" "if it be painful to see this misunderstanding between scholars and the world," said the baron, "i think it is still more painful to see the private sufferings of authors by profession. how many have languished in poverty, how many died broken-hearted, how many gone mad with over-excitement and disappointed hopes! how instructive and painfully interesting are their lives! with so many weaknesses,--so much to pardon,--so much to pity,--so much to admire! i think he was not so far out of the way, who said, that, next to the newgate calendar, the biography of authors is the most sickening chapter in the history of man." "it is indeed enough to make one's heart ache!" interrupted flemming. "only think of johnson and savage, rambling about the streets of london at midnight, without a place to sleep in; otway starved to death; cowley mad, and howling like a dog, through the aisles of chichester cathedral, at the sound of church music; and goldsmith, strutting up fleet street in his peach-blossom coat, to knock a bookseller over the pate with one of his own volumes; and then, in his poverty, about to marry his landlady in green arbour court." "a life of sorrow and privation, a hard life, indeed, do these poor devil authors have of it," replied the baron; "and then at last must get them to the work-house, or creep away into some hospital to die." "after all," said flemming with a sigh, "poverty is not a vice." "but something worse," interrupted the baron; "as dufresny said, when he married his laundress, because he could not pay her bill. hewas the author, as you know, of the opera of lot; at whose representation the great pun was made;--i say the great pun, as we say the great ton of heidelberg. as one of the performers was singing the line, `l'amour a vaincu loth,' (vingt culottes,) a voice from the pit cried out, `qu'il en donne une à l'auteur!'" flemming laughed at the unseasonable jest; and then, after a short pause, continued; "and yet, if you look closely at the causes of these calamities of authors, you will find, that many of them spring from false and exaggerated ideas of poetry and the poetic character; and from disdain of common sense, upon which all character, worth having, is founded. this comes from keeping aloof from the world, apart from our fellow-men; disdainful of society, as frivolous. by too much sitting still the body becomes unhealthy; and soon the mind. this is nature's law. she will never see her children wronged. if the mind, which rules the body, ever forgets itself so far as to trample upon its slave, the slave is never generousenough to forgive the injury; but will rise and smite its oppressor. thus has many a monarch mind been dethroned." "after all," said the baron, "we must pardon much to men of genius. a delicate organization renders them keenly susceptible to pain and pleasure. and then they idealize every thing; and, in the moonlight of fancy, even the deformity of vice seems beautiful." "and this you think should be forgiven?" "at all events it is forgiven. the world loves a spice of wickedness. talk as you will about principle, impulse is more attractive, even when it goes too far. the passions of youth, like unhooded hawks, fly high, with musical bells upon their jesses; and we forget the cruelty of the sport in the dauntless bearing of the gallant bird." "and thus doth the world and society corrupt the scholar!" exclaimed flemming. here the baron rang, and ordered a bottle of prince metternich. he then very slowly filled his pipe, and began to smoke. flemming was lost in a day-dream. chapter viii. literary fame. time has a doomsday-book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. but, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. only a few stand in illuminated characters, never to be effaced. these are the high nobility of nature,--lords of the public domain of thought. posterity shall never question their titles. but those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten, as if they had never been. to this great oblivion must most men come. it is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to this; well knowing, that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them; so musttheir names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the universe of thought. if, then, the imagination can trace the noble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping a beer-barrel, and know that "imperial cæsar, dead and turned to clay, may stop a hole to keep the wind away;" not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great men, till it finds them mouldered into the common dust of conversation, and used to stop men's mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out the flaws of opinion. such, for example, are all popular adages and wise proverbs, which are now resolved into the common mass of thought; their authors forgotten, and having no more an individual being among men. it is better, therefore, that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive, in what they do, than the approbation of men, which is fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible perhaps to achieve it wholly. yet the resolute, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,--at times even this victory over himself; being persuaded, that fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny. it has become a common saying, that men of genius are always in advance of their age; which is true. there is something equally true, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. as the german prose-poet says, every possible future is behind them. we cannot suppose, that a period of time will ever come, when the world, or any considerable portion of it shall have come up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them. and oh! how majestically they walk in history; some like the sun, with all his travelling glories round him; others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. through the else silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils! and yet, on earth, these men were not happy,--not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their lives. they were in want, and in pain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons! oh, i have looked with wonder upon those, who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling much;--and then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death,--and the world talks of them, while they sleep! it would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them! as if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem of his garment, and made them holy! as if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls! and as in the sun's eclipse we can behold the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this life eclipse have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and forever! this was flemming's reverie. it was broken by the voice of the baron, suddenly exclaiming; "an angel is flying over the house!--here; in this goblet, fragrant as the honey of hymettus, fragrant as the wild flowers in the angel's meadow, i drink to the divinity of thy dreams." "this is all sunshine," said flemming, as he drank. "the wine of the prince, and the prince of wines. by the way, did you ever read that brilliant italian dithyrambic, redi's bacchus in tuscany? an ode which seems to have been poured out of the author's soul, as from a golden pitcher, `filled with the wine of the vine benign, that flames so red in sansavine.' he calls the montepulciano the king of all wines." "prince metternich," said the baron, "is greater than any king in italy; and i wonder, that this precious wine has never inspired a german poet to write a bacchus on the rhine. many little songs we have on this theme, but none very extraordinary. the best are max schenkendorf's song of the rhine, and the song of rhine wine, by claudius, a poet who never drank rhenish without sugar. we will drink for him a blessing on the rhine." and again the crystal lips of the goblets kissed each other, with a musical chime, as of evening bells at vintage-time from the villages on the rhine. of a truth, i do not much wonder, that the germanpoet schiller loved to write by candle-light with a bottle of rhine-wine upon the table. nor do i wonder at the worthy schoolmaster roger ascham, when he says, in one of his letters from germany to mr. john raven, of john's college; `tell mr. maden i will drink with him now a carouse of wine; and would to god he had a vessel of rhenish wine; and perchance, when i come to cambridge, i will so provide here, that every year i will have a little piece of rhenish wine.' nor, in fine, do i wonder at the german emperor of whom he speaks in another letter to the same john raven, and says, `the emperor drank the best that i ever saw; he had his head in the glass five times as long as any of us, and never drank less than a good quart at once of rhenish wine.' these were scholars and gentlemen. "but to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout," said the baron, with an unusual glow, caught no doubt from the golden sunshine, imprisoned, like the student anselmus, in the glass bottle; "where should the scholar live? in solitudeor in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man? i will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. oh, they do greatly err, who think, that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees. beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. but after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life? what are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song? glorious indeed is the world of god around us, but more glorious the world of god within us. there lies the land of song; there lies the poet's native land. the river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearingalong so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity;--the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass;--and to be in this and be a part of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his fellow-men;--such, such should be the poet's life. if he would describe the world, he should live in the world. the mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. it is better that his armour should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rusting on the wall. nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut in between the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations of street scenery. a ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. there are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, as challey bridged the savine in switzerland, and telford the sea between anglesea and england, with chain bridges. these are the great themes of human thought; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. besides, the mere external forms of nature we make our own, and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory." "i fear, however," interrupted flemming, "that in cities the soul of man grows proud. he needs at times to be sent forth, like the assyrian monarch, into green fields, `a wonderous wretch and weedless,' to eat green herbs, and be wakened and chastised by the rain-shower and winter's bitter weather. moreover, in cities there is danger of the soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and forgetful of its high vocation. there have been souls dedicated to heaven from childhood and guarded by good angels as sweet seclusions for holy thoughts, and prayers, and all good purposes; wherein pious wishes dwelt like nuns, and every image was a saint; and yet in life's vicissitudes, by the treachery of occasion, by the thronging passionsof great cities, have become soiled and sinful. they resemble those convents on the river rhine, which have been changed to taverns; from whose chambers the pious inmates have long departed, and in whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers have effaced the images of buried saints, and whose walls are written over with ribaldry and the names of strangers, and resound no more with holy hymns, but with revelry and loud voices." "both town and country have their dangers," said the baron; "and therefore, wherever the scholar lives, he must never forget his high vocation. other artists give themselves up wholly to the study of their art. it becomes with them almost religion. for the most part, and in their youth, at least, they dwell in lands, where the whole atmosphere of the soul is beauty; laden with it as the air may be with vapor, till their very nature is saturated with the genius of their art. such, for example, is the artist's life in italy." "i agree with you," exclaimed flemming; "and such should be the poet's everywhere; forhe has his rome, his florence, his whole glowing italy within the four walls of his library. he has in his books the ruins of an antique world,--and the glories of a modern one,--his apollo and transfiguration. he must neither forget nor undervalue his vocation; but thank god that he is a poet; and everywhere be true to himself, and to `the vision and the faculty divine' he feels within him." "but, at any rate, a city life is most eventful," continued the baron. "the men who make, or take, the lives of poets and scholars, always complain that these lives are barren of incidents. hardly a literary biography begins without some such apology, unwisely made. i confess, however, that it is not made without some show of truth; if, by incidents, we mean only those startling events, which suddenly turn aside the stream of time, and change the world's history in an hour. there is certainly a uniformity, pleasing or unpleasing, in literary life, which for the most part makes to-day seem twin-born with yesterday. but if, byincidents, you mean events in the history of the human mind, (and why not?) noiseless events, that do not scar the forehead of the world as battles do, yet change it not the less, then surely the lives of literary men are most eventful. the complaint and the apology are both foolish. i do not see why a successful book is not as great an event as a successful campaign; only different in kind, and not easily compared." "indeed," interrupted flemming, "in no sense is the complaint strictly true, though at times apparently so. events enough there are, were they all set down. a life, that is worth writing at all, is worth writing minutely. besides, all literary men have not lived in silence and solitude;--not all in stillness, not all in shadow. for many have lived in troubled times, in the rude and adverse fortunes of the state and age, and could say with wallenstein, `our life was but a battle and a march; and, like the wind's blast, never-resting, homeless, we stormed across the war convulsed earth.' of such examples history has recorded many; dante, cervantes, byron, and others; men of iron; men who have dared to breast the strong breath of public opinion, and, like spectre-ships, come sailing right against the wind. others have been puffed out by the first adverse wind that blew; disgraced and sorrowful, because they could not please others. truly `the tears live in an onion, that should water such a sorrow.' had they been men, they would have made these disappointments their best friends, and learned from them the needful lesson of self-reliance." "to confess the truth," added the baron, "the lives of literary men, with their hopes and disappointments, and quarrels and calamities, present a melancholy picture of man's strength and weakness. on that very account the scholar can make them profitable for encouragement,--consolation,--warning." "and after all," continued flemming, "perhaps the greatest lesson, which the lives of literary men teach us, is told in a single word; wait!--every man must patiently bide his time. he must wait. more particularly in lands, like my native land, where the pulse of life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful. our national character wants the dignity of repose. we seem to live in the midst of a battle,--there is such a din,--such a hurrying to and fro. in the streets of a crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly. you feel the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it onward. in the press of our life it is difficult to be calm. in this stress of wind and tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors, and are swept out into the main. the voices of the present say, come! but the voices of the past say, wait! with calm and solemn footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing torrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying waters. with no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less certainly, does a great mind bear up against public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream. therefore should every man wait;--should bide his time. not in listless idleness,--not in uselesspastime,--not in querulous dejection; but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavours, always willing and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, when the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. and if it never comes, what matters it? what matters it to the world whether i, or you, or another man did such a deed, or wrote such a book, sobeit the deed and book were well done! it is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome ambition, to care too much about fame,--about what the world says of us. to be always looking into the faces of others for approval;--to be always anxious for the effect of what we do and say; to be always shouting to hear the echo of our own voices! if you look about you, you will see men, who are wearing life away in feverish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall ever hear of them will be the funeral bell, that tolls them to their early graves! unhappy men, and unsuccessful! because their purpose is, not to accomplish well their task, but to clutch the `trick and fantasy of fame'; and they go to their graveswith purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled. better for them, and for the world in their example, had they known how to wait! believe me, the talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well; and doing well whatever you do,--without a thought of fame. if it come at all, it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after. and, moreover, there will be no misgivings,--no disappointment,--no hasty, feverish, exhausting excitement." thus endeth the first book of hyperion. i make no record of the winter. paul flemming buried himself in books; in old, dusty books. he studied diligently the ancient poetic lore of germany, from frankish legends of saint george, and saxon rhyme-chronicles, down through nibelungen lieds, and helden-buchs, and songs of the minnesingers and mastersingers, and ships of fools, and reinecke foxes, and death-dancesand lamentations of damned souls, into the bright, sunny land of harvests, where, amid the golden grain and the blue corn-flowers, walk the modern bards, and sing. book ii. epigraph "something the heart must have to cherish, must love, and joy, and sorrow learn; something with passion clasp, or perish, and in itself to ashes burn." chapter i. spring. it was a sweet carol, which the rhodian children sang of old in spring, bearing in their hands, from door to door, a swallow, as herald of the season; "the swallow is come! the swallow is come! o fair are the seasons, and light are the days that she brings, with her dusky wings, and her bosom snowy white." a pretty carol, too, is that, which the hungarian boys, on the islands of the danube, sing to the returning stork in spring; "stork! stork! poor stork! why is thy foot so bloody? a turkish boy hath torn it; hungarian boy will heal it, with fiddle, fife, and drum." but what child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, where spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast! yet even here, and in the stormy month of march even, there are bright, warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale the balmy air. the pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirring sound of wings. old flies crawl out of the cracks, to sun themselves; and think it is summer. they die in their conceit; and so do our hearts within us, when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern sea; and again, "the driving hail upon the window beats with icy flail." the red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight before the leaves. the moose-wood follows, with rose-colored buds and leaves; and the dog-wood, robed in the white of its own pure blossoms. thencomes the sudden rain-storm; and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. where do they hide themselves in such storms? at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks? at the fireside of the great, hospitable sun, to-morrow, not before;--they must sit in wet garments until then. in all climates spring is beautiful. in the south it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. the birds begin to sing;--they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent woods. those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighbouring marshes. they, too, belong to the orchestra of nature; whose vast theatre is again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost, like cobwebs. this is the prelude, which announces the rising of the broad green curtain. already the grass shoots forth. the waters leap with thrilling pulse through the veins of the earth; the sap through the veins of the plants and trees; and the blood through the veins of man. what a thrill of delight in spring-time! what a joy in being and moving! men are at work in gardens; and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth. the leaf-buds begin to swell and blush. the white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like snow-flakes; and ere long our next-door neighbours will be completely hidden from us by the dense green foliage. the may-flowers open their soft blue eyes. children are let loose in the fields and gardens. they hold butter-cups under each others' chins, to see if they love butter. and the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions; pull out the yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the down from the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers want them at home. and at night so cloudless and so still! not a voice of living thing,--not a whisper of leaf or waving bough,--not a breath of wind,--not a sound upon the earth nor in the air! and overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like the inverted bellof some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance. or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt and fall in showers. one does not wish to sleep; but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain. it was thus the spring began in heidelberg. chapter ii. a colloquy. "and what think you of tiedge's urania," said the baron smiling, as paul flemming closed the book, and laid it upon the table. "i think," said flemming, "that it is very much like jean paul's grandfather,--in the highest degree poor and pious." "bravo!" exclaimed the baron. "that is the best criticism i have heard upon the book. for my part, i dislike the thing as much as goethe did. it was once very popular, and lay about in every parlour and bed-room. this annoyed the old gentleman exceedingly; and i do not wonder at it. he complains, that at one time nothing was sung or said but this urania. he believed in immortality; but wished to cherish his belief inquietness. he once told a friend of his, that he had, however, learned one thing from all this talk about tiedge and his urania; which was, that the saints, as well as the nobility, constitute an aristocracy. he said he found stupid women, who were proud because they believed in immortality with tiedge, and had to submit himself to not a few mysterious catechizings and tea-table lectures on this point; and that he cut them short by saying, that he had no objection whatever to enter into another state of existence hereafter, but prayed only that he might be spared the honor of meeting any of those there, who had believed in it here; for, if he did, the saints would flock around him on all sides, exclaiming, were we not in the right? did we not tell you so? has it not all turned out just as we said? and, with such a conceited clatter in his ears, he thought that, before the end of six months, he might die of ennui in heaven itself." "how shocked the good old ladies must have been," said flemming. "no doubt, their nerves suffered a little; but the young ladies loved him all the better for being witty and wicked; and thought if they could only marry him, how they would reform him." "bettina brentano, for instance." "o no! that happened long afterwards. goethe was then a silver-haired old man of sixty. she had never seen him, and knew him only by his writings; a romantic girl of seventeen." "and yet much in love with the sexagenarian. and surely a more wild, fantastic, and, excuse me, german passion never sprang up in woman's breast. she was a flower, that worshipped the sun." "she afterwards married achim von arnim, and is now a widow. and not the least singular part of the affair, is, that, having grown older, and i hope colder, she should herself publish the letters which passed between her and goethe." "particularly the letter in which she describes her first visit to weimar, and her interview with the hitherto invisible divinity of her dreams. the old gentleman took her upon his knees, and she fell asleep with her head upon his shoulder. it reminds me of titania and nick bottom, begging your pardon, always, for comparing your all-sided-one to nick bottom. oberon must have touched her eyes with the juice of love-in-idleness. however, this book of goethe's correspondence with a child is a very singular and valuable revelation of the feelings, which he excited in female hearts. you say she afterwards married achim von arnim?" "yes; and he and her brother, clemens brentano, published that wondrous book, the boy's wonder-horn." "the boy's wonder-horn!" said flemming, after a short pause, for the name seemed to have thrown him into a reverie;--"i know the book almost by heart. of all your german books it is the one which produces upon my imagination the most wild and magic influence. i have a passion for ballads!" "and who has not?" said the baron with asmile. "they are the gypsy-children of song, born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes and by-paths of literature,--in the genial summer-time." "why do you say summer-time and not summer?" inquired flemming. "the expression reminds me of your old minnesingers;--of heinrich von ofterdingen, and walter von der vogelweide, and count kraft von toggenburg, and your own ancestor, i dare say, burkhart von hohenfels. they were always singing of the gentle summer-time. they seem to have lived poetry, as well as sung it; like the birds who make their marriage beds in the voluptuous trees." "is that from shakspere?" "no; from lope de vega." "you are deeply read in the lore of antiquity, and the aubades and watch-songs of the old minnesingers. what do you think of the shoe-maker poets that came after them,--with their guilds and singing-schools? it makes me laugh to think how the great german helicon, shrunk toa rivulet, goes bubbling and gurgling over the pebbly names of zwinger, wurgendrussel, buchenlin, hellfire, old stoll, young stoll, strong bopp, dang brotscheim, batt spiegel, peter pfort, and martin gumpel. and then the corporation of the twelve wise masters, with their stumpfereime and klingende-reime, and their hans tindeisen's rosemary-weise; and joseph schmierer's flowery-paradise-weise, and frauenlob's yellow-weise, and blue-weise, and frog-weise, and looking-glass-weise!" "o, i entreat you," exclaimed flemming, laughing, "do not call those men poets! you transport me to quaint old nuremberg, and i see hans sachs making shoes, and hans folz shaving the burgomaster." "by the way," interrupted the baron, "did you ever read hoffmann's beautiful story of master martin, the cooper of nuremberg? i will read it to you this very night. it is the most delightful picture of that age, which you can conceive. but look! the sun has already set behindthe alsatian hills. let us go up to the castle and look for the ghost in prince ruprecht's tower. o, what a glorious sunset!" flemming looked at the evening sky, and a shade of sadness stole over his countenance. he told not to his friend the sorrow, with which his heart was heavy; but kept it for himself alone. he knew that the time, which comes to all men,--the time to suffer and be silent,--had come to him likewise; and he spake no word. o well has it been said, that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak. chapter iii. owl-towers. "there sits the old frau himmelhahn, perched up in her owl-tower," said the baron to flemming, as they passed along the hauptstrasse. "she looks down through her round-eyed spectacles from her nest up there, and watches every one that goes by. i wonder what mischief she is hatching now? do you know she has nearly ruined your character in town? she says you have a rakish look, because you carry a cane, and your hair curls. your gloves, also, are a shade too light for a strictly virtuous man." "it is very kind in her to take such good care of my character, particularly as i am a stranger in town. she is doubtless learned in the clothes-philosophy." "and ignorant of every thing else. she asked a friend of mine the other day, whether christ was a catholic or a protestant." "that is really too absurd!" "not too absurd to be true. and, ignorant as she is, she contrives to do a good deal of mischief in the course of the year. why, the ladies already call you wilhelm meister." "they are at liberty to call me what they please. but you, who know me better, know that i am something more than they would imply by the name." "she says, moreover, that the american ladies sit with their feet out of the window, and have no pocket-handkerchiefs." "excellent!" they crossed the market-place and went up beneath the grand terrace into the court-yard of the castle. "let us go up and sit under the great linden-trees, that grow on the summit of the rent tower," said flemming. "from that point as from awatch-tower we can look down into the garden, and see the crowd below us." "and amuse ourselves, as old frau himmelhahn does, at her window in the hauptstrasse," added the baron. the keeper's daughter unlocked for them the door of the tower, and, climbing the steep stair-case, they seated themselves on a wooden bench under the linden-trees. "how beautifully these trees overgrow the old tower! and see what a solid mass of masonry lies in the great fosse down there, toppled from its base by the explosion of a mine! it is like a rusty helmet cleft in twain, but still crested with towering plumes!" "and what a motley crowd in the garden! philisters and sons of the muses! and there goes the venerable thibaut, taking his evening stroll. do you see him there, with his silver hair flowing over his shoulders, and that friendly face, which has for so many years pored over the pandects. i assure you, he inspires me with awe. and yet he is a merry old man, and loves his joke, particularly at the expense of moses and other ancient lawgivers." here their attention was diverted by a wild-looking person, who passed with long strides under the archway in the fosse, right beneath them, and disappeared among the bushes. he was ill-dressed,--his hair flying in the wind,--his movements hurried and nervous, and the expression of his broad countenance wild, strange, and earnest. "who can that be!" asked flemming. "he strides away indignantly, like one of ossian's ghosts?" "a great philosopher, whose name i have forgotten. truly a strange owl!" "he looks like a lion with a hat on." "he is a mystic, who reads schubert's history of the soul, and lives, for the most part, in the clouds of the middle ages. to him the spirit-world is still open. he believes in the transmigration of souls; and i dare say is now followingthe spirit of some departed friend, who has taken the form of yonder pigeon." "what a strange hallucination! he lives, i suppose, in the land of cloud-shadows. and, as st. thomas aquinas was said to be lifted up from the ground by the fervor of his prayers, so, no doubt, is he by the fervor of his visions." "he certainly appears to neglect all sublunary things; and, to judge from certain appearances, since you seem fond of holy similitudes, one would say, that, like st. serapion the sindonite, he had but one shirt. yet what cares he? he lives in that poetic dream-land of his thoughts, and clothes his dream-children in poetry." "he is a poet, then, as well as a philosopher?" "yes; but a poet who never writes a line. there is nothing in nature to which his imagination does not give a poetic hue. but the power to make others see these objects in the same poetic light, is wanting. still he is a man of fine powers and feelings; for, next to being a greatpoet, is the power of understanding one,--of finding one's-self in him, as we germans say." three figures, dressed in black, now came from one of the green alleys, and stopped on the brink of a little fountain, that was playing among the gay flowers in the garden. the eldest of the three was a lady in that season of life, when the early autumn gives to the summer leaves a warmer glow, yet fades them not. though the mother of many children, she was still beautiful;--resembling those trees, which blossom in october, when the leaves are changing, and whose fruit and blossom are on the branch at once. at her side was a girl of some sixteen years, who seemed to lean upon her arm for support. her figure was slight; her countenance beautiful, though deadly white; and her meek eyes like the flower of the night-shade, pale and blue, but sending forth golden rays. they were attended by a tall youth of foreign aspect, who seemed a young antinous, with a mustache and a nose à la kosciusko. in other respects a perfect hero of romance. "unless mine eyes deceive me," said the baron, "there is the frau von ilmenau, with her pale daughter emma, and that eternal polish count. he is always hovering about them, playing the unhappy exile, merely to excite that poor girl's sympathies; and as wretched as genius and wantonness can make him." "why, he is already married, you know," replied flemming. "and his wife is young and beautiful." "that does not prevent him from being in love with some one else. that question was decided in the courts of love in the middle ages. accordingly he has sent his fair wife to warsaw. but how pale the poor child looks." "she has just recovered from severe illness. in the winter, you know, it was thought she would not live from hour to hour." "and she has hardly recovered from that disease, before she seems threatened with a worse one; namely, a hopeless passion. however, people do not die of love now-a-days." "seldom, perhaps," said flemming. "and yet it is folly to pretend that one ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion. such wounds always leave a scar. there are faces i can never look upon without emotion. there are names i can never hear spoken without almost starting!" "but whom have we here?" "that is the french poet quinet, with his sweet german wife; one of the most interesting women i ever knew. he is the author of a very wild mystery, or dramatic prose-poem, in which the ocean, mont-blanc, and the cathedral of strassburg have parts to play; and the saints on the stained windows of the minster speak, and the statues and dead kings enact the dance of death. it is entitled ahasuerus, or the wandering jew." "or, as the danes would translate it, the shoemaker of jerusalem. that would be a still more fantastic title for his fantastic book. you know i am no great admirer of the modern french school of writers. the tales of paul de kock, who is, i believe, the most popular of all, seem to me like obscene stories told at dinner-tables, after the ladies have retired. it has been well said of him, that he is not only populaire but populacier; and equally well said of george sand and victor hugo, that their works stand like fortifications, well built and well supplied with warlike munitions; but ineffectual against the grand army of god, which marches onward, as if nothing had happened. in surveying a national literature, the point you must start from, is national character. that lets you into many a secret; as, for example, paul de kock's popularity. the most prominent trait in the french character, is love of amusement, and excitement; and--" "i should say, rather, the fear of ennui," interrupted flemming. "one of their own writers has said with a great deal of truth, that the gentry of france rush into paris to escape from ennui, as, in the noble days of chivalry, the defenceless inhabitants of the champaign fled into the castles, at theapproach of some plundering knight, or lawless baron; forsaking the inspired twilight of their native groves, for the luxurious shades of the royal gardens. what do you think of that?" the baron replied with a smile; "there is only one paris; and out of paris there is no salvation for decent people." thus conversing of many things, sat the two friends under the linden-trees on the rent tower, till gradually the crowd disappeared from the garden, and the objects around them grew indistinct, in the fading twilight. between them and the amber-colored western sky, the dense foliage of the trees looked heavy and hard, as if cast in bronze; and already the evening stars hung like silver lamps in the towering branches of that tree of life, brought more than two centuries ago from its primeval paradise in america, to beautify the gardens of the palatinate. "i take a mournful pleasure in gazing at that tree," said flemming, as they rose to depart. "it stands there so straight and tall, with iron bandsaround its noble trunk and limbs, in silent majesty, or whispering only in its native tongue, and freighting the homeward wind with sighs! it reminds me of some captive monarch of a savage tribe, brought over the vast ocean for a show, and chained in the public market-place of the city, disdainfully silent, or breathing only in melancholy accents a prayer for his native forest, a longing to be free." "magnificent!" cried the baron. "i always experience something of the same feeling when i walk through a conservatory. the luxuriant plants of the tropics,--those illustrious exotics, with their gorgeous, flamingo-colored blossoms, and great, flapping leaves, like elephant's ears,--have a singular working upon my imagination; and remind me of a menagerie and wild-beasts kept in cages. but your illustration is finer;--indeed, a grand figure. put it down for an epic poem." chapter iv. a beer-scandal. on their way homeward, flemming and the baron passed through a narrow lane, in which was a well-known studenten-kneipe. at the door stood a young man, whom the baron at once recognised as his friend von kleist. he was a student; and universally acknowledged, among his young acquaintance, as a "devilish handsome fellow"; notwithstanding a tremendous scar on his cheek, and a cream-colored mustache, as soft as the silk of indian corn. in short he was a renowner, and a duellist. "what are you doing here, von kleist?" "ah, my dear baron! is it you? come in; come in. you shall see some sport. a fox-commerce is on foot, and a regular beer-scandal." "shall we go in, flemming?" "certainly. i should like to see how these things are managed in heidelberg. you are a baron, and i am a stranger. it is of no consequence what you and i do, as the king's fool angeli said to the poet bautru, urging him to put on his hat at the royal dinner-table." william lilly, the astrologer, says, in his autobiography, that, when he was committed to the guard-room in white hall, he thought himself in hell; for "some were sleeping, others swearing, others smoking tobacco; and in the chimney of the room there were two bushels of broken tobacco-pipes, and almost half a load of ashes." what he would have thought if he had peeped into this heidelberg studenten-kneipe, i know not. he certainly would not have thought himself in heaven; unless it were a scandinavian heaven. the windows were open; and yet so dense was the atmosphere with the smoke of tobacco, and the fumes of beer, that the tallow candles burnt but dimly. a crowd of students were sitting at three long tables, in the large hall; a medley of fellows, known at german universities under the cant names of old-ones, mossy-heads, princes of twilight, and pomatum-stallions. they were smoking, drinking, singing, screaming, and discussing the great laws of the broad-stone and the gutter. they had a great deal to say, likewise, about besens, and zobels, and poussades; and, if they had been charged for the noise they made, as travellers used to be, in the old dutch taverns, they would have had a longer bill to pay for that, than for their beer. in a large arm-chair, upon the middle table, sat one of those distinguished individuals, known among german students as a senior, or leader of a landsmannschaft. he was booted and spurred, and wore a very small crimson cap, and a very tight blue jacket, and very long hair, and a very dirty shirt. he was president of the night; and, as flemming entered the hall with the baron and his friend, striking upon the table with a mighty broadsword, he cried in a loud voice; "silentium!" at the same moment a door at the end of the hall was thrown open, and a procession of newcomers, or nasty-foxes, as they are called in the college dialect, entered two by two, looking wild, and green, and foolish. as they came forward, they were obliged to pass under a pair of naked swords, held cross-wise by two old-ones, who, with pieces of burnt cork, made an enormous pair of mustaches, on the smooth, rosy cheeks of each, as he passed beneath this arch of triumph. while the procession was entering the hall, the president lifted up his voice again, and began to sing the well-known fox-song, in the chorus of which all present joined lustily. what comes there from the hill? what comes there from the hill? what comes there from the leathery hill? ha! ha! leathery hill! what comes there from the hill? it is a postilion! it is a postilion! it is a leathery postilion! ha! ha! postilion! it is a postilion! what brings the postilion? what brings the postilion? what brings the leathery postilion? ha! ha! postilion! what brings the postilion? he bringeth us a fox! he bringeth us a fox! he bringeth us a leathery fox! ha! ha! leathery fox! he bringeth us a fox! your servant, masters mine! your servant, masters mine! your servant, much-honored masters mine! ha! ha! much-honored masters mine! your servant, masters mine! how does the herr papa? how does the herr papa? how does the leathery herr papa? ha! ha! herr papa! how does the herr papa? he reads in cicero! he reads in cicero! he reads in leathery cicero! ha! ha! cicero! he reads in cicero! how does the frau mama? how does the frau mama? how does the leathery frau mama? ha! ha! frau mama! how does the frau mama? she makes the papa tea! she makes the papa tea! she makes the papa leathery tea! ha! ha! leathery tea! she makes the papa tea! how does the mamsell s�ur? how does the mamsell s�ur? how does the leathery mamsell s�ur? ha! ha! mamsell s�ur! how does the mamsell s�ur? she knits the papa stockings! she knits the papa stockings! she knits the papa leathery stockings! ha! ha! leathery stockings! she knits the papa stockings! how does the herr rector? how does the herr rector? how does the leathery herr rector? ha! ha! herr rector! how does the herr rector? he calls the scholar, boy! he calls the scholar, boy! he calls the scholar, leathery boy! ha! ha! leathery boy! he calls the scholar, boy! and smokes the fox tobacco? and smokes the fox tobacco? and smokes the leathery fox tobacco? ha! ha! fox tobacco! and smokes the fox tobacco? a little, masters mine! a little, masters mine! a little, much-honored masters mine! ha! ha! much-honored masters mine! a little, masters mine! then let him fill a pipe! then let him fill a pipe! then let him fill a leathery pipe! ha! ha! leathery pipe! then let him fill a pipe! o lord! it makes me sick! o lord! it makes him sick! o lord! it makes me leathery sick! ha! ha! leathery sick! o lord! it makes me sick! then let him throw it off! then let him throw it off! then let him throw it leathery off! ha! ha! leathery off! then let him throw it off! now i again am well! now he again is well! now i again am leathery well! ha! ha! leathery well! now i again am well! so grows the fox a bursch! so grows the fox a bursch! so grows the leathery fox a bursch! ha! ha! fox a bursch! so grows the fox a bursch! at length the song was finished. meanwhile large tufts and strips of paper had been twisted into the hair of the branders, as those are called who have been already one semestre at the university, and then at a given signal were set on fire, and the branders rode round the table on sticks, amid roars of laughter. when this ceremony was completed, the president rose from his chair, and in a solemn voice pronounced a long discourse, in which old college jokes were mingled with much parental advice to young men on entering life, and the whole was profusely garnished with select passages from the old testament. then they all seated themselves at the table and the heavy beer-drinking set in, as among the gods and heroes of the old northern mythology. "brander! brander!" screamed a youth, whose face was hot and flushed with supper and with beer; "brander, i say? thou art a doctor! no,--a pope;--thou art a pope, by--" these words were addressed to a pale, quiet-looking person, who sat opposite, and was busy in making a wretched, shaved poodle sit on his hind legs in a chair, by his master's side, and hold a short clay pipe in his mouth,--a performance to which the poodle seemed no wise inclined. "thou art challenged!" replied the pale student, turning from his dog, who dropped the pipe from his mouth and leaped under the table. seconds were chosen on the spot; and the arms ordered; namely, six mighty goblets, or bassgläser, filled to the brim with foaming beer. three were placed before each duellist. "take your weapons!" cried one of the seconds, and each of the combatants seized a goblet in his hand. "strike!" and the glasses rang, with a salutation like the crossing of swords. "set to!" each set the goblet to his lips. "out!" and each poured the contents down his throat, as if he were pouring them through a tunnel into a beer-barrel. the other two glasses followed in quick succession, hardly a long breath drawn between. the pale student was victorious. he was first to drain the third goblet. he held it for a moment inverted, to let the last drops fall out, and then placing it quietly on the table, looked his antagonist in the face, and said; "hit!" then, with the greatest coolness, he looked under the table and whistled for his dog. his antagonist stopped midway in his third glass. every vein in his forehead seemed bursting; his eyes were wild and bloodshot, his hand gradually loosened its hold upon the table, and he sank and rolled together like a sheet of lead. he was drunk. at this moment a majestic figure came stalking down the table, ghost-like, through the dim, smoky atmosphere. his coat was off, his neck bare, his hair wild, his eyes wide open, and looking right before him, as if he saw some beckoning hand in the air, that others could not see. his left hand was upon his hip, and in his right he held a drawn sword extended, and pointing downward. regardless of every one, erect, and with a martial stride he marched directly along the centre of the table, crushing glasses and overthrowing bottles at everystep. the students shrunk back at his approach; till at length one more drunk, or more courageous, than the rest, dashed a glass full of beer into his face. a general tumult ensued, and the student with the sword leaped to the floor. it was von kleist. he was renowning it. in the midst of the uproar could be distinguished the offensive words; "arrogant! absurd! impertinent! dummer junge!" von kleist went home that night with no less than six duels on his hands. he fought them all out in as many days; and came off with only a gash through his upper lip and another through his right eyelid from a dexterous suabian schlaeger. chapter v. the white lady's slipper and the passion-flower. that night emma of ilmenau went to her chamber with a heavy heart, and her dusky eyes were troubled with tears. she was one of those gentle beings, who seem created only to love and to be loved. a shade of melancholy softened her character. she shunned the glare of daylight and of society, and wished to be alone. like the evening primrose, her heart opened only after sunset; but bloomed through the dark night with sweet fragrance. her mother, on the contrary, flaunted in the garish light of society. there was no sympathy between them. their souls never approached, never understood each other, and words were often spoken which wounded deeply. and therefore emma of ilmenau went to her chamber that night with tears in her eyes. she was followed by her french chamber-maid, madeleine, a native of strassburg, who had grown old in the family. in her youth, she had been poor,--and virtuous because she had never been tempted; and, now that she had grown old, and seen no immediate reward for her virtue, as is usual with weak minds, she despaired of providence, and regretted she had never been tempted. whilst this unfortunate personage was lighting the wax tapers on the toilet, and drawing the bed-curtains, and tattling about the room, emma threw herself into an arm-chair, and, crossing her hands in her lap, and letting her head fall upon her bosom, seemed lost in a dream. "why have these gentle feelings been given me!" said she in her heart. "why have i been born with all these warm affections,--these ardent longings after what is good, if they lead only to sorrow and disappointment? i would love some one;--love him once and forever;--devote myselfto him alone,--live for him,--die for him,-exist alone in him! but alas! in all this wide world there is none to love me, as i would be loved,--none whom i may love, as i am capable of loving. how empty, how desolate, seems the world about me! why has heaven given me these affections, only to fall and fade!" alas! poor child! thou too must learn like others, that the sublime mystery of providence goes on in silence, and gives no explanation of itself,--no answer to our impatient questionings! "bless me, child, what ails you?" exclaimed madeleine, perceiving that emma paid no attention to her idle gossip. "when i was of your age--" "do not talk to me now, good madeleine. leave me, i wish to be alone?" "well, here is something," continued the maid, taking a billet from her bosom, "which i hope will enliven you. when i was of your age--" "hush! hush!" said emma, taking the billetfrom the hard hand of madeleine. "once more i beg you, leave me! i wish to be alone!" madeleine took the lamp and retired slowly, wishing her young mistress many good nights and rosy dreams. emma broke the seal of the note. as she read, her face became deadly pale, and then, as quick as thought, a crimson blush gleamed on her cheek, and her hands trembled. tenderness, pity, love, offended pride, the weakness and dignity of woman, were all mingled in her look, changing and passing over her fine countenance like cloud-shadows. she sunk back in her chair, covering her face with her hands, as if she would hide it from herself and heaven. "he loves me!" said she to herself; "loves me; and is married to another, whom he loves not! and dares to tell me this! o, never,-never,--never! and yet he is so friendless and alone in this unsympathizing world,--and an exile, and homeless! i can but pity him;--yet i hate him, and will see him no more!" this short reverie of love and hate was brokenby the sound of a clear, mellow voice, which, in the universal stillness of the hour, seemed almost like the voice of a spirit. it was a voice, without the accompaniment of any instrument, singing those sweet lines of goethe; "under the tree-tops is quiet now! in all the woodlands hearest thou not a sound! the little birds are asleep in the trees, wait! wait! and soon like these, sleepest thou!" emma knew the voice and started. she rushed to the window to close it. it was a beautiful night, and the stars were shining peacefully over the mountain of all-saints. the sound of the neckar was soft and low, and nightingales were singing among the brown shadows of the woods. the large red moon shone, like a ruby, in the horizon's ample ring; and golden threads of light seemed braided together with the rippling current of the river. tall and spectral stood the white statues on the bridge. the outline of thehills, the castle, the arches of the bridge, and the spires and roofs of the town were as strongly marked as if cut out of pasteboard. amid this fairy scene, a little boat was floating silently down the stream. emma closed the window hastily, and drew the curtains close. "i hate him; and yet i will pray for him," said she, as she laid her weary head upon that pillow, from which, but a few months before, she thought she should never raise it again. "o, that i had died then! i dare not love him, but i will pray for him!" sweet child! if the face of the deceiver comes so often between thee and heaven, i tremble for thy fate! the plant that sprang from helen's tears destroyed serpents;--would that from thine might spring up heart's-ease;--some plant, at least, to destroy the serpents in thy bosom. believe me, upon the margin of celestial streams alone, those simples grow, which cure the heartache! and this the silent stars beheld, looking downfrom heaven, and told it not again. this, likewise, the frau himmelhahn beheld, looking from her chamber-window, and was not so discreet as the silent stars. chapter vi. glimpses into cloud-land. "there are many things, which, having no corporeal evidence, can be perceived and comprehended only by the discursive energies of reason. hence the ambiguous nature of matter can be comprehended only by adulterated opinion. matter is the principle of all bodies, and is stamped with the impression of forms. fire, air, and water derive their origin and principle from the scalene triangle. but the earth was created from right-angled triangles, of which two of the sides are equal. the sphere and the pyramid contain in themselves the figure of fire; but the octaedron was destined to be the figure of air, and the icosaedron of water. the right-angled isosceles triangle produces from itself a square, andthe square generates from itself the cube, which is the figure peculiar to earth. but the figure of a beautiful and perfect sphere was imparted to the most beautiful and perfect world, that it might be indigent of nothing, but contain all things, embracing and comprehending them in itself, and thus might be excellent and admirable, similar to and in concord with itself, ever moving musically and melodiously. if i use a novel language, excuse me. as apuleius says, pardon must be granted to novelty of words, when it serves to illustrate the obscurity of things." these words came from the lips of the lion-like philosopher, who has been noticed before in these pages. he was sitting with flemming, smoking a long pipe. as the baron said, he was indeed a strange owl; for the owl is a grave bird; a monk, who chants midnight mass in the great temple of nature;--an anchorite,--a pillar saint,--the very simeon stylites of his neighbourhood. such, likewise, was the philosophical professor. solitary, but with a mighty current, flowed the river of his life, like the nile, without a tributary stream, and making fertile only a single strip in the vast desert. his temperament had been in youth a joyous one; and now, amid all his sorrows and privations, for he had many, he looked upon the world as a glad, bright, glorious world. on the many joys of life he gazed still with the eyes of childhood, from the far-gone past upward, trusting, hoping;--and upon its sorrows with the eyes of age, from the distant future, downward, triumphant, not despairing. he loved solitude, and silence, and candle-light, and the deep midnight. "for," said he, "if the morning hours are the wings of the day, i only fold them about me to sleep more sweetly; knowing that, at its other extremity, the day, like the fowls of the air, has an epicurean morsel,--a parson's nose; and on this oily midnight my spirit revels and is glad." such was the professor, who had been talking in a half-intelligible strain for two hours or more. the baron had fallen fast asleep in his chair; but flemming sat listening with excited imagination, and the professor continued in the following words, which, to the best of his listener's memory, seemed gleaned here and there from fichte's destiny of man, and shubert's history of the soul. "life is one, and universal; its forms many and individual. throughout this beautiful and wonderful creation there is never-ceasing motion, without rest by night or day, ever weaving to and fro. swifter than a weaver's shuttle it flies from birth to death, from death to birth; from the beginning seeks the end, and finds it not, for the seeming end is only a dim beginning of a new out-going and endeavour after the end. as the ice upon the mountain, when the warm breath of the summer sun breathes upon it, melts, and divides into drops, each of which reflects an image of the sun; so life, in the smile of god's love, divides itself into separate forms, each bearing in it and reflecting an image of god's love. of all these forms the highest and most perfect inits god-likeness is the human soul. the vast cathedral of nature is full of holy scriptures, and shapes of deep, mysterious meaning; but all is solitary and silent there; no bending knee, no uplifted eye, no lip adoring, praying. into this vast cathedral comes the human soul, seeking its creator; and the universal silence is changed to sound, and the sound is harmonious, and has a meaning, and is comprehended and felt. it was an ancient saying of the persians, that the waters rush from the mountains and hurry forth into all the lands to find the lord of the earth; and the flame of the fire, when it awakes, gazes no more upon the ground, but mounts heavenward to seek the lord of heaven; and here and there the earth has built the great watch-towers of the mountains, and they lift their heads far up into the sky, and gaze ever upward and around, to see if the judge of the world comes not! thus in nature herself, without man, there lies a waiting, and hoping, a looking and yearning, after an unknown somewhat. yes; when, above there, where the mountain lifts its head over all others, that it may be alone with the clouds and storms of heaven, the lonely eagle looks forth into the gray dawn, to see if the day comes not! when, by the mountain torrent, the brooding raven listens to hear if the chamois is returning from his nightly pasture in the valley; and when the soon uprising sun calls out the spicy odors of the thousand flowers, the alpine flowers, with heaven's deep blue and the blush of sunset on their leaves;--then there awakes in nature, and the soul of man can see and comprehend it, an expectation and a longing for a future revelation of god's majesty. it awakens, also, when in the fulness of life, field and forest rest at noon, and through the stillness is heard only the song of the grasshopper and the hum of the bee; and when at evening the singing lark, up from the sweet-smelling vineyards rises, or in the later hours of night orion puts on his shining armour, to walk forth in the fields of heaven. but in the soul of man alone is this longing changed to certainty and fulfilled. for lo! thelight of the sun and the stars shines through the air, and is nowhere visible and seen; the planets hasten with more than the speed of the storm through infinite space, and their footsteps are not heard, but where the sunlight strikes the firm surface of the planets, where the stormwind smites the wall of the mountain cliff, there is the one seen and the other heard. thus is the glory of god made visible, and may be seen, where in the soul of man it meets its likeness changeless and firm-standing. thus, then, stands man;--a mountain on the boundary between two worlds;--its foot in one, its summit far-rising into the other. from this summit the manifold landscape of life is visible, the way of the past and perishable, which we have left behind us; and, as we evermore ascend, bright glimpses of the daybreak of eternity beyond us!" flemming would fain have interrupted this discourse at times, to answer and inquire, but the professor went on, warming and glowing more andmore. at length, there was a short pause, and flemming said; "all these indefinite longings,--these yearnings after an unknown somewhat, i have felt and still feel within me; but not yet their fulfilment." "that is because you have not faith;" answered the professor. "the present is an age of doubt and disbelief, and darkness; out of which shall arise a clear and bright hereafter. in the second part of goethe's faust, there is a grand and striking scene, where in the classical walpurgis night, on the pharsalian plains, the mocking mephistopheles sits down between the solemn antique sphinxes, and boldly questions them, and reads their riddles. the red light of innumerable watch-fires glares all round about, and shines upon the terrible face of the arch-scoffer; while on either side, severe, majestic, solemnly serene, we behold the gigantic forms of the children of chimæra, half buried in the earth, their mild eyes gazing fixedly, as if they heard through the midnight, the swift-rushing wings of the stymphalides, striving to outstrip the speed of alcides' arrows! angry griffins are near them; and not far are sirens, singing their wondrous songs from the rocking branches of the willow trees! even thus does a scoffing and unbelieving present sit down, between an unknown future and a too believing past, and question and challenge the gigantic forms of faith, half buried in the sands of time, and gazing forward steadfastly into the night, whilst sounds of anger and voices of delight alternate vex and soothe the ear of man!--but the time will come, when the soul of man shall return again childlike and trustful to its faith in god; and look god in the face and die; for it is an old saying, full of deep, mysterious meaning, that he must die, who hath looked upon a god. and this is the fate of the soul, that it should die continually. no sooner here on earth does it awake to its peculiar being, than it struggles to behold and comprehend the spirit of life. in the first dim twilight of its existence, it beholds this spirit, is pervaded by its energies,--is quick and creative likethe spirit itself, and yet slumbers away into death after having seen it. but the image it has seen, remains, in the eternal procreation, as a homogeneal existence, is again renewed, and the seeming death, from moment to moment, becomes the source of kind after kind of existences in ever-ascending series. the soul aspires ever onward to love and to behold. it sees the image more perfect in the brightening twilight of the dawn, in the ever higher-rising sun. it sleeps again, dying in the clearer vision; but the image seen remains as a permanent kind; and the slumberer awakes anew and ever higher after its own image, till at length, in the full blaze of noonday, a being comes forth, which, like the eagle, can behold the sun and die not. then both live on, even when this bodily element, the mist and vapor through which the young eagle gazed, dissolves and falls to earth." "i am not sure that i understand you," said flemming; "but if i do, you mean to say, that, as the body continually changes and takes unto itselfnew properties, and is not the same to-day as yesterday, so likewise the soul lays aside its idiosyncrasies, and is changed by acquiring new powers, and thus may be said to die. and hence, properly speaking, the soul lives always in the present, and has, and can have, no future; for the future becomes the present, and the soul that then lives in me is a higher and more perfect soul; and so onward forevermore." "i mean what i say," continued the professor; "and can find no more appropriate language to express my meaning than that which i have used. but as i said before, pardon must be granted to the novelty of words, when it serves to illustrate the obscurity of things. and i think you will see clearly from what i have said, that this earthly life, when seen hereafter from heaven, will seem like an hour passed long ago, and dimly remembered;--that long, laborious, full of joys and sorrows as it is, it will then have dwindled down to a mere point, hardly visible to the far-reaching ken of the disembodied spirit. but the spirit itself soars onward. and thus death is neither an end nor a beginning. it is a transition not from one existence to another, but from one state of existence to another. no link is broken in the chain of being; any more than in passing from infancy to manhood, from manhood to old age. there are seasons of reverie and deep abstraction, which seem to me analogous to death. the soul gradually loses its consciousness of what is passing around it; and takes no longer cognizance of objects which are near. it seems for the moment to have dissolved its connexion with the body. it has passed as it were into another state of being. it lives in another world. it has flown over lands and seas; and holds communion with those it loves, in distant regions of the earth, and the more distant heaven. it sees familiar faces, and hears beloved voices, which to the bodily senses are no longer visible and audible. and this likewise is death; save that when we die, the soul returns no more to the dwelling it has left." "you seem to take it for granted," interrupted flemming, "that, in our reveries, the soul really goes out of the body into distant places, instead of summoning up their semblance within itself by the power of memory and imagination!" "something i must take for granted," replied the professor. "we will not discuss that point now. i speak not without forethought. just observe what a glorious thing human life is, when seen in this light; and how glorious man's destiny. i am; thou art; he is! seems but a school-boy's conjugation. but therein lies a great mystery. these words are significant of much. we behold all round about us one vast union, in which no man can labor for himself without laboring at the same time for all others; a glimpse of truth, which by the universal harmony of things becomes an inward benediction, and lifts the soul mightily upward. still more so, when a man regards himself as a necessary member of this union. the feeling of our dignity and our power grows strong, when we say to ourselves; my being is not objectless and in vain; i am a necessary link in the great chain, which, from the full development of consciousness in the first man, reaches forward into eternity. all the great, and wise, and good among mankind, all the benefactors of the human race, whose names i read in the world's history, and the still greater number of those, whose good deeds have outlived their names,--all those have labored for me. i have entered into their harvest. i walk the green earth, which they inhabited. i tread in their footsteps, from which blessings grow. i can undertake the sublime task, which they once undertook, the task of making our common brotherhood wiser and happier. i can build forward, where they were forced to leave off; and bring nearer to perfection the great edifice which they left uncompleted. and at length i, too, must leave it, and go hence. o, this is the sublimest thought of all! i can never finish the noble task; therefore, so sure as this task is my destiny, i can never cease to work, and consequently never cease to be. what men call death cannot break off this task, which is never-ending; consequently no periodis set to my being, and i am eternal. i lift my head boldly to the threatening mountain peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and to the storm-clouds swimming in the fire-sea overhead and say; i am eternal, and defy your power! break, break over me! and thou earth, and thou heaven, mingle in the wild tumult! and ye elements foam and rage, and destroy this atom of dust,--this body, which i call mine! my will alone, with its fixed purpose, shall hover brave and triumphant over the ruins of the universe; for i have comprehended my destiny; and it is more durable than ye! it is eternal; and i, who recognise it, i likewise am eternal! tell me, my friend, have you no faith in this?" "i have;" answered flemming, and there was another pause. he then said; "i have listened to you patiently and without interruption. now listen to me. you complain of the skepticism of the age. this is one form in which the philosophic spirit of the age presents itself. let me tell you, that another form, whichit assumes, is that of poetic reverie. plato of old had dreams like these; and the mystics of the middle ages; and still their disciples walk in the cloud-land and dream-land of this poetic philosophy. pleasant and cool upon their souls lie the shadows of the trees under which plato taught. from their whispering leaves comes wafted across the noise of populous centuries a solemn and mysterious sound, which to them is the voice of the soul of the world. all nature has become spiritualized and transfigured; and, wrapt in beautiful, vague dreams of the real and the ideal, they live in this green world, like the little child in the german tale, who sits by the margin of a woodland lake, and hears the blue heaven and the branches overhead dispute with their reflection in the water, which is the reality and which the image. i willingly confess, that such day-dreams as these appeal strongly to my imagination. visitants and attendants are they of those lofty souls, which, soaring ever higher and higher, build themselves nests under the very eaves of the stars, forgetful that theycannot live on air, but must descend to earth for food. yet i recognise them as day-dreams only; as shadows, not substantial things. what i mainly dislike in the new philosophy, is the cool impertinence with which an old idea, folded in a new garment, looks you in the face and pretends not to know you, though you have been familiar friends from childhood. i remember an english author who, in speaking of your german philosophies, says very wisely; `often a proposition of inscrutable and dread aspect, when resolutely grappled with, and torn from its shady den, and its bristling entrenchments of uncouth terminology,--and dragged forth into the open light of day, to be seen by the natural eye and tried by merely human understanding, proves to be a very harmless truth, familiar to us from old, sometimes so familiar as to be a truism. too frequently the anxious novice is reminded of dryden in the battle of the books; there is a helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic; and within it, at the farthest corner, is a head no bigger than a walnut.'--can you believe, thatthese words ever came from the lips of carlyle! he has himself taken up the uncouth terminology of late; and many pure, simple minds are much offended at it. they seem to take it as a personal insult. they are angry; and deny the just meed of praise. it is, however, hardly worth while to lose our presence of mind. let us rather profit as we may, even from this spectacle, and recognise the monarch in his masquerade. for, hooded and wrapped about with that strange and antique garb, there walks a kingly, a most royal soul, even as the emperor charles walked amid solemn cloisters under a monk's cowl;--a monarch still in soul. such things are not new in the history of the world. ever and anon they sweep over the earth, and blow themselves out soon, and then there is quiet for a season, and the atmosphere of truth seems more serene. why would you preach to the wind? why reason with thunder-showers? better sit quiet, and see them pass over like a pageant, cloudy, superb, and vast." the professor smiled self-complacently, but said not a word. flemming continued; "i will add no more than this;--there are many speculations in literature, philosophy, and religion, which, though pleasant to walk in, and lying under the shadow of great names, yet lead to no important result. they resemble rather those roads in the western forests of my native land, which, though broad and pleasant at first, and lying beneath the shadow of great branches, finally dwindle to a squirrel track, and run up a tree!" the professor hardly knew whether he should laugh or be offended at this sally; and, laying his hand upon flemming's arm, he said seriously; "believe me, my young friend, the time will come, when you will think more wisely on these things. and with you, i trust, that time will soon come; since it moves more speedily with some than with others. for what is time? the shadow on the dial,--the striking of the clock,--the running of the sand,--day and night,--summerand winter,--months, years, centuries! these are but arbitrary and outward signs,--the measure of time, not time itself! time is the life of the soul. if not this, then tell me what it is?" the high and animated tone of voice in which the professor uttered these words aroused the baron from his sleep; and, not distinctly comprehending what was said, but thinking the professor asked what time it was, he innocently exclaimed; "i should think it must be near midnight!" this somewhat disconcerted the professor, who took his leave soon afterward. when he was gone the baron said; "excuse me for treating your guest so cavalierly. his transcendentalism annoyed me not a little; and i took refuge in sleep. one would think, to judge by the language of this sect, that they alone saw any beauty in nature; and, when i hear one of them discourse, i am instantly reminded of goethe's baccalaureus, when he exclaims; `the world was not before i created it; ibrought the sun up out of the sea; with me began the changeful course of the moon; the day decked itself on my account; the earth grew green and blossomed to meet me; at my nod in that first night, the pomp of all the stars developed itself; who but i set you free from all the bonds of philisterlike, contracting thoughts? i, however, emancipated as my mind assures me i am, gladly pursue my inward light, advance boldly in a transport peculiarly my own, the bright before me, and the dark behind!'--do you not see a resemblance? o, they might be modest enough to confess, that one straggling ray of light may, by some accident, reach the blind eyes of even us poor, benighted heathens?" "alas! how little veneration we have!" said flemming. "i could not help closing the discussion with a jest. an ill-timed levity often takes me by surprise. on all such occasions i think of a scene at the university, where, in the midst of a grave discussion on the possibility of absolute motion, a scholar said he had seen a rock splitopen, from which sprang a toad, who could not be supposed to have any knowledge of the external world, and consequently his motion must have been absolute. the learned professor, who presided on that occasion, was hardly more startled and astonished, than was our learned professor, five minutes ago. but come; wind up your watch, and let us go to bed." "by the way," said the baron, "did you mind what a curious head he has. there are two crowns upon it." "that is a sign," replied flemming, "that he will eat his bread in two kingdoms." "i think the poor man would be very thankful," said the baron with a smile, "if he were always sure of eating it in one. he is what the transcendentalists call a god-intoxicated man; and i advise him, as sauteul advised bossuet, to go to patmos and write a new apocalypse." chapter vii. mill-wheels and other wheels. a few days after this the baron received letters from his sister, telling him, that her physicians had prescribed a few weeks at the baths of ems, and urging him to meet her there before the fashionable season. "come," said he to flemming; "make this short journey with me. we will pass a few pleasant days at ems, and visit the other watering-places of nassau. it will drive away the melancholy day-dreams that haunt you. perhaps some future bride is even now waiting for you, with dim presentiments and undefined longings, at the serpent's bath." "or some widow of ems, with a cork-leg!" said flemming, smiling; and then added, in a toneof voice half jest, half earnest, "certainly; let us go in pursuit of her;-`whoe'er she be, that not impossible she, that shall command my heart and me. where'er she lie, hidden from mortal eye, in shady leaves of destiny.'" they started in the afternoon for frankfort, pursuing their way slowly along the lovely bergstrasse, famed throughout germany for its beauty. they passed the ruined house where martin luther lay concealed after the diet of worms, and through the village of handschuhsheimer, as old as the days of king pepin the short,--a hamlet, lying under the hills, half-buried in blossoms and green leaves. close on the right rose the mountains of the mysterious odenwald; and on the left lay the neckar, like a steel bow in the meadow. farther westward, a thin, smoky vapor betrayed the course of the rhine; beyond which, like a troubled sea, ran the blue, billowy alsatian hills. song of birds, and sound of evening bells, and fragrance of sweet blossoms filled the air; and silent and slow sank the broad red sun, half-hidden amid folding clouds. "we shall not pass the night at weinheim," said the baron to the postilion, who had dismounted to walk up the hill, leading to the town. "you may drive to the mill in the valley of birkenau." the postilion seized one of his fat horses by the tail, and swung himself up to his seat again. they rattled through the paved streets of weinheim, and took no heed of the host of the golden eagle, who stood so invitingly at the door of his own inn; and the ruins of burg windeck, above there, on its mountain throne, frowned at them for hurrying by, without staying to do him homage. "the old ruin looks well from the valley," said the baron; "but let us beware of climbing that steep hill. most travellers are like children; they must needs touch whatever they behold. they climb up to every old broken tooth of acastle, which they find on their way;--get a toilsome ascent and hot sunshine for their pains, and come down wearied and disappointed. i trust we are wiser." they crossed the bridge, and turned up the stream, passing under an arch of stone, which serves as a gateway to this enchanted valley of birkenau. a cool and lovely valley! shut in by high hills;--shaded by alder-trees and tall poplars, under which rushes the wechsnitz, a noisy mountain brook, that ever and anon puts its broad shoulder to the wheel of a mill, and shows that it can labor as well as laugh. at one of these mills they stopped for the night. a mill forms as characteristic a feature in the romantic german landscape, as in the romantic german tale. it is not only a mill, but likewise an ale-house and rural inn; so that the associations it suggests are not of labor only, but also of pleasure. it stands in the narrow defile, with its picturesque, thatched roof; thither throng thepeasants, of a holiday; and there are rustic dances under the trees. in the twilight of the fast-approaching summer night, the baron and flemming walked forth along the borders of the stream. as they heard it, rushing and gushing among the stones and tangled roots, and the great wheel turning in the current, with its never-ceasing plash! plash! it brought to their minds that exquisite, simple song of goethe, the youth and the mill-brook. it was for the moment a nymph, which sang to them in the voice of the waters. "i am persuaded," said flemming, "that, in order fully to understand and fell the popular poetry of germany, one must be familiar with the german landscape. many sweet little poems are the outbreaks of momentary feelings;--words, to which the song of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the gurgle of cool waters form the appropriate music. or perhaps i should say they are words, which man has composed to the music of nature. can you not, even now, hear this brooklet tellingyou how it is on its way to the mill, where at day-break the miller's daughter opens her window, and comes down to bathe her face in its stream, and her bosom is so full and white, that it kindles the glow of love in the cool waters!" "a most delightful ballad, truly," said the baron. "but like many others of our little songs, it requires a poet to fell and understand it. sing them in the valley and woodland shadows, and under the leafy roofs of garden walks, and at night, and alone, as they were written. sing them not in the loud world,--for the loud world laughs such things to scorn. it is mueller who says, in that little song, where the maiden bids the moon good evening; `this song was made to be sung at night, and he who reads it in broad daylight, will never read the mystery right; and yet it is childlike easy!' he has written a great many pretty songs, in which the momentary, indefinite longings and impulses of the soul of man find an expression. hecalls them the songs of a wandering horn-player. there is one among them much to our present purpose. he expresses in it, the feeling of unrest and desire of motion, which the sight and sound of running waters often produce in us. it is entitled, `whither?' and is worth repeating to you. `i heard a brooklet gushing from its rocky fountain near, down into the valley rushing, so fresh and wondrous clear. `i know not what came o'er me, nor who the counsel gave; but i must hasten downward, all with my pilgrim-stave. `downward, and ever farther, and ever the brook beside; and ever fresher murmured, and ever clearer the tide. `is this the way i was going? whither, o brooklet, say! thou hast, with thy soft murmur, murmured my senses away. `what do i say of a murmur? that can no murmur be; 't is the water-nymphs, that are singing their roundelays under me. `let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, and wander merrily near; the wheels of a mill are going in every brooklet clear.'" "there you have the poetic reverie," said flemming, "and the dull prose commentary and explanation in matter of fact. the song is pretty; and was probably suggested by some such scene as this, which we are now beholding. doubtless all your old national traditions sprang up in the popular mind as this song in the poet's." "your opinion is certainly correct," answered the baron; "and yet all this play of poetic fancy does not prevent me from feeling the chill night air, and the pangs of hunger. let us go back to the mill, and see what our landlady has for supper. did you observe what a loud, sharp voice she has?" "people always have, who live in mills, and near water-falls." on the following morning they emerged unwillingly from the green, dark valley, and journeyed along the level highway to frankfort, where in the evening they heard the glorious don giovanni of mozart. of all operas this was flemming's favorite. what rapturous flights of sound! what thrilling, pathetic chimes! what wild, joyous revelry of passion! what a delirium of sense!--what an expression of agony and woe! all the feelings of suffering and rejoicing humanity sympathized with and finding a voice in those tones. flemming and the baron listened with ever-increasing delight. "how wonderful this is!" exclaimed flemming, transported by his feelings. "how the chorus swells and dies, like the wind of summer! how those passages of mysterious import seem to wave to and fro, like the swaying branches of trees; from which anon some solitary sweetvoice darts off like a bird, and floats away and revels in the bright, warm sunshine! and then mark! how, amid the chorus of a hundred voices and a hundred instruments,--of flutes, and drums, and trumpets,--this universal shout and whirl-wind of the vexed air, you can so clearly distinguish the melancholy vibration of a single string, touched by the finger,--a mournful, sobbing sound! ah, this is indeed human life! where in the rushing, noisy crowd, and amid sounds of gladness, and a thousand mingling emotions, distinctly audible to the ear of thought, are the pulsations of some melancholy string of the heart, touched by an invisible hand." then came, in the midst of these excited feelings, the ballet; drawing its magic net about the soul. and soon, from the tangled yet harmonious mazes of the dance, came forth a sylph-like form, her scarf floating behind her, as if she were fanning the air with gauze-like wings. noiseless as a feather or a snow-flake falls, did her feet touch the earth. she seemed to floatin the air, and the floor to bend and wave under her, as a branch, when a bird alights upon it, and takes wing again. loud and rapturous applause followed each wonderful step, each voluptuous movement; and, with a flushed cheek and burning eye, and bosom panting to be free, stood the gracefully majestic figure for a moment still, and then the winged feet of the swift dancing-girls glanced round her, and she was lost again in the throng. "how truly exquisite this is!" exclaimed the baron, after joining loudly in the applause. "what a noble figure! what grace! what attitudes! how much soul in every motion! how much expression in every gesture! i assure you, it produces upon me the same effect as a beautiful poem. it is a poem. every step is a word; and the whole together a poem!" the baron and flemming were delighted with the scene; and at the same time exceedingly amused with the countenance of an old prude in the next box, who seemed to look upon the wholemagic show, with such feelings as michal, saul's daughter, experienced, when she looked from her window and saw king david dancing and leaping with his scanty garments. "after all," said flemming, "the old french priest was not so far out of the way, when he said, in his coarse dialect, that the dance is the devil's procession; and paint and ornaments, the whetting of the devil's sword; and the ring that is made in dancing, the devil's grindstone, whereon he sharpens his sword; and finally, that a ballet is the pomp and mass of the devil, and whosoever entereth therein, entereth into his pomp and mass; for the woman who singeth is the prioress of the devil, and they that answer are clerks, and they that look on are parishioners, and the cymbals and flutes are the bells, and the musicians that play are the ministers, of the devil." "no doubt this good lady near us, thinks so likewise," answered the baron laughing; "but she likes it, for all that." when the play was over the baron begged flemming to sit still, till the crowd had gone. "i have a strange fancy," said he, "whenever i come to the theatre, to see the end of all things. when the crowd is gone, and the curtain raised again to air the house, and the lamps are all out, save here and there one behind the scenes, the contrast with what has gone before is most impressive. every thing wears a dream-like aspect. the empty boxes and stalls,--the silence,--the smoky twilight, and the magic scene dismantled, produce in me a strange, mysterious feeling. it is like a dim reflection of a theatre in water, or in a dusty mirror; and reminds me of some of hoffmann's wild tales. it is a practical moral lesson,--a commentary on the play, and makes the show complete." it was truly as he said; only tenfold more desolate, solemn, and impressive; and produced upon the mind the effect we experience, when slumber is suddenly broken, and dreams and realities mingle, and we know not yet whether we sleep or wake. as they at length passed out through the dimly-lighted passage, they heard a vulgar-looking fellow, with a sensual face and shaggy whiskers, say to some persons who were standing near him, and seemed to be hangers-on of the play-house; "i shall run her six nights at munich, and then take her on to vienna." flemming thought he was speaking of some favorite horse. he was speaking of his beautiful wife, the ballet-dancer. chapter viii. old humbug. what most interested our travellers in the ancient city of frankfort, was neither the opera nor the ariadne of dannecker, but the house in which goethe was born, and the scenes he frequented in his childhood, and remembered in his old age. such for example are the walks around the city, outside the moat; the bridge over the maine, with the golden cock on the cross, which the poet beheld and marvelled at when a boy; the cloister of the barefooted friars, through which he stole with mysterious awe to sit by the oilcloth-covered table of old rector albrecht; and the garden in which his grandfather walked up and down among fruit-trees and rose-bushes, in long morning gown, black velvet cap, and the antique leather gloves, which he annually received as mayor on pipers-doomsday, representing a kind of middle personage between alcinous and laertes. thus, o genius! are thy foot-prints hallowed; and the star shines forever over the place of thy nativity. "your english critics may rail as they list," said the baron, while he and flemming were returning from a stroll in the leafy gardens, outside the moat; "but, after all, goethe was a magnificent old fellow. only think of his life; his youth of passion, alternately aspiring and desponding, stormy, impetuous, headlong;--his romantic manhood, in which passion assumes the form of strength; assiduous, careful, toiling, without haste, without rest; and his sublime old age,--the age of serene and classic repose, where he stands like atlas, as claudian has painted him in the battle of the giants, holding the world aloft upon his head, the ocean-streams hard frozen in his hoary locks." "a good illustration of what the world calls his indifferentism." "and do you know i rather like this indifferentism? did you never have the misfortune to live in a community, where a difficulty in the parish seemed to announce the end of the world? or to know one of the benefactors of the human race, in the very `storm and pressure period' of his indiscreet enthusiasm? if you have, i think you will see something beautiful in the calm and dignified attitude which the old philosopher assumes." "it is a pity, that his admirers had not a little of this philosophic coolness. it amuses me to read the various epithets, which they apply to him; the dear, dear man! the life-enjoying man! the all-sided one! the representative of poetry upon earth! the many-sided master-mind of germany! his enemies rush into the other extreme, and hurl at him the fierce names of old humbug! and old heathen! which hit like pistol-bullets." "i confess, he was no saint." "no; his philosophy is the old ethnic philosophy. you will find it all in a convenient andconcentrated, portable form in horace's beautiful ode to thaliarcus. what i most object to in the old gentleman is his sensuality." "o nonsense. nothing can be purer than the iphigenia; it is as cold and passionless as a marble statue." "very true; but you cannot say the same of some of the roman elegies and of that monstrous book the elective affinities." "ah, my friend, goethe is an artist; and looks upon all things as objects of art merely. why should he not be allowed to copy in words what painters and sculptors copy in colors and in marble?" "the artist shows his character in the choice of his subject. goethe never sculptured an apollo, nor painted a madonna. he gives us only sinful magdalens and rampant fauns. he does not so much idealize as realize." "he only copies nature." "so did the artists, who made the bronzelamps of pompeii. would you hang one of those in your hall? to say that a man is an artist and copies nature is not enough. there are two great schools of art; the imitative and the imaginative. the latter is the most noble, and most enduring; and goethe belonged rather to the former. have you read menzel's attack upon him?" "it is truly ferocious. the suabian hews into him lustily. i hope you do not side with him." "by no means. he goes too far. he blames the poet for not being a politician. he might as well blame him for not being a missionary to the sandwich islands." "and what do you think of eckermann?" "i think he is a toady; a kind of german boswell. goethe knew he was drawing his portrait, and attitudinized accordingly. he works very hard to make a saint peter out of an old jupiter, as the catholics did at rome." "well; call him old humbug, or old heathen, or what you please; i maintain, that, with all his errors and short-comings, he was a glorious specimen of a man." "he certainly was. did it ever occur to you that he was in some points like ben franklin? a kind of rhymed ben franklin? the practical tendency of his mind was the same; his love of science was the same; his benignant, philosophic spirit was the same; and a vast number of his little poetic maxims and sooth-sayings seem nothing more than the worldly wisdom of poor richard, versified." "what most offends me is, that now every german jackass must have a kick at the dead lion." "and every one who passes through weimar must throw a book upon his grave, as travellers did of old a stone upon the grave of manfredi, at benevento. but, of all that has been said or sung, what most pleases me is heine's apologetic, if i may so call it; in which he says, that the minor poets, who flourished under the imperialreign of goethe `resemble a young forest, where the trees first show their own magnitude after the oak of a hundred years, whose branches had towered above and overshadowed them, has fallen. there was not wanting an opposition, that strove against goethe, this majestic tree. men of the most warring opinions united themselves for the contest. the adherents of the old faith, the orthodox, were vexed, that, in the trunk of the vast tree, no niche with its holy image was to be found; nay, that even the naked dryads of paganism were permitted to play their witchery there; and gladly, with consecrated axe, would they have imitated the holy boniface, and levelled the enchanted oak to the ground. the followers of the new faith, the apostles of liberalism, were vexed on the other hand, that the tree could not serve as the tree of liberty, or, at any rate, as a barricade. in fact the tree was too high; no one could plant the red cap upon its summit, or dance the carmagnole beneath its branches. the multitude, however, venerated this tree for the veryreason, that it reared itself with such independent grandeur, and so graciously filled the world with its odor, while its branches, streaming magnificently toward heaven, made it appear, as if the stars were only the golden fruit of its wondrous limbs.' don't you think that beautiful?" "yes, very beautiful. and i am glad to see, that you can find something to admire in my favorite author, notwithstanding his frailties; or, to use an old german saying, that you can drive the hens out of the garden without trampling down the beds." "here is the old gentleman himself!" exclaimed flemming. "where!" cried the baron, as if for the moment he expected to see the living figure of the poet walking before them. "here at the window,--that full-length cast. excellent, is it not! he is dressed, as usual, in his long yellow nankeen surtout, with a white cravat crossed in front. what a magnificent head! and what a posture! he stands like a tower ofstrength. and, by heavens! he was nearly eighty years old, when that was made." "how do you know?" "you can see by the date on the pedestal." "you are right. and yet how erect he stands, with his square shoulders braced back, and his hands behind him. he looks as if he were standing before the fire. i feel tempted to put a live coal into his hand, it lies so invitingly half-open. gleim's description of him, soon after he went to weimar, is very different from this. do you recollect it?" "no, i do not." "it is a story, which good old father gleim used to tell with great delight. he was one evening reading the göttingen musen-almanach in a select society at weimar, when a young man came in, dressed in a short, green shooting-jacket, booted and spurred, and having a pair of brilliant, black, italian eyes. he in turn offered to read; but finding probably the poetry of the musen-almanach of that year rather too insipid for him, he soon began to improvise the wildest and most fantastic poems imaginable, and in all possible forms and measures, all the while pretending to read from the book. `that is either goethe or the devil,' said good old father gleim to wieland, who sat near him. to which the `great i of osmannstadt' replied; `it is both, for he has the devil in him to-night; and at such times he is like a wanton colt, that flings out before and behind, and you will do well not to go too near him!' " "very good!" "and now that noble figure is but mould. only a few months ago, those majestic eyes looked for the last time on the light of a pleasant spring morning. calm, like a god, the old man sat; and with a smile seemed to bid farewell to the light of day, on which he had gazed for more than eighty years. books were near him, and the pen which had just dropped, as it were from his dying fingers. `open the shutters, and let in more light!' were the last words that came from those lips. slowly stretching forth his hand, he seemed to write inthe air; and, as it sank down again and was motionless, the spirit of the old man departed." "and yet the world goes on. it is strange how soon, when a great man dies, his place is filled; and so completely, that he seems no longer wanted. but let us step in here. i wish to buy that cast; and send it home to a friend." chapter ix. the daylight of the dwarfs, and the falling star. after lingering a day or two in frankfort, the two friends struck across through hochheim to the rhine, and then up among the hills of the rheingau to schlangenbad, where they tarried only to bathe, and to dine; and then pursued their way to langenschwalbach. the town lies in a valley, with gently-sloping hills around it, and long avenues of poplars leading forth into the fields. one interminable street cuts the town in twain, and there are old houses with curious faces carved upon their fronts, and dates of the olden time. our travellers soon sallied forth from their hotel, impatient to drink the strength-giving watersof the fountains. they continued their walk far up the valley under the poplars. the new grain was waving in the fields; the birds singing in the trees and in the air; and every thing seemed glad, save a poor old man, who came tottering out of the woods, with a heavy bundle of sticks on his shoulders. returning upon their steps, they passed down the valley and through the long street to the tumble-down old lutheran church. a flight of stone steps leads from the street to the green terrace or platform on which the church stands, and which, in ancient times, was the churchyard, or as the germans more devoutly say, god's-acre; where generations are scattered like seeds, and that which is sown in corruption shall be raised hereafter in incorruption. on the steps stood an old man,--a very old man,--holding a little girl by the hand. he took off his greasy cap as they passed, and wished them good day. his teeth were gone; he could hardly articulate a syllable. the baron asked him how old the church was. hegave no answer; but when the question was repeated, came close up to them, and taking off his cap again, turned his ear attentively, and said; "i am hard of hearing." "poor old man," said flemming; "he is as much a ruin as the church we are entering. it will not be long before he, too, shall be sown as seed in this god's-acre!" the little girl ran into a house close at hand, and brought out the great key. the church door swung open, and, descending a few steps, they passed through a low-roofed passage into the church. all was in ruin. the gravestones in the pavement were started from their places; the vaults beneath yawned; the roof above was falling piecemeal; there were rents in the old tower; and mysterious passages, and side doors with crazy flights of wooden steps, leading down into the churchyard. amid all this ruin, one thing only stood erect; it was a statue of a knight in armour, standing in a niche under the pulpit. "who is this?" said flemming to the old sexton; "who is this, that stands here so solemnly in marble, and seems to be keeping guard over the dead men below?" "i do not know," replied the old man; "but i have heard my grandfather say it was the statue of a great warrior!" "there is history for you!" exclaimed the baron. "there is fame! to have a statue of marble, and yet have your name forgotten by the sexton of your parish, who can remember only, that he once heard his grandfather say, that you were a great warrior!" flemming made no reply, for he was thinking of the days, when from that old pulpit, some bold reformer thundered down the first tidings of a new doctrine, and the roof echoed with the grand old hymns of martin luther. when he communicated his thoughts to the baron, the only answer he received was; "after all, what is the use of so much preaching? do you think the fishes, that heard the sermon of st. anthony, were any better than thosewho did not? i commend to your favorable notice the fish-sermon of this saint, as recorded by abraham à santa clara. you will find it in your favorite wonder-horn." thus passed the day at langenschwalbach; and the evening at the allée-saal was quite solitary; for as yet no company had arrived to fill its chambers, or sit under the trees before the door. the next morning even flemming and the baron were gone; for the german's heart was beating with strong desire to embrace his sister; and the heart of his friend cared little whither he went, sobeit he were not too much alone. after a few hours' drive, they were looking down from the summit of a hill right upon the house-tops of ems. there it lay, deep sunk in the hollow beneath them, as if some inhabitant of sirius, like him spoken of in voltaire's tale of micromegas, held it in the hollow of his hand. high and peaked rise the hills, that throw their shadows into this romantic valley, and at their base winds the river lahn. our travellersdrove through the one long street, composed entirely of hotels and lodging-houses. sick people looked out of the windows, as they passed. others were walking leisurely up and down, beneath the few decapitated trees, which represent a public promenade; and a boy, with a blue frock and crimson cap, was driving three donkeys down the street. in short, they were in a fashionable watering-place; as yet sprinkled only by a few pattering drops of the summer rain of strangers, which generally follows the first hot days. on alighting at the london hotel, the baron found--not his sister, but only a letter from her, saying she had changed her mind and gone to the baths of franconia. this was a disappointment, which the baron pocketed with the letter, and said not a word more about either. it was his way; his life-philosophy in small things and great. in the evening, they went to an æsthetic tea, at the house of the frau kranich, the wife of a rich banker of frankfort. "i must tell you about this frau kranich," said the baron to flemming, on the way. "she is a woman of talent and beauty, and just in the prime of life. but, unfortunately, very ambitious. her mania is, to make a figure in the fashionable world; and to this end she married a rich banker of frankfort, old enough to be her father, not to say her grandfather, hoping, doubtless, that he would soon die; for, if ever a woman wished to be a widow, she is that woman. but the old fellow is tough and won't die. moreover, he is deaf, and crabbed, and penurious, and half the time bed-ridden. the wife is a model of virtue, notwithstanding her weakness. she nurses the old gentleman as if he were a child. and, to crown all, he hates society, and will not hear of his wife's receiving or going into company." "how, then, can she give soirées?" asked flemming. "i was just going to tell you," continued the baron. "the gay lady has no taste for long evenings with the old gentleman in the back chamber;--for being thus chained like a criminal under mezentius, face to face with a dead body. so she puts him to bed first, and--" "gives him opium." "yes, i dare say; and then gives herself a soirée, without his knowing any thing about it. this course of deception is truly hateful in itself, and must be particularly so to her, for she is not a low, or an immoral woman; but one of those who, not having strength enough to complete the sacrifice they have had strength enough to commence, are betrayed into a life of duplicity and falsehood." they had now reached the house, and were ushered into a room gaily lighted and filled with guests. the hostess came forward to receive them, dressed in white, and sailing down the room like a swan. when the customary salutations had passed and flemming had been duly presented, the baron said, not without a certain degree of malice; "and, my dear frau kranich, how is your good husband to night?" this question was about as discreet as a cannon-ball. but the lady replied in the simplicity of her heart, and not in the least disconcerted; "the same as ever, my dear baron. it is astonishing how he holds out. but let us not talk of these things now. i must introduce your friend to his countryman, the grand duke of mississippi; alike remarkable for his wealth, his modesty, and the extreme simplicity of his manners. he drives only six horses. besides, he is known as a man of learning and piety;--has his private chapel, and private clergyman, who always preaches against the vanity of worldly riches. he has also a private secretary, whose sole duty is to smoke to him, that he may enjoy the aroma of spanish cigars, without the trouble of smoking." "decidedly a man of genius!" here flemming was introduced to his illustrious countryman; a person who seemed to consist chiefly of linen, such a display did he make of collar, bosom, and wristbands. "pray, mr. flemming, what do you think of that rembrandt?" said he, pointing to a picture onthe wall. "exquisite picture! the grandeur of sentiment and splendor of chiaroscuro are of the first order. just observe the liquidity of the water, and the silveryness of the clouds! great power! there is a bravura of handling in that picture, sir, which requires the eye of the connoisseur to appreciate." "yes, a most undoubted--copy!" and here their conversation ended; for at that moment the little moldavian prince jerkin made his way through the crowd, with his snuff-box as usual in his hand, and hurried up to flemming whom he had known in heidelberg. he was eager to let every one know that he spoke english, and in his haste began by making a mistake. "good bye! good bye! mr. flemming!" said he, instead of good evening. "i am ravished to see you in ems. nice place;--all that there is of most nice. i drink my water and am good! do you not think the frau kranich has a very beautiful leather?" he meant skin. flemming laughed outright; but it was not perceived by the prince, because at that moment he was pushed aside, in the rush of a gallopade, and flemming beheld his face no more. at the same moment the baron introduced a friend of his, who also spoke english and said; "you will sup with me to-night. i have some rhine-wine, which will be a seduction to you." soon after, the baron stood with an impassioned, romantic lady leaning on his arm, examining a copy of raphael's fornarina. "ach! i wish i had been the fornarina," sighed the impassioned, romantic lady. "then, my dear madam," replied the baron, "i wish i had been raphael." and so likewise said to himself a very tall man with fiery red hair, and fancy whiskers, who was waltzing round and round in one spot, and in a most extraordinary waistcoat; thus representing a fiery, floating-light, to warn men of the hidden rocks, on which the breath of vanity drives them shipwreck. at length, his partner, tired of spinning, sank upon a sofa, like a child's top, when it reels and falls. "you do not like the waltz?" said an elderly french gentleman, remarking the expression of flemming's countenance. "o yes; among the figurantes of the opera. but i confess, it sometimes makes me shudder to see a young rake clasp his arms round the waist of a pure and innocent girl. what would you say, were you to see him sitting on a sofa with his arms round your wife?" "mere prejudice of education," replied the french gentleman. "i know that situation. i have read all about it in the bibliothèque de romans choisis!" and merrily went the dance; and bright eyes and flushed cheeks were not wanting among the dancers; "and they waxed red, and waxed warm, and rested, panting, arm in arm," and the strauss-walzes sounded pleasantly in the ears of flemming, who, though he never danced, yet, like henry of ofterdingen, in the romance of novalis, thought to music. the wheeling waltz set the wheels of his fancy going. and thus the moments glided on, and the footsteps of time were not heard amid the sound of music and voices. but suddenly this scene of gayety was interrupted. the door opened wide; and the short figure of a gray-haired old man presented itself, with a flushed countenance and wild eyes. he was but half-dressed, and in his hand held a silver candlestick without a light. a sheet was wound round his head, like a turban; and he tottered forward with a vacant, bewildered look, exclaiming; "i am mahomet, the king of the jews!" at the same moment he fell in a swoon; and was borne out of the room by the servants. flemming looked at the lady of the festival, and she was deadly pale. for a moment all was confusion; and the dance and the music stopped. theimpression produced on the company was at once ludicrous and awful. they tried in vain to rally. the whole society was like a dead body, from which the spirit has departed. ere long the guests had all dispersed, and left the lady of the mansion to her mournful, expiring lamps, and still more mournful reflections. "truly," said flemming, to the baron, as they wended their way homeward, "this seems not like reality; but like one of the sharp contrasts we find in novels. who shall say, after this, that there is not more romance in real life, than we find written in books!" "not more romance," said the baron, "but a different romance." a still more tragic scene had been that evening enacted in heidelberg. just as the sun set, two female figures walked along the romantic woodland path-way, leading to the angel's meadow, a little green opening on the brow of one of the high hills, which see themselves in the neckar and hear the solemn bells of kloster-neuburg. the evening shadows were falling broad and long; and the cuckoo began to sing. "cuckoo! cuckoo!" said the eldest of the two figures, repeating an old german popular rhyme, `cuckoo! cuckoo! tell me true, tell me fair and fine, how long must i unmarried pine!'" it was the voice of an evil spirit, that spoke in the person of madeleine; and the pale and shrinking figure, that walked by her side, and listened to those words, was emma of ilmenau. a young man joined them, where the path turns into the thick woodlands; and they disappeared among the shadowy branches. it was the polish count. the forget-me-nots looked up to heaven with their meek blue eyes, from their home in the angel's meadow. calmly stood the mountain of all-saints, in its majestic, holy stillness;--the river flowed so far below, that the murmur of itswaters was not heard;--there was not a sigh of the evening wind among the leaves,--not a sound upon the earth nor in the air;--and yet that night there fell a star from heaven! chapter x. the parting. it was now that season of the year, which an old english writer calls the amiable month of june, and at that hour of the day, when, face to face, the rising moon beholds the setting sun. as yet the stars were few in heaven. but, after the heat of the day, the coolness and the twilight descended like a benediction upon the earth, by all those gentle sounds attended, which are the meek companions of the night. flemming and the baron had passed the afternoon at the castle. they had rambled once more together, and for the last time, over the magnificent ruin. on the morrow they were to part, perhaps forever. the baron was going to berlin, to join his sister; and flemming, drivenforward by the restless spirit within him, longed once more for a change of scene, and was going to the tyrol and switzerland. alas! he never said to the passing hour; "stay, for thou art fair!" but reached forward into the dark future, with unsatisfied longings and aimless desires, that were never still. as the day was closing, they sat down on the terrace of elisabeth's garden. the sun had set beyond the blue alsatian hills; and on the valley of the rhine fell the purple mist, like the mantle of the departing prophet from his fiery chariot. over the castle walls, and the trees of the garden, rose the large moon; and between the contending daylight and moonlight there were as yet no shadows. but at length the shadows came; transparent and faint outlines, that deepened into form. in the valley below only the river gleamed, like steel; and here and there the lamps were lighted in the town. solemnly stood the leafy lindentrees in the garden near them, their trunks in darkness and their summits bronzed with moonlight; and in his niche in the great round tower, overhung with ivy, like a majestic phantom, stood the gray statue of louis, with his venerable beard, and shirt of mail, and flowing mantle; and the mild, majestic countenance looked forth into the silent night, as the countenance of a seer, who reads the stars. at intervals the wind of the summer night passed through the ruined castle and the trees, and they sent forth a sound as if nature were sighing in her dreams; and for a moment overhead the broad leaves gently clashed together, like brazen cymbals, with a tinkling sound; and then all was still, save the sweet, passionate song of nightingales, that nowhere upon earth sing more sweetly than in the gardens of heidelberg castle. the hour, the scene, and the near-approaching separation of the two young friends, had filled their hearts with a pleasant, though at the same time not painless excitement. they had been conversing about the magnificent old ruin, and the ages in which it had been built, and the vicissitudesof time and war, that had battered down its walls, and left it "tenantless, save to the crannying wind." "how sorrowful and sublime is the face of that statue yonder," said flemming. "it reminds me of the old danish hero beowulf; for careful, sorrowing, he seeth in his son's bower the wine-hall deserted, the resort of the wind, noiseless; the knight sleepeth; the warrior lieth in darkness; there is no noise of the harp, no joy in the dwellings, as there was before." "even as you say," replied the baron; "but it often astonishes me, that, coming from that fresh green world of yours beyond the sea, you should feel so much interest in these old things; nay, at times, seem so to have drunk in their spirit, as really to live in the times of old. for my part, i do not see what charm there is in the pale and wrinkled countenance of the past, so to entice the soul of a young man. it seems to me like falling in love with one's grandmother. give me the present;--warm, glowing, palpitating with life. she is my mistress; and the future stands waiting like my wife that is to be, for whom, to tell the truth, i care very little just now. indeed, my friend, i wish you would take more heed of this philosophy of mine; and not waste the golden hours of youth in vain regrets for the past, and indefinite, dim longings for the future. youth comes but once in a lifetime." "therefore," said flemming; "let us so enjoy it as to be still young when we are old. for my part, i grow happier as i grow older. when i compare my sensations and enjoyments now, with what they were ten years ago, the comparison is vastly in favor of the present. much of the fever and fretfulness of life is over. the world and i look each other more calmly in the face. my mind is more self-possessed. it has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life." "now you speak like an old philosopher," answered the baron, laughing. "but you deceive yourself. i never knew a more restless, feverishspirit than yours. do not think you have gained the mastery yet. you are only riding at anchor here in an eddy of the stream; you will soon be swept away again in the mighty current and whirl of accident. do not trust this momentary calm. i know you better than you know yourself. there is something faust-like in you; you would fain grasp the highest and the deepest; and `reel from desire to enjoyment, and in enjoyment languish for desire.' when a momentary change of feeling comes over you, you think the change permanent, and thus live in constant self-deception." "i confess," said flemming, "there may be some truth in what you say. there are times when my soul is restless; and a voice sounds within me, like the trump of the archangel, and thoughts that were buried, long ago, come out of their graves. at such times my favorite occupations and pursuits no longer charm me. the quiet face of nature seems to mock me." "there certainly are seasons," replied the baron, "when nature seems not to sympathizewith her beloved children. she sits there so eternally calm and self-possessed, so very motherly and serene, and cares so little whether the heart of her child breaks or not, that at times i almost lose my patience. about that, too, she cares so little, that, out of sheer obstinacy, i become good-humored again, and then she smiles." "i think we must confess, however," continued flemming, "that all this springs from our own imperfection, not from hers. how beautiful is this green world, which we inhabit! see yonder, how the moonlight mingles with the mist! what a glorious night is this! truly every man has a paradise around him until he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his eden. and even then there are holy hours, when this angel sleeps, and man comes back, and, with the innocent eyes of a child, looks into his lost paradise again,--into the broad gates and rural solitudes of nature. i feel this often. we have much to enjoy in the quiet and retirement of ourown thoughts. boisterous mirth and loud laughter are not my mood. i love that tranquillity of soul, in which we feel the blessing of existence, and which in itself is a prayer and a thanksgiving. i find, however, that, as i grow older, i love the country less, and the city more." "yes," interrupted the baron; "and presently you will love the city less and the country more. say at once, that you have an undefined longing for both; and prefer town or country, according to the mood you are in. i think a man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person, very self-complacent, to be continually occupied with himself and his own thoughts. to say the least, a city life makes one more tolerant and liberal in his judgment of others. one is not eternally wrapped up in self-contemplation; which, after all, is only a more holy kind of vanity." in conversation like this, the hours glided away; till at length, from the giant's tower, the castleclock struck twelve, with a sound that seemed to come from the middle ages. like watchmen from their belfries the city clocks answered it, one by one. then distant and muffled sounds were heard. inarticulate words seemed to blot the foggy air, as if written on wet paper. these were the bells of handschuhsheimer, and of other villages on the broad plain of the rhine, and among the hills of the odenwald; mysterious sounds, that seemed not of this world. beneath them, in the shadow of the hills, lay the valley, like a fathomless, black gulf; and above were the cloistered stars, that, nun-like, walk the holy aisles of heaven. the city was asleep in the valley below; all asleep and silent, save the clocks, that had just struck twelve, and the veering, golden weathercocks, that were swimming in the moonshine, like golden fishes, in a glass vase. and again the wind of the summer night passed through the old castle, and the trees, and the nightingales recorded under the dark, shadowy leaves, and the heart of flemming was full. when he had retired to his chamber, a feeling of utter loneliness came over him. the night before one begins a journey is always a dismal night; for, as byron says, "in leaving even the most unpleasant people and places, one keeps looking at the steeple!" and how much more so when the place and people are pleasant; as was the case with those, that flemming was now leaving. no wonder he was sad and sleepless. thoughts came and went, and bright and gloomy fancies, and dreams and visions, and sweet faces looked under his closed eyelids, and vanished away, and came again, and again departed. he heard the clock strike from hour to hour, and said, "another hour is gone." at length the birds began to sing; and ever and anon the cock crew. he arose, and looked forth into the gray dawn; and before him lay the city he was so soon to leave, all white and ghastly, like a city that had arisen from its grave. "all things must change," said he to the baron, as he embraced him, and held him by the hand. "friends must be torn asunder, and swept along in the current of events, to see each other seldom, and perchance no more. for ever and ever in the eddies of time and accident we whirl away. besides which, some of us have a perpetual motion in our wooden heads, as wodenblock had in his wooden leg; and like him we travel on, without rest or sleep, and have hardly time to take a friend by the hand in passing; and at length are seen hurrying through some distant land, worn to a skeleton, and all unknown." book iii. epigraph "take away the lights, too; the moon lends me too much to find my fears; and those devotions i am now to pay, are written in my heart, not in thy book; and i shall read them there without a taper." chapter i. summer-time. they were right,--those old german minnesingers,--to sing the pleasant summer-time! what a time it is! how june stands illuminated in the calendar! the windows are all wide open; only the venetian blinds closed. here and there a long streak of sunshine streams in through a crevice. we hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. the trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. the whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine. the birds sing. the cock struts about, and crows loftily. insects chirp in the grass. yellow butter-cups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies. the elm-trees reach their long, pendulous branches almost to the ground. white clouds sail aloft; and vapors fret the blue sky with silver threads. the white village gleams afar against the dark hills. through the meadow winds the river,--careless, indolent. it seems to love the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea. the bee only is at work,--the hot and angry bee. all things else are at play; he never plays, and is vexed that any one should. people drive out from town to breathe, and to be happy. most of them have flowers in their hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still oftener lilacs. ye denizens of the crowded city, how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover-blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, dashed with brine from the meadows! howpleasant, above all, the flowers, the manifold, beautiful flowers! it is no longer day. through the trees rises the red moon, and the stars are scarcely seen. in the vast shadow of night, the coolness and the dews descend. i sit at the open window to enjoy them; and hear only the voice of the summer wind. like black hulks, the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass. i cannot see the red and blue flowers, but i know that they are there. far away in the meadow gleams the silver charles. the tramp of horses' hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge. then all is still, save the continuous wind of the summer night. sometimes i know not if it be the wind or the sound of the neighbouring sea. the village clock strikes; and i feel that i am not alone. how different is it in the city! it is late, and the crowd is gone. you step out upon the balcony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, dewy night, as if you folded her garments about you. the whole starry heaven is spread out overhead. beneath lies the public walk with trees, like a fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent darkness the spirit plunges and floats away, with some beloved spirit clasped in its embrace. the lamps are still burning up and down the long street. people go by, with grotesque shadows, now foreshortened and now lengthening away into the darkness and vanishing, while a new one springs up behind the walker, and seems to pass him on the sidewalk. the iron gates of the park shut with a jangling clang. there are footsteps, and loud voices;--a tumult,--a drunken brawl,--an alarm of fire;--then silence again. and now at length the city is asleep, and we can see the night. the belated moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to welcome her. the moonlight is broken. it lies here and there in the squares, and the opening of streets,--angular, like blocks of white marble. under such a green, triumphal arch, o reader! with the odor of flowers about thee, and the song of birds, shalt thou pass onward into the enchanted land, as through the ivory gate of dreams! and as a prelude and majestic march, one sweet human voice, i know not whose, but coming from the bosom of the alps, sings this sublime ode, which the alpine echoes repeat afar. "come, golden evening! in the west enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, and let the triple rainbow rest o'er all the mountain tops;--'t is done; the tempest ceases; bold and bright, the rainbow shoots from hill to hill; down sinks the sun; on presses night; mont blanc is lovely still! "there take thy stand, my spirit;--spread the world of shadows at thy feet; and mark how calmly overhead, the stars, like saints in glory, meet. while, hid in solitude sublime, methinks i muse on nature's tomb, and hear the passing foot of time step through the silent gloom. "all in a moment, crash on crash, from precipice to precipice, an avalanche's ruins dash down to the nethermost abyss, invisible; the ear alone pursues the uproar till it dies; echo to echo, groan for groan, from deep to deep, replies. "silence again the darkness seals, darkness that may be felt;--but soon the silver-clouded east reveals the midnight spectre of the moon; in half-eclipse she lifts her horn, yet, o'er the host of heaven supreme, brings the faint semblance of a morn, with her awakening beam. "ah! at her touch, these alpine heights unreal mockeries appear; with blacker shadows, ghastlier lights, emerging as she climbs the sphere; a crowd of apparitions pale! i hold my breath in chill suspense, they seem so exquisitely frail, lest they should vanish hence. "i breathe again, i freely breathe; thee, leman's lake, once more i trace, like dian's crescent far beneath, as beautiful as dian's face: pride of the land that gave me birth! all that thy waves reflect i love, where heaven itself, brought down to earth, looks fairer than above. "safe on thy banks again i stray; the trance of poesy is o'er, and i am here at dawn of day, gazing on mountains as before, where all the strange mutations wrought, were magic feats of my own mind; for, in that fairy land of thought, whate'er i seek, i find." chapter ii. foot-travelling. tell me, my soul, why art thou restless? why dost thou look forward to the future with such strong desire? the present is thine,--and the past;--and the future shall be! o that thou didst look forward to the great hereafter with half the longing wherewith thou longest for an earthly future,--which a few days at most will bring thee! to the meeting of the dead, as to the meeting of the absent! thou glorious spirit-land! o, that i could behold thee as thou art,--the region of life, and light, and love, and the dwelling-place of those beloved ones, whose being has flowed onward like a silver-clear stream into the solemn-sounding main, into the ocean of eternity. such were the thoughts that passed through thesoul of flemming, as he lay in utter solitude and silence on the rounded summit of one of the mountains of the furca pass, and gazed, with tears in his eyes, and ardent longing in his heart, up into the blue-swimming heaven overhead, and at the glaciers and snowy mountain-peaks around him. highest and whitest of all, stood the peak of the jungfrau, which seemed near him, though it rose afar off from the bosom of the lauterbrunner thal. there it stood, holy and high and pure, the bride of heaven, all veiled and clothed in white, and lifted the thoughts of the beholder heavenward. o, he little thought then, as he gazed at it with longing and delight, how soon a form was to arise in his own soul, as holy, and high, and pure as this, and like this point heavenward. thus lay the traveller on the mountain summit, reposing his weary limbs on the short, brown grass, which more resembled moss than grass. he had sent his guide forward, that he might be alone. his soul within him was wild with a fierce and painful delight. the mountain air excited him; the mountain solitudes enticed, yet maddened him. every peak, every sharp, jagged iceberg, seemed to pierce him. the silence was awful and sublime. it was like that in the soul of a dying man, when he hears no more the sounds of earth. he seemed to be laying aside his earthly garments. the heavens were near unto him; but between him and heaven every evil deed he had done arose gigantic, like those mountain-peaks, and breathed an icy breath upon him. o, let not the soul that suffers, dare to look nature in the face, where she sits majestically aloft in the solitude of the mountains; for her face is hard and stern, and looks not in compassion upon her weak and erring child. it is the countenance of an accusing archangel, who summons us to judgment. in the valley she wears the countenance of a virgin mother, looking at us with tearful eyes, and a face of pity and love! but yesterday flemming had come up the valley of the saint gothard pass, through amsteg, where the kerstelenbach comes dashing down the maderaner thal, from its snowy cradle overhead. the road is steep, and runs on zigzag terraces. the sides of the mountains are barren cliffs; and from their cloud-capped summits, unheard amid the roar of the great torrent below, come streams of snowwhite foam, leaping from rock to rock, like the mountain chamois. as you advance, the scene grows wilder and more desolate. there is not a tree in sight,--not a human habitation. clouds, black as midnight, lower upon you from the ravines overhead; and the mountain torrent beneath is but a sheet of foam, and sends up an incessant roar. a sudden turn in the road brings you in sight of a lofty bridge, stepping from cliff to cliff with a single stride. a fearful cataract howls beneath it, like an evil spirit, and fills the air with mist; and the mountain wind claps its hands and shrieks through the narrow pass, ha! ha!--this is the devil's bridge. it leads the traveller across the fearful chasm, and through a mountain gallery into the broad, green, silent meadow of andermath. even the sunny morning, which followed thisgloomy day, had not chased the desolate impression from the soul of flemming. his excitement increased as he lost himself more and more among the mountains; and now, as he lay all alone on the summit of the sunny hill, with only glaciers and snowy peaks about him, his soul, as i have said, was wild with a fierce and painful delight. a human voice broke his reverie. he looked, and beheld at a short distance from him, the athletic form of a mountain herdsman, who was approaching the spot where he lay. he was a young man, clothed in a rustic garb, and holding a long staff in his hand. when flemming rose, he stood still, and gazed at him, as if he loved the face of man, even in a stranger, and longed to hear a human voice, though it might speak in an unknown tongue. he answered flemming's salutation in a rude mountain dialect, and in reply to his questions said; "i, with two others, have charge of two hundred head of cattle on these mountains. throughthe two summer months we remain here night and day; for which we receive each a napoleon." flemming gave him half his summer wages. he was glad to do a good deed in secret, and yet so near heaven. the man received it as his due, like a toll-keeper; and soon after departed, leaving the traveller alone. and the traveller went his way down the mountain, as one distraught. he stopped only to pluck one bright blue flower, which bloomed all alone in the vast desert, and looked up at him, as if to say; "o take me with you! leave me not here companionless!" ere long he reached the magnificent glacier of the rhone; a frozen cataract, more than two thousand feet in height, and many miles broad at its base. it fills the whole valley between two mountains, running back to their summits. at the base it is arched, like a dome; and above, jagged and rough, and resembles a mass of gigantic crystals, of a pale emerald tint, mingled with white. a snowy crust covers its surface; but at every rent and crevice the pale green ice shines clear in thesun. its shape is that of a glove, lying with the palm downwards, and the fingers crooked and close together. it is a gauntlet of ice, which, centuries ago, winter, the king of these mountains, threw down in defiance to the sun; and year by year the sun strives in vain to lift it from the ground on the point of his glittering spear. a feeling of wonder and delight came over the soul of flemming when he beheld it, and he shouted and cried aloud; "how wonderful! how glorious!" after lingering a few hours in the cold, desolate valley, he climbed in the afternoon the steep mayen-wand, on the grimsel, passed the lake of the dead, with its ink-black waters; and through the melting snow, and over slippery stepping-stones in the beds of numberless shallow brooks, descended to the grimsel hospital, where he passed the night, and thought it the most lone and desolate spot, that man ever slept in. on the morrow, he rose with the day; and the rising sun found him already standing on the rusticbridge, which hangs over the verge of the falls of the aar at handeck, where the river pitches down a precipice into a narrow and fearful abyss, shut in by perpendicular cliffs. at right angles with it comes the beautiful aerlenbach; and halfway down the double cascade mingles into one. thus he pursued his way down the hasli thal into the bernese oberland, restless, impatient, he knew not why, stopping seldom, and never long, and then rushing forward again, like the rushing river whose steps he followed, and in whose ice-cold waters ever and anon he bathed his wrists, to cool the fever in his blood; for the noonday sun was hot. his heart dilated in the dilating valley, that grew broader and greener at every step. the sight of human faces and human dwellings soothed him; and through the fields of summer grain, in the broad meadows of imgrund, he walked with a heart that ached no more, but trembled only, as our eyelids when we have done weeping. as he climbed the opposite hill, which hems in this romanticvalley, and, like a heavy yoke, chafes the neck of the aar, he believed the ancient tradition, which says, that once the valley was a lake. from the summit of the hill he looked southward upon a beautiful landscape of gardens, and fields of grain, and woodlands, and meadows, and the ancient castle of resti, looking down upon meyringen. and now all around him were the singing of birds, and grateful shadows of the leafy trees; and sheeted waterfalls dropping from the woodland cliffs, seen only, but unheard, the fluted columns breaking into mist, and fretted with frequent spires and ornaments of foam, and not unlike the towers of a gothic church inverted. there, in one white sheet of foam, the riechenbach pours down into its deep beaker, into which the sun never shines. face to face it beholds the alpbach falling from the opposite hill, "like a downward smoke." when flemming saw the innumerable runnels, sliding down the mountain-side, and leaping, all life and gladness, he would fain have clasped them in his arms and been their playmate, and revelled withthem in their freedom and delight. yet he was weary with the day's journey, and entered the village of meyringen, embowered in cherry-trees, which were then laden with fruit, more like a way-worn traveller than an enthusiastic poet. as he went up the tavern steps he said in his heart, with the italian aretino; "he who has not been at a tavern, knows not what a paradise it is. o holy tavern! o miraculous tavern! holy, because no carking cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and miraculous, because of the spits, which of themselves turn round and round! of a truth all courtesy and good manners come from taverns, so full of bows, and signor, sì! and signor, nò!" but even in the tavern he could not rest long. the same evening at sunset he was floating on the lake of brienz, in an open boat, close under the cascade of the giessbach, hearing the peasants sing the ranz des vaches. he slept that night at the other extremity of the lake, in a large house, which, like saint peter's at joppa, stood by the water's side. the next day he wasted inwriting letters, musing in this green nest, and paddling about the lake again; and in the evening went across the beautiful meadows to interlachen, where many things happened to him, and detained him long. chapter iii. interlachen. interlachen! how peacefully, by the margin of the swift-rushing aar, thou liest, on the broad lap of those romantic meadows, all overshadowed by the wide arms of giant trees! only the round towers of thine ancient cloister rise above their summits; the round towers themselves, but a child's playthings under the great church-towers of the mountains. close beside thee are lakes, which the flowing band of the river ties together. before thee opens the magnificent valley of lauterbrunn, where the cloud-hooded monk and pale virgin stand like saint francis and his bride of snow; and all around thee are fields, and orchards, and hamlets green, from which the church-bells answer each other at evening! the eveningsun was setting when i first beheld thee! the sun of life will set ere i forget thee! surely it was a scene like this, that inspired the soul of the swiss poet, in his song of the bell! "bell! thou soundest merrily, when the bridal party to the church doth hie! bell! thou soundest solemnly, when, on sabbath morning, fields deserted lie! "bell! thou soundest merrily; tellest thou at evening, bed-time draweth nigh! bell! thou soundest mournfully; tellest thou the bitter parting hath gone by! "say! how canst thou mourn? how canst thou rejoice? art but metal dull! and yet all our sorrowings, and all our rejoicings, thou dost feel them all! "god hath wonders many, which we cannot fathom, placed within thy form! when the heart is sinking, thou alone canst raise it, trembling in the storm!" paul flemming alighted at one of the principal hotels. the landlord came out to meet him. he had great eyes and a green coat; and reminded flemming of the innkeeper mentioned in the golden ass, who had been changed by magic into a frog, and croaked to his customers from the lees of a wine-cask. his house, he said, was full; and so was every house in interlachen; but, if the gentleman would walk into the parlour, he would procure a chamber for him, in the neighbourhood. on the sofa sat a gentleman, reading; a stout gentleman of perhaps forty-five, round, ruddy, and with a head, which, being a little bald on the top, looked not unlike a crow's nest, with one egg in it. a good-humored face turned from the book as flemming entered; and a good-humored voice exclaimed; "ha! ha! mr. flemming! is it you, or your apparition! i told you we should meet again! though you were for taking an eternal farewell of your fellow-traveller." saying these words, the stout gentleman rose and shook flemming heartily by the hand. and flemming returned the shake as heartily, recognising in this ruddy personage, a former travelling companion, mr. berkley, whom he had left, a week or two previous, toiling up the righi. mr. berkley was an englishman of fortune; a good-humored, humane old bachelor; remarkable alike for his common sense and his eccentricity. that is to say, the basis of his character was good, sound common sense, trodden down and smoothed by education; but this level groundwork his strange and whimsical fancy used as a dancing-floor, whereon to exhibit her eccentric tricks. his ruling passion was cold-bathing; and he usually ate his breakfast sitting in a tub of cold water, and reading a newspaper. he kissed every child he met; and to every old man, said in passing, "god bless you!" with such an expression of voice and countenance, that no one could doubt his sincerity. he reminded one of roger bontemps, or the little man in gray; though with a difference. "the last time i had the pleasure of seeing you, mr. berkley," said flemming, "was at goldau, just as you were going up the righi. i hope you were gratified with a fine sunrise on the mountain top." "no, sir, i was not!" replied mr. berkley. "it is all a humbug! a confounded humbug! they made such a noise about their sunrise, that i determined i would not see it. so i lay snug in bed; and only peeped through the window curtain. that was enough. just above the house, on the top of the hill, stood some fifty half-dressed, romantic individuals, shivering in the wet grass; and, a short distance from them, a miserable wretch, blowing a long, wooden horn. that's your sunrise on the righi, is it? said i; and went to sleep again. the best thing i saw at the culm, was the advertisement on the bed-room doors, saying, that, if the ladies would wear the quilts and blankets for shawls, when they went out to see the sunrise, they must pay for the washing. take my word for it, the righi is a great humbug!" "where have you been since?" "at zurich and schaffhausen. if you go to zurich, beware how you stop at the raven. they will cheat you. they cheated me; but i had my revenge, for, when we reached schaffhausen, i wrote in the traveller's book; beware of the raven of zurich! 't is a bird of omen ill; with a noisy and an unclean nest, and a very, very long bill. if you go to the golden falken you will find it there. i am the author of those lines!" "bitter as juvenal!" exclaimed flemming. "not in the least bitter," said mr. berkley. "it is all true. go to the raven and see. but this interlachen! this interlachen! it is the loveliest spot on the face of the earth," he continued, stretching out both arms, as if to embrace the objectof his affection. "there,--only look out there!" here he pointed to the window. flemming looked, and beheld a scene of transcendent beauty. the plain was covered already by the brown shade of the summer twilight. from the cottage roofs in unterseen rose here and there a thin column of smoke over the tops of the trees and mingled with the evening shadows. the valley of lauterbrunnen was filled with a blue haze. far above, in the clear, cloudless heaven, the white forehead of the jungfrau blushed at the last kiss of the departing sun. it was a glorious transfiguration of nature! and when the village bells began to ring, and a single voice at a great distance was heard yodling forth a ballad, it rather broke than increased the enchantment of a scene, where silence was more musical than sound. for a long time they gazed at the gloaming landscape, and spake not. at length people came into the parlour, and laid aside their shawls and hats, and exchanged a word or two with berkley to flemming they were all unknown. to him it was all mr. brown and mrs. johnson, and nothing more. the conversation turned upon the various excursions of the day. some had been at the staubbach, others at the grindelwald; others at the lake of thun; and nobody before had ever experienced half the rapture, which they had experienced that day. and thus they sat in the twilight, as people love to do, at the close of a summer day. as yet the lamps had not been lighted; and one could not distinguish faces; but voices only, and forms, like shadows. presently a female figure, clothed in black, entered the room and sat down by the window. she rather listened to the conversation, than joined in it; but the few words she said were spoken in a voice so musical and full of soul, that it moved the soul of flemming, like a whisper from heaven. o, how wonderful is the human voice! it is indeed the organ of the soul! the intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and in his eye; and the heart of man is written uponhis countenance. but the soul reveals itself in the voice only; as god revealed himself to the prophet of old in the still, small voice; and in a voice from the burning bush. the soul of man is audible, not visible. a sound alone betrays the flowing of the eternal fountain, invisible to man! flemming would fain have sat and listened for hours to the sound of that unknown voice. he felt sure, in his secret heart, that the being from whom it came was beautiful. his imagination filled up the faint outline, which the eye beheld in the fading twilight, and the figure stood already in his mind, like raphael's beautiful madonna in the dresden gallery. he was never more mistaken in his life. the voice belonged to a beautiful being, it is true; but her beauty was different from that of any madonna which raphael ever painted; as he would have seen, had he waited till the lamps were lighted. but in the midst of his reverie and saint-painting, the landlord came in, andtold him he had found a chamber, which he begged him to go and look at. flemming took his leave and departed. berkley went with him, to see, he said, what kind of a nest his young friend was to sleep in. "the chamber is not what i could wish," said the landlord, as he led them across the street. "it is in the old cloister. but to-morrow or next day, you can no doubt have a room at the house." the name of the cloister struck flemming's imagination pleasantly. he was owl enough to like ruins and old chambers, where nuns or friars had slept. and he said to berkley; "so, you perceive, my nest is to be in a cloister. it already makes me think of a bird's-nest i once saw on an old tower of heidelberg castle, built in the jaws of a lion, which formerly served as a spout. but pray tell me, who was that young lady, with the soft voice?" "what young lady with the soft voice?" "the young lady in black, who sat by the window." "o, she is the daughter of an english officer, who died not long ago at naples. she is passing the summer here with her mother, for her health." "what is her name?" "ashburton." "is she beautiful?" "not in the least; but very intellectual. a woman of genius, i should say." and now they had reached the walls of the cloister, and passed under an arched gateway, and close beneath the round towers, which flemming had already seen, rising with their cone-shaped roofs above the trees, like tall tapers, with extinguishers upon them. "it is not so bad, as it looks," said the landlord, knocking at a small door, in the main building. "the bailiff lives in one part of it." a servant girl, with a candle in her hand, opened the door, and conducted flemming and berkley to the chamber which had been engaged. it was a large room on the lower floor, wainscoted with pine, and unpainted. three lofty and narrowwindows, with leaden lattices and small panes, looked southward towards the valley of lauterbrunnen and the mountains. in one corner was a large square bed, with a tester and checked curtains. in another, a huge stove of painted tiles, reaching almost to the ceiling. an old sofa, a few high-backed antique chairs, and a table, completed the furniture of the room. thus flemming took possession of his monkish cell and dormitory. he ordered tea, and began to feel at home. berkley passed the evening with him. on going away he said; "good night! i leave you to the care of the virgin and all the saints. if the ghost of any old monk comes back after his prayer-book, my compliments to him. if i were a younger man, you certainly should see a ghost. good night!" when he had departed, flemming opened the lattice of one of the windows. the moon had risen, and silvered the dark outline of the nearest hills; while, afar off, the snowy summits of the jungfrau and the silver-horn shone like a white cloud in the sky. close beneath the windows was a flower-garden; and the breath of the summer night came to him with dewy fragrance. there was a grateful seclusion about the place. he blessed the happy accident, which gave him such a lodging, and fell asleep that night thinking of the nuns, who once had slept in the same quiet cells; but neither wimpled nun nor cowled monk appeared to him in his dreams; not even the face of mary ashburton; nor did he hear her voice. chapter iv. the evening and the morning star. old froissart tells us, in his chronicles, that when king edward beheld the countess of salisbury at her castle gate, he thought he had never seen before so noble nor so fair a lady; he was stricken therewith to the heart with a sparkle of fine love, that endured long after; he thought no lady in the world so worthy to be beloved, as she. and so likewise thought paul flemming, when he beheld the english lady in the fair light of a summer morning. i will not disguise the truth. she is my heroine; and i mean to describe her with great truth and beauty, so that all shall be in love with her, and i most of all. mary ashburton was in her twentieth summer. like the fair maiden amoret, she was sitting inthe lap of womanhood. they did her wrong, who said she was not beautiful; and yet "she was not fair, nor beautiful;--those words express her not. but o, her looks had something excellent, that wants a name!" her face had a wonderful fascination in it. it was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the rising soul shining so peacefully through it. at times it wore an expression of seriousness,--of sorrow even; and then seemed to make the very air bright with what the italian poets so beautifully call the lampeggiar dell' angelico riso,--the lightning of the angelic smile. and o, those eyes,--those deep, unutterable eyes, with "down-falling eyelids, full of dreams and slumber," and within them a cold, living light, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the river of paradise, forever gliding, "with a brown, brown current under the shade perpetual, that never ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon." i dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady, lambent light;--are luminous, but not sparkling. such eyes the greek poets give to the immortals. but i forget myself. the lady's figure was striking. every step, every attitude was graceful, and yet lofty, as if inspired by the soul within. angels in the old poetic philosophy have such forms; it was the soul itself imprinted on the air. and what a soul was hers! a temple dedicated to heaven, and, like the pantheon at rome, lighted only from above. and earthly passions in the form of gods were no longer there, but the sweet and thoughtful faces of christ, and the virgin mary, and the saints. thus there was not one discordant thing in her; but a perfect harmony of figure, and face, and soul, in a word of the whole being. and he who had a soul to comprehend hers, must of necessity love her, and, having once loved her, could love no other woman forevermore. no wonder, then, that flemming felt his heartdrawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she passed him, sitting alone under the great walnut trees near the cloister, and thinking of heaven, but not of her. she, too, was alone. her cheek was no longer pale; but glowing and bright, with the inspiration of the summer air. flemming gazed after her till she disappeared, even as a vision of his dreams, he knew not whither. he was not yet in love, but very near it; for he thanked god, that he had made such beautiful beings to walk the earth. last night he had heard a voice to which his soul responded; and he might have gone on his way, and taken no farther heed. but he would have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at evening he thought of this evening at interlachen. to-day he had seen more clearly the vision, and his restless soul calm. the place seemed pleasant to him; and he could not go. he did not ask himself whence came this calm. he felt it; and was happy in the feeling; and blessed thelandscape and the summer morning, as if they possessed the wonder-working power. "a pleasant morning dream to you;" said a friendly voice; and at the same moment some one laid his hand upon flemming's shoulder. it was berkley. he had approached unseen and unheard. "i see by the smile on your countenance," he continued, "that it is no day-incubus." "you are right," replied flemming. "it was a pleasant dream, which you have put to flight." "and i am glad to see, that you have also put to flight the gloomy thoughts which used to haunt you. i like to see people cheerful and happy. what is the use of giving way to sadness in this beautiful world?" "ah! this beautiful world!" said flemming, with a smile. "indeed, i know not what to think of it. sometimes it is all gladness and sunshine, and heaven itself lies not far off. and then it changes suddenly; and is dark and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky. in the lives of the saddestof us, there are bright days like this, when we feel as if we could take the great world in our arms and kiss it. then come the gloomy hours, when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts; and all without and within is dismal, cold, and dark. believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad." "and who says we don't?" interrupted berkley. "come, come! let us go to breakfast. the morning air has given me a rude appetite. i long to say grace over a fresh egg; and eat salt with my worst enemies; namely, the cockneys at the hotel. after breakfast you must give yourself up wholly to me. i shall take you to the grindelwald!" "to-day, then, you do not breakfast like diogenes, but consent to leave your tub." "yes, for the pleasure of your company. i shall also blow out the light in my lantern, having found you." "thank you." the breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence. flemming watched the entrance of every guest; but she came not,--the guest he most desired to see. "and now for the grindelwald!" said berkley. "why such haste? we have the whole day before us. there is time enough." "not a moment to loso, i assure you. the carriage is at the door." they drove up the valley of lauterbrunnen, and turned eastward among the mountains of the grindelwald. there they passed the day; half-frozen by the icy breath of the great glacier, upon whose surface stand pyramids and blocks of ice, like the tombstones of a cemetery. it was a weary day to flemming. he wished himself at interlachen; and was glad when, towards evening, he saw once more the cone-roofed towers of the cloister rising above the walnut trees. that evening is written in red letters in his history. it gave him another revelation of thebeauty and excellence of the female character and intellect; not wholly new to him, yet now renewed and fortified. it was from the lips of mary ashburton, that the revelation came. her form arose, like a tremulous evening star, in the firmament of his soul. he conversed with her; and with her alone; and knew not when to go. all others were to him as if they were not there. he saw their forms, but saw them as the forms of inanimate things. at length her mother came; and flemming beheld in her but another mary ashburton, with beauty more mature;--the same forehead and eyes, the same majestic figure; and, as yet, no trace of age. he gazed upon her with a feeling of delight, not unmingled with holy awe. she was to him the rich and glowing evening, from whose bosom the tremulous star was born. berkley took no active part in the conversation, but did what was much more to the purpose, that it is to say, arranged a drive for the next day with the ashburtons, and of course invited flemming, who went home that night with a halo round hishead; and wondering much at a dandy, who stood at the door of the hotel, and said to his companion, as flemming passed; "what do you call this place? i have been here two hours already, and find it devilish dull!" chapter v. a rainy day. when flemming awoke the next morning he saw the sky dark and lowering. from the mountain tops hung a curtain of mist, whose heavy folds waved to and fro in the valley below. over all the landscape, the soft, summer rain was falling. no admiring eyes would look up that day at the staubbach. a rainy day in switzerland puts a sudden stop to many diversions. the coachman may drive to the tavern and then back to the stable; but no farther. the sunburnt guide may sit at the ale-house door, and welcome; and the boatman whistle and curse the clouds, at his own sweet will; but no foot stirs abroad for all that; no traveller moves, if he has time to stay. the rainy daygives him time for reflection. he has leisure now to take cognizance of his impressions, and make up his account with the mountains. he remembers, too, that he has friends at home; and writes up the journal, neglected for a week or more; and letters neglected longer; or finishes the rough pencil-sketch, begun yesterday in the open air. on the whole he is not sorry it rains; though disappointed. flemming was both sorry and disappointed; but he did not on that account fail to go over to the ashburtons at the appointed hour. he found them sitting in the parlour. the mother was reading, and the daughter retouching a sketch of the lake of thun. after the usual salutations, flemming seated himself near the daughter, and said; "we shall have no staubbach to-day, i presume; only this giessbach from the clouds." "nothing more, i suppose. so we must be content to stay in-doors; and listen to the soundof the eves-dropping rain. it gives me time to finish some of these rough sketches." "it is a pleasant pastime," said flemming; "and i perceive you are very skilful. i am delighted to see, that you can draw a straight line. i never before saw a lady's sketch-book, in which all the towers did not resemble the leaning tower of pisa. i always tremble for the little men under them." "how absurd!" exclaimed mary ashburton, with a smile that passed through the misty air of flemming's thoughts, like a sunbeam; "for one, i succeed much better in straight lines than in any others. here i have been trying a half-hour to make this water-wheel round; and round it never will be." "then let it remain as it is. it looks uncommonly picturesque, and may pass for a new invention." the lady continued to sketch, and flemming to gaze at her beautiful face; often repeating to himself those lines in marlow's faust; "o thou art fairer than the evening air, clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!" he certainly would have betrayed himself to the maternal eye of mrs. ashburton, had she not been wholly absorbed in the follies of a fashionable novel. ere long the fair sketcher had paused for a moment; and flemming had taken her sketch-book in his hands and was looking it through from the beginning with ever-increasing delight, half of which he dared not express, though he favored her with some comments and bursts of admiration. "this is truly a very beautiful sketch of murten and the battle-field! how quietly the land-scape sleeps there by the lake, after the battle! did you ever read the ballad of veit weber, the shoe-maker, on this subject? he says, the routed burgundians jumped into the lake, and the swiss leaguers shot them down like wild ducks among the reeds. he fought in the battle and wrote the ballad afterwards;-'he had himself laid hand on sword, he who this rhyme did write; till evening mowed he with the sword, and sang the song at night.'" "you must give me the whole ballad," said miss ashburton; "it will serve to illustrate the sketch." "and the sketch to illustrate the ballad. and now we suddenly slide down the alps into italy, and are even in rome, if i mistake not. this is surely a head of homer?" "yes," replied the lady, with a little enthusiasm. "do you not remember the marble bust at rome? when i first beheld that bust, it absolutely inspired me with awe. it is not the face of a man, but of a god!" "and you have done it no injustice in your copy," said flemming, catching a new enthusiasm from hers. "with what a classic grace the fillet, passing round the majestic forehead, confines his flowing locks, which mingle with his beard! the countenance, too, is calm, majestic, godlike! even the fixed and sightless eyeballs do not mar the imageof the seer! such were the sightless eyes of the blind old man of chios. they seem to look with mournful solemnity into the mysterious future; and the marble lips to repeat that prophetic passage in the hymn to apollo; 'let me also hope to be remembered in ages to come. and when any one, born of the tribes of men, comes hither, a weary traveller, and inquires, who is the sweetest of the singing men, that resort to your feasts, and whom you most delight to hear, do you make answer for me. it is the blind man, who dwells in chios; his songs excel all that can ever be sung!' but do you really believe, that this is a portrait of homer?" "certainly not! it is only an artist's dream. it was thus, that homer appeared to him in his visions of the antique world. every one, you know, forms an image in his fancy of persons and things he has never seen; and the artist reproduces them in marble or on canvass." "and what is the image in your fancy? is it like this?" "no; not entirely. i have drawn my impressions from another source. whenever i think of homer, which is not often, he walks before me, solemn and serene, as in the vision of the great italian; in countenance neither sorrowful nor glad, followed by other bards, and holding in his right hand a sword!" "that is a finer conception, than even this," said flemming. "and i perceive from your words, as well as from this book, that you have a true feeling for art, and understand what it is. you have had bright glimpses into the enchanted land." "i trust," replied the lady modestly, "that i am not wholly without this feeling. certainly i have as strong and passionate a love of art as of nature." "but does it not often offend you to hear people speaking of art and nature as opposite and discordant things? surely nothing can be more false. nature is a revelation of god; art a revelation of man. indeed, art signifies no more than this. art is power. that is the original meaning of the word. it is the creative power by which the soul of man makes itself known, through some external manifestation or outward sign. as we can always hear the voice of god, walking in the garden, in the cool of the day, or under the star-light, where, to quote one of this poet's verses, 'high prospects and the brows of all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows';--so, under the twilight and the starlight of past ages, do we hear the voice of man, walking amid the works of his hands, and city walls and towers and the spires of churches, thrust up themselves for shows." the lady smiled at his warmth; and he continued; "this, however, is but a similitude; and art and nature are more nearly allied than by similitudes only. art is the revelation of man; and not merely that, but likewise the revelation of nature, speaking through man. art preëxists in nature, and nature is reproduced in art. as vaporsfrom the ocean, floating landward and dissolved in rain, are carried back in rivers to the ocean, so thoughts and the semblances of things that fall upon the soul of man in showers, flow out again in living streams of art, and lose themselves in the great ocean, which is nature. art and nature are not, then, discordant, but ever harmoniously working in each other." enthusiasm begets enthusiasm. flemming spake with such evident interest in the subject, that miss ashburton did not fail to manifest some interest in what he said; and, encouraged by this, he proceeded; "thus in this wondrous world wherein we live, which is the world of nature, man has made unto himself another world hardly less wondrous, which is the world of art. and it lies infolded and compassed about by the other, 'and the clear region where 't was born, round in itself incloses.' taking this view of art, i think we understand more easily the skill of the artist, and the differencebetween him and the mere amateur. what we call miracles and wonders of art are not so to him who created them. for they were created by the natural movements of his own great soul. statues, paintings, churches, poems, are but shadows of himself;--shadows in marble, colors, stone, words. he feels and recognises their beauty; but he thought these thoughts and produced these things as easily as inferior minds do thoughts and things inferior. perhaps more easily. vague images and shapes of beauty floating through the soul, the semblances of things as yet indefinite or ill-defined, and perfect only when put in art,--this possible intellect, as the scholastic philosophers have termed it,--the artist shares in common with us all. the lovers of art are many. but the active intellect, the creative power,--the power to put these shapes and images in art, to imbody the indefinite, and render perfect, is his alone. he shares the gift with few. he knows not even whence nor how this is. he knows only that it is; that god has given him the power, which has been denied to others." "i should have known you were just from germany," said the lady, with a smile, "even if you had not told me so. you are an enthusiast for the germans. for my part i cannot endure their harsh language." "you would like it better, if you knew it better," answered flemming. "it is not harsh to me; but homelike, hearty, and full of feeling, like the sound of happy voices at a fireside, of a winter's night, when the wind blows, and the fire crackles, and hisses, and snaps. i do indeed love the germans; the men are so hale and hearty, and the fräuleins so tender and true!" "i always think of men with pipes and beer, and women with knittingwork." "o, those are english prejudices," exclaimed flemming. "nothing can be more--" "and their very literature presents itself to my imagination under the same forms." "i see you have read only english criticisms; and have an idea, that all german books smell, as it were, 'of groceries, of brown papers, filled withgreasy cakes and slices of bacon; and of fryings in frowzy back-parlours; and this shuts you out from a glorious world of poetry, romance, and dreams!" mary ashburton smiled, and flemming continued to turn over the leaves of the sketch-book, with an occasional criticism and witticism. at length he came to a leaf which was written in pencil. people of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love. "here is a pencil-sketch," said he, with an entreating look, "which i would fain examine with the rest." "you may do so, if you wish; but you will find it the poorest sketch in the book. i was trying one day to draw the picture of an artist's life in rome, as it presented itself to my imagination; and this is the result. perhaps it may awaken some pleasant recollection in your mind." flemming waited no longer; but read with the eyes of a lover, not of a critic, the following description, which inspired him with a new enthusiasm for art, and for mary ashburton. "i often reflect with delight upon the young artist's life in rome. a stranger from the cold and gloomy north, he has crossed the alps, and with the devotion of a pilgrim journeyed to the eternal city. he dwells perhaps upon the pincian hill; and hardly a house there, which is not inhabited by artists from foreign lands. the very room he lives in has been their abode from time out of mind. their names are written all over the walls; perhaps some further record of them left in a rough sketch upon the window-shutter, with an inscription and a date. these things consecrate the place, in his imagination. even these names, though unknown to him, are not without associations in his mind. "in that warm latitude he rises with the day. the night-vapors are already rolling away over the campagna sea-ward. as he looks from his window, above and beyond their white folds he recognises the tremulous blue sea at ostia. over soracte rises the sun,--over his own beloved mountain; though no longer worshipped there, asof old. before him, the antique house, where raphael lived, casts its long, brown shadow down into the heart of modern rome. the city lies still asleep and silent. but above its dark roofs, more than two hundred steeples catch the sunshine on their gilded weather-cocks. presently the bells begin to ring, and, as the artist listens to their pleasant chimes, he knows that in each of those churches over the high altar, hangs a painting by some great master's hand, whose beauty comes between him and heaven, so that he cannot pray, but wonder only. "among these works of art he passes the day; but oftenest in st. peter's and the vatican. up the vast marble stair-case,--through the corridor chiaramonti,--through vestibules, galleries, chambers,--he passes, as in a dream. all are filled with busts and statues; or painted in daring frescoes. what forms of strength and beauty! what glorious creations of the human mind! and in that last chamber of all, standing alone upon his pedestal, the apollo found at actium,--in such a majestic attitude,--with such a noble countenance, life-like, god-like! "or perhaps he passes into the chambers of the painters; but goes no further than the second. for in the middle of that chamber a large painting stands upon the heavy easel, as if unfinished, though more than three hundred years ago the great artist completed it, and then laid his pencil away forever, leaving this last benediction to the world. it is the transfiguration of christ by raphael. a child looks not at the stars with greater wonder, than the artist at this painting. he knows how many studious years are in that picture. he knows the difficult path that leads to perfection, having himself taken some of the first steps.--thus he recalls the hour, when that broad canvass was first stretched upon its frame, and raphael stood before it, and laid the first colors upon it, and beheld the figures one by one born into life, and 'looked upon the work of his own hands with a smile, that it should have succeeded so well.' he recalls too, the hour, when, the task accomplished, the pencil dropped from the master's dying hand, and his eyes closed to open on a more glorious transfiguration, and at length the dead raphael lay in his own studio, before this wonderful painting, more glorious than any conqueror under the banners and armorial hatchments of his funeral! "think you, that such sights and thoughts as these do not move the heart of a young man and an artist! and when he goes forth into the open air, the sun is going down, and the gray ruins of an antique world receive him. from the palace of the cæsars he looks down into the forum, or towards the coliseum; or westward sees the last sunshine strike the bronze archangel, which stands upon the tomb of adrian. he walks amid a world of art in ruins. the very street-lamps, that light him homeward, burn before some painted or sculptured image of the madonna! what wonder is it, if dreams visit him in his sleep,--nay, if his whole life seem to him a dream! what wonder, if, with a feverish heart and quick hand, he strive to reproduce those dreams in marble or on canvass." foolish paul flemming! who both admired and praised this little sketch, and yet was too blind to see, that it was written from the heart, and not from the imagination! foolish paul flemming! who thought, that a girl of twenty could write thus, without a reason! close upon this followed another pencil sketch, which he likewise read, with the lady's permission. it was this. "the whole period of the middle ages seems very strange to me. at times i cannot persuade myself that such things could have been, as history tells us; that such a strange world was a part of our world,--that such a strange life was a part of the life, which seems to us who are living it now, so passionless and commonplace. it is only when i stand amid ruined castles, that look at me so mournfully, and behold the heavy armour of old knights, hanging upon the wainscot of gothic chambers; or when i walk amid the aisles of some dusky minster, whose walls are narrative ofhoar antiquity, and whose very bells have been baptized, and see the carved oaken stalls in the choir, where so many generations of monks have sat and sung, and the tombs, where now they sleep in silence, to awake no more to their midnight psalms;--it is only at such times, that the history of the middle ages is a reality to me, and not a passage in romance. "likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those ages have something of this power of making the dead past a living present in my mind. what curious figures are emblazoned on the creaking parchment, making its yellow leaves laugh with gay colors! you seem to come upon them unawares. their faces have an expression of wonder. they seem all to be just startled from their sleep by the sound you made when you unloosed the brazen clasps, and opened the curiously-carved oaken covers, that turn on hinges, like the great gates of a city. to the building of that city some diligent monk gave the whole of a long life. with what strange denizens he peopled it! adam and eve standing under a tree, she, with the apple in her hand;--the patriarch abraham, with a tree growing out of his body, and his descendants sitting owl-like upon its branches;--ladies with flowing locks of gold; knights in armour, with most fantastic, long-toed shoes; jousts and tournaments; and minnesingers, and lovers, whose heads reach to the towers, where their ladies sit;--and all so angular, so simple, so childlike,--all in such simple attitudes, with such great eyes, and holding up such long, lank fingers!--these things are characteristic of the middle ages, and persuade me of the truth of history." at this moment berkley entered, with a swiss cottage, which he had just bought as a present for somebody's child in england; and a cane with a chamois-horn on the end of it, which he had just bought for himself. this was the first time, that flemming had been sorry to see the good-natured man. his presence interrupted the delightful conversation he was carrying on "under four eyes," with mary ashburton. he reallythought berkley a bore, and wondered it had never occurred to him before. mrs. ashburton, too, must needs lay down her book; and the conversation became general. strange to say, the swiss dinner-hour of one o'clock, did not come a moment too soon for flemming. it did not even occur to him that it was early; for he was seated beside mary ashburton, and at dinner one can say so much, without being overheard. chapter vi. after dinner, and after the manner of the best critics. when the learned thomas diafoirus wooed the fair angélique, he drew from his pocket a medical thesis, and presented it to her, as the first-fruits of his genius; and at the same time, invited her, with her father's permission, to attend the dissection of a woman, upon whom he was to lecture. paul flemming did nearly the same thing; and so often, that it had become a habit. he was continually drawing, from his pocket or his memory, some scrap of song or story; and inviting some fair angélique, either with her father's permission or without, to attend the dissection of anauthor, upon whom he was to discourse. he soon gave proofs of this to mary ashburton. "what books have we here for afternoon reading?" said flemming, taking a volume from the parlour table, when they had returned from the dining-room. "o, it is uhland's poems. have you read any thing of his? he and tieck are the best living poets of germany. they dispute the palm of superiority. let me give you a lesson in german, this afternoon, miss ashburton; so that no one may accuse you of 'omitting the sweet benefit of time, to clothe your age with angel-like perfection.' i have opened at random upon the ballad of the black knight. you repeat the german after me, and i will translate to you. pfingsten war, das fest der freude!" "i should never persuade my unwilling lips to pronounce such sounds. so i beg you not to perplex me with your german, but read me the ballad in english." "well, then, listen. i will improvise a translation for your own particular benefit. "'t was pentecost, the feast of gladness, when woods and fields put off all sadness. thus began the king and spake; 'so from the halls of ancient hofburg's walls, a luxuriant spring shall break.' "drums and trumpets echo loudly, wave the crimson banners proudly. from balcony the king looked on; in the play of spears, fell all the cavaliers, before the monarch's stalwart son. "to the barrier of the fight, rode at last a sable knight. 'sir knight! your name and scutcheon, say!' 'should i speak it here, ye would stand aghast with fear; am a prince of mighty sway!' "when he rode into the lists, the arch of heaven grew black with mists, and the castle 'gan to rock. at the first blow, fell the youth from saddle-bow, hardly rises from the shock. "pipe and viol call the dances, torch-light through the high halls glances; waves a mighty shadow in. with manner bland doth ask the maiden's hand, doth with her the dance begin. "danced in sable iron sark, danced a measure weird and dark, coldly clasped her limbs around. from breast and hair down fall from her the fair flowerets wilted to the ground. "to the sumptuous banquet came every knight and every dame. 'twixt son and daughter all distraught, with mournful mind the ancient king reclined, gazed at them in silent thought. "pale the children both did look, but the guest a beaker took; 'golden wine will make you whole!" the children drank, gave many a courteous thank; 'o that draught was very cool!' "each the father's breast embraces, son and daughter; and their faces colorless grow utterly. whichever way looks the fear-struck father gray, he beholds his children die. " 'woe! the blessed children both, takest thou in the joy of youth; take me, too, the joyless father!' spake the grim guest, from his hollow, cavernous breast; 'roses in the spring i gather!'" "that is indeed a striking ballad!" said miss ashburton, "but rather too grim and ghostly for this dull afternoon." "it begins joyously enough with the feast of pentecost, and the crimson banners at the old castle. then the contrast is well managed. the knight in black mail, and the waving in of the mighty shadow in the dance, and the dropping of the faded flowers, are all strikingly presented to the imagination. however, it tellsits own story, and needs no explanation. here is something in a different vein, though still melancholy. the castle by the sea. shall i read it?" "yes, if you like." flemming read; "hast thou seen that lordly castle, that castle by the sea? golden and red above it the clouds float gorgeously. "and fain it would stoop downward to the mirrored wave below; and fain it would soar upward in the evening's crimson glow. " 'well have i seen that castle, that castle by the sea, and the moon above it standing, and the mist rise solemnly.' "the winds and the waves of ocean, had they a merry chime? didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, the harp and the minstrel's rhyme? " 'the winds and the waves of ocean, they rested quietly, but i heard on the gale a sound of wail, and tears came to my eye.' "and sawest thou on the turrets the king and his royal bride? and the wave of their crimson mantles? and the golden crown of pride? "led they not forth in rapture a beauteous maiden there? resplendent as the morning sun, beaming with golden hair? " 'well saw i the ancient parents, without the crown of pride; they were moving slow, in weeds of woe, no maiden was by their side!' how do you like that?" "it is very graceful, and pretty. but uhland seems to leave a great deal to his reader's imagination. all his readers should be poets themselves, or they will hardly comprehend him. i confess, ihardly understand the passage where he speaks of the castle's stooping downward to the mirrored wave below, and then soaring upward into the gleaming sky. i suppose, however, he wishes to express the momentary illusion we experience at beholding a perfect reflection of an old tower in the sea, and look at it as if it were not a mere shadow in the water; and yet the real tower rises far above, and seems to float in the crimson evening clouds. is that the meaning?" "i should think it was. to me it is all a beautiful cloud landscape, which i comprehend and feel, and yet should find some difficulty perhaps in explaining." "and why need one always explain? some feelings are quite untranslatable. no language has yet been found for them. they gleam upon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet, when we bring them close to us, and hold them up to the light of reason, lose their beauty, all at once; just as glow-worms, which gleam with such a spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought in where the candlesare lighted, are found to be only worms, like so many others." "very true. we ought sometimes to be content with feeling. here, now, is an exquisite piece, which soothes one like the fall of evening shadows,--like the dewy coolness of twilight after a sultry day. i shall not give you a bald translation of my own, because i have laid up in my memory another, which, though not very literal, equals the original in beauty. observe how finely it commences. "many a year is in its grave, since i crossed this restless wave; and the evening, fair as ever, shines on ruin, rock, and river. "then, in this same boat, beside, sat two comrades old and tried; one with all a father's truth, one with all the fire of youth. "one on earth in silence wrought, and his grave in silence sought; but the younger, brighter form passed in battle and in storm! "so, whene'er i turn my eye back upon the days gone by, saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,-friends, who closed their course before me. "yet what binds us, friend to friend, but that soul with soul can blend? soul-like were those hours of yore; let us walk in soul once more! "take, o boatman, thrice thy fee; take,--i give it willingly; for, invisibly to thee, spirits twain have crossed with me!" "o, that is beautiful,--'beautiful exceedingly!' who translated it?" "i do not know. i wish i could find him out. it is certainly admirably done; though in the measure of the original there is something like the rocking motion of a boat, which is not preserved in the translation." "and is uhland always so soothing and spiritual?" "yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world. i am now trying to find here a little poem on the death of a country clergyman; in which he introduces a beautiful picture. but i cannot turn to it. no matter. he describes the spirit of the good old man, returning to earth on a bright summer morning, and standing amid the golden corn and the red and blue flowers, and mildly greeting the reapers as of old. the idea is beautiful, is it not?" "yes, very beautiful!" "but there is nothing morbid in uhland's mind. he is always fresh and invigorating, like a breezy morning. in this he differs entirely from such writers as salis and matthisson." "and who are they?" "two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was only a dismal swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making signals to death, to come and ferry them over the lake. and now their spirits stand in the green fields of german song, like two weeping-willows, bending over agrave. to read their poems, is like wandering through a village churchyard on a summer evening, reading the inscription upon the grave-stones, and recalling sweet images of the departed; while above you, 'hark! in the holy grove of palms, where the stream of life runs free, echoes, in the angels' psalms, 'sister spirit! hail to thee!'" "how musically those lines flow! are they matthisson's!" "yes; and they do indeed flow musically. i wish i had his poems here. i should like to read to you his elegy on the ruins of an ancient castle. it is an imitation of gray's elegy. you have been at baden-baden? "yes; last summer." "and have not forgotten--" "the old castle? of course not. what a magnificent ruin it is!" "that is the scene of matthisson's poem, andseems to have filled the melancholy bard with more than wonted inspiration." "i should like very much to see the poem, i remember that old ruin with so much delight." "i am sorry i have not a translation of it for you. instead of it i will give you a sweet and mournful poem from salis. it is called the song of the silent land. "into the silent land! ah! who shall lead us thither! clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, and shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. who leads us with a gentle hand, thither, oh, thither. into the silent land? "into the silent land! to you, ye boundless regions of all perfection! tender morning-visions of beauteous souls! eternity's own band! who in life's battle firm doth stand, shall bear hope's tender blossoms into the silent land! "o land! o land! for all the broken-hearted the mildest herald by our fate allotted, beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand to lead us with a gentle hand into the land of the great departed, into the silent land! is not that a beautiful poem?" mary ashburton made no answer. she had turned away to hide her tears. flemming wondered, that berkley could say she was not beautiful. still he was rather pleased than offended at it. he felt at that moment how sweet a thing it would be to possess one, who should seem beautiful to him alone, and yet to him be more beautiful than all the world beside! how bright the world became to him at that thought! it was like one of those paintings in which all the light streams from the face of the virgin. o, there is nothing holier in this life of ours, than the first consciousness of love,--the first fluttering of its silken wings; the first rising sound and breath of thatwind, which is so soon to sweep through the soul, to purify or to destroy! old histories tell us, that the great emperor charlemagne stamped his edicts with the hilt of his sword. the greater emperor, death, stamps his with the blade; and they are signed and executed with the same stroke. flemming received that night a letter from heidelberg, which told him, that emma of ilmenau was dead. the fate of this poor girl affected him deeply; and he said in his heart; "father in heaven! why was the lot of this weak and erring child so hard! what had she done, to be so tempted in her weakness, and perish? why didst thou suffer her gentle affections to lead her thus astray?" and, through the silence of the awful midnight, the voice of an avalanche answered from the distant mountains, and seemed to say; "peace! peace! why dost thou question god's providence!" chapter vii. take care! fair is the valley of lauterbrunnen with its green meadows and overhanging cliffs. the ruined castle of unspunnen stands like an armed warder at the gate of the enchanted land. in calm serenity the snowy mountains rise beyond. fairer than the rock of balmarusa, you frowning precipice looks down upon us; and, from the topmost cliff, the white pennon of the brook of dust shimmers and waves in the sunny air! it was a bright, beautiful morning after nightrain. every dewdrop and raindrop had a whole heaven within it; and so had the heart of paul flemming, as, with mrs. ashburton and her dark-eyed daughter, he drove up the valley of lauter-brunnen,--the valley of fountains-only. "how beautiful the jungfrau looks this morning!" exclaimed he, looking at mary ashburton. she thought he meant the mountain, and assented. but he meant her likewise. "and the mountains, beyond," he continued; "the monk and the silver-horn, the wetter-horn the schreck-horn, and the schwarz-horn, all those sublime apostles of nature, whose sermons are avalanches! did you ever behold anything more grand!" "o yes. mont blanc is more grand, when you behold it from the hills opposite. it was there that i was most moved by the magnificence of swiss scenery. it was a morning like this; and the clouds, that were hovering about on their huge, shadowy wings, made the scene only the more magnificent. before me lay the whole panorama of the alps; pine forests standing dark and solemn at the base of the mountains; and half-way up a veil of mist; above which rose the snowy summits, and sharp needles of rock, which seemed to float in the air, like a fairy world. then the glaciersstood on either side, winding down through the mountain ravines; and, high above all, rose the white, dome-like summit of mont blanc. and ever and anon from the shroud of mist came the awful sound of an avalanche, and a continual roar, as of the wind through a forest of pines, filled the air. it was the roar of the arve and aveiron, breaking from their icy fountains. then the mists began to pass away; and it seemed as if the whole firmament were rolling together. it recalled to my mind that sublime passage in the apocalypse; 'i saw a great white throne; and him that sat thereon; before whose face the heavens and the earth fled away, and found no place!' o, i cannot believe that upon this earth there is a more magnificent scene." "it must be grand, indeed," replied flemming. "and those mighty glaciers,--huge monsters with bristling crests, creeping down into the valley! for it is said they really move." "yes; it filled me with a strange sensation of awe to think of this. they seemed to me like the dragons of northern romance, which come down from the mountains and devour whole villages. a little hamlet in chamouni was once abandoned by its inhabitants, terrified at the approach of the icy dragon. but is it possible you have never been at chamouni? "never. the great marvel still remains unseen by me." "then how can you linger here so long? were i in your place i would not lose an hour." these words passed over the opening blossoms of hope in the soul of flemming, like a cold wind over the flowers in spring-time. he bore it as best he could, and changed the subject. i do not mean to describe the valley of lauterbrunnen, nor the bright day passed there. i know that my gentle reader is blessed with the divine gift of a poetic fancy; and can see already how the mountains rise, and the torrents fall, and the sweet valley lies between; and how, along the dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and travellers come and go in charabans, like punch and judy in a show-box. he knows already how romantic ladies sketch romantic scenes; while sweet gentlemen gather sweet flowers; and how cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees, and how time flies when we are in love, and the beloved one near. one little incident i must, however, mention, lest his fancy should not suggest it. flemming was still sitting with the ladies, on the green slope near the staubbach, or brook of dust, when a young man clad in green, came down the valley. it was a german student, with flaxen ringlets hanging over his shoulders, and a guitar in his hand. his step was free and elastic, and his countenance wore the joyous expression of youth and health. he approached the company with a courteous salutation; and, after the manner of travelling students, asked charity with the confident air of one unaccustomed to refusal. nor was he refused in this instance. the presence of those we love makes us compassionate and generous. flemming gave him a piece of gold; and after a short conversation he seated himself, at alittle distance on the grass, and began to play and sing. wonderful and many were the sweet accords and plaintive sounds that came from that little instrument, touched by the student's hand. every feeling of the human heart seemed to find an expression there, and awaken a kindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard him. he sang sweet german songs, so full of longing, and of pleasing sadness, and hope and fear, and passionate desire, and soul-subduing sorrow, that the tears came into mary ashburton's eyes, though she understood not the words he sang. then his countenance glowed with triumph, and he beat the strings like a drum, and sang; "o, how the drum beats so loud! close beside me in the fight, my dying brother says, good night! and the cannon's awful breath screams the loud halloo of death! and the drum, and the drum, beats so loud!" many were the words of praise, when the young musician ended; and, as he rose to depart, they still entreated for one song more. whereupon he played a lively prelude; and, looking full into flemming's face, sang with a pleasant smile, and still in german, this little song. "i know a maiden fair to see, take care! she can both false and friendly be, beware! beware! trust her not, she is fooling thee! "she has two eyes, so soft and brown, take care! she gives a side-glance and looks down, beware! beware! trust her not, she is fooling thee! "and she has hair of a golden hue, take care! and what she says, it is not true, beware! beware! trust her not, she is fooling thee! "she has a bosom as white as snow, take care! she knows how much it is best to show, beware! beware! trust her not, she is fooling thee! "she gives thee a garland woven fair, take care! it is a fool's cap for thee to wear, beware! beware! trust her not, she is fooling thee!" the last stanza he sung in a laughing, triumphant tone, which resounded above the loud clang of his guitar, like the jeering laugh of till eulenspiegel. then slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he took off his green cap, and made a leg to the ladies, in the style of gil blas; waved his hand in the air, and walked quickly down the valley, singing "adé! adé! adé!" chapter viii. the fountain of oblivion. the power of magic in the middle ages created monsters, who followed the unhappy magician everywhere. the power of love in all ages creates angels, who likewise follow the happy or unhappy lover everywhere, even in his dreams. by such an angel was paul flemming now haunted, both when he waked and when he slept. he walked as in a dream; and was hardly conscious of the presence of those around him. a sweet face looked at him from every page of every book he read; and it was the face of mary ashburton! a sweet voice spake to him in every sound he heard; and it was the voice of mary ashburton! day and night succeeded each other, with pleasant interchange of light and darkness; but to him thepassing of time was only as a dream. when he arose in the morning, he thought only of her, and wondered if she were yet awake; and when he lay down at night he thought only of her, and how, like the lady christabel, "her gentle limbs she did undress, and lay down in her loveliness." and the livelong day he was with her, either in reality or in day-dreams, hardly less real; for, in each delirious vision of his waking hours, her beauteous form passed like the form of beatrice through dante's heaven; and, as he lay in the summer afternoon, and heard at times the sound of the wind in the trees, and the sound of sabbath bells ascending up to heaven, holy wishes and prayers ascended with them from his inmost soul, beseeching that he might not love in vain! and whenever, in silence and alone, he looked into the silent, lonely countenance of night, he recalled the impassioned lines of plato;-"lookest thou at the stars? if i were heaven, with all the eyes of heaven would i look down on thee!" o how beautiful it is to love! even thou, that sneerest at this page, and laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are near thee, thou, too, must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone; and confess, that a foolish world is prone to laugh in public, at what in private it reverences, as one of the highest impulses of our nature,--namely, love! one by one the objects of our affection depart from us. but our affections remain, and like vines stretch forth their broken, wounded tendrils for support. the bleeding heart needs a balm to heal it; and there is none but the love of its kind,--none but the affection of a human heart! thus the wounded, broken affections of flemming began to lift themselves from the dust and cling around this new object. days and weeks passed; and, like the student crisostomo, he ceased to love because he began to adore. and with this adoration mingled the prayer, that, in that hour when the world is still, and the voices that praise are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight, and themaiden, in her day-dreams, counted the number of her friends, some voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts might whisper his name! and was it indeed so? did any voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts whisper his name?--we shall soon learn. they were sitting together one morning, on the green, flowery meadow, under the ruins of burg unspunnen. she was sketching the ruins. the birds were singing one and all, as if there were no aching hearts, no sin nor sorrow, in the world. so motionless was the bright air, that the shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass. the distant snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and nothing frowned, save the square tower of the old ruin above them. "what a pity it is," said the lady, as she stopped to rest her weary fingers; "what a pity it is, that there is no old tradition connected with this ruin." "i will make you one, if you wish," said flemming. "can you make old traditions?" "o yes; i made three the other day for the rhine, and one very old one for the black forest. a lady with dishevelled hair; a robber with a horrible slouched hat; and a night-storm among the roaring pines." "delightful! do make one for me." "with the greatest pleasure. where will you have the scene? here, or in the black forest?" "in the black forest, by all means? begin." "first promise not to interrupt me. if you snap the golden threads of thought, they will float away on the air like gossamer threads, and i shall never be able to recover them." "i promise." "listen, then, to the tradition of 'the fountain of oblivion.' " "begin." flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, at the lady's feet, looking up with dreamy eyes into her sweet face, and then into the leaves of the linden-trees overhead. "gentle lady! dost thou remember the linden-trees of bülach, those tall and stately trees, with velvet down upon their shining leaves and rustic benches underneath their overhanging eaves! a leafy dwelling, fit to be the home of elf or fairy, where first i told my love to thee, thou cold and stately hermione! a little peasant girl stood near, and listened all the while, with eyes of wonder and delight, and an unconscious smile, to hear the stranger still speak on in accents deep yet mild,--none else was with us in that hour, save god and that peasant child!" "why, it is in rhyme!" "no, no! the rhyme is only in your imagination. you promised not to interrupt me, and you have already snapped asunder the gossamer threads of as sweet a dream as was ever spun from a poet's brain." "it certainly did rhyme!" "this was the reverie of the student hieronymus, as he sat at midnight in his chamber, with his hands clasped together, and resting upon anopen volume, which he should have been reading. his pale face was raised, and the pupils of his eyes dilated as if the spirit-world were open before him, and some beauteous vision were standing there, and drawing the student's soul through his eyes up into heaven, as the evening sun through parting summer-clouds, seems to draw into its bosom the vapors of the earth. o, it was a sweet vision! i can see it before me now! "near the student stood an antique bronze lamp, with strange figures carved upon it. it was a magic lamp, which once belonged to the arabian astrologer el geber, in spain. its light was beautiful as the light of stars; and, night after night, as the lonely wight sat alone and read in his lofty tower, through the mist, and mirk, and dropping rain, it streamed out into the darkness, and was seen by many wakeful eyes. to the poor student hieronymus it was a wonderful aladdin's lamp; for in its flame a divinity revealed herself unto him, and showed him treasures. whenever he opened a ponderous, antiquatedtome, it seemed as if some angel opened for him the gates of paradise; and already he was known in the city as hieronymus the learned. "but, alas! he could read no more. the charm was broken. hour after hour he passed with his hands clasped before him, and his fair eyes gazing at vacancy. what could so disturb the studies of this melancholy wight? lady, he was in love! have you ever been in love? he had seen the face of the beautiful hermione; and as, when we have thoughtlessly looked at the sun, our dazzled eyes, though closed, behold it still; so he beheld by day and by night the radiant image of her upon whom he had too rashly gazed. alas! he was unhappy; for the proud hermione disdained the love of a poor student, whose only wealth was a magic lamp. in marble halls, and amid the gay crowd that worshipped her, she had almost forgotten that such a being lived as the student hieronymus. the adoration of his heart had been to her only as the perfume of a wild flower, which she had carelessly crushedwith her foot in passing. but he had lost all; for he had lost the quiet of his thoughts; and his agitated soul reflected only broken and distorted images of things. the world laughed at the poor student, who, in his torn and threadbare cassock, dared to lift his eyes to the lady hermione; while he sat alone, in his desolate chamber, and suffered in silence. he remembered many things, which he would fain forget; but which, if he had forgotten them, he would wish again to remember. such were the linden-trees of bülach, under whose pleasant shade he had told his love to hermione. this was the scene which he wished most to forget, yet loved most to remember; and of this he was now dreaming, with his hands clasped upon his book, and that kind of music in his thoughts, which you, lady, mistook for rhyme. "suddenly the cathedral clock struck twelve with a melancholy clang. it roused the student hieronymus from his dream; and rang in his ears, like the iron hoofs of the steeds of time. themagic hour had come, when the divinity of the lamp most willingly revealed herself to her votary. the bronze figures seemed alive; a white cloud rose from the flame and spread itself through the chamber, whose four walls dilated into magnificent cloud vistas; a fragrance, as of wild-flowers, filled the air; and a dreamy music, like distant, sweetchiming bells, announced the approach of the midnight divinity. through his streaming tears the heart-broken student beheld her once more descending a pass in the snowy cloud-mountains, as, at evening, the dewy hesperus comes from the bosom of the mist, and assumes his station in the sky. at her approach, his spirit grew more calm; for her presence was, to his feverish heart, like a tropical night,--beautiful and soothing and invigorating. at length she stood before him revealed in all her beauty; and he comprehended the visible language of her sweet but silent lips; which seemed to say;--'what would the student hieronymus to-night?'--'peace!' he answered, raising his clasped hands, and smiling through histears. 'the student hieronymus imploreth peace!' 'then go,' said the spirit, 'go to the fountain of oblivion in the deepest solitude of the black forest, and cast this scroll into its waters; and thou shalt be at peace once more. hieronymus opened his arms to embrace the divinity, for her countenance assumed the features of hermione; but she vanished away; the music ceased; the gorgeous cloud-land sank and fell asunder; and the student was alone within the four bare walls of his chamber. as he bowed his head downward, his eye fell upon a parchment scroll, which was lying beside the lamp. upon it was written only the name of hermione! "the next morning hieronymus put the scroll into his bosom, and went his way in search of the fountain of oblivion. a few days brought him to the skirts of the black forest. he entered, not without a feeling of dread, that land of shadows; and passed onward under melancholy pines and cedars, whose branches grew abroad and mingled together, and, as they swayed up and down, filled the air with solemn twilight and a sound of sorrow. as he advanced into the forest, the waving moss hung, like curtains, from the branches overhead, and more and more shut out the light of heaven; and he knew that the fountain of oblivion was not far off. even then the sound of falling waters was mingling with the roar of the pines overhead; and ere long he came to a river, moving in solemn majesty through the forest, and falling with a dull, leaden sound into a motionless and stagnant lake, above which the branches of the forest met and mingled, forming perpetual night. this was the fountain of oblivion. "upon its brink the student paused, and gazed into the dark waters with a steadfast look. they were limpid waters, dark with shadows only. and as he gazed, he beheld, far down in their silent depths, dim and ill-defined outlines, wavering to and fro, like the folds of a white garment in the twilight. then more distinct and permanent shapes arose;--shapes familiar to his mind, yet forgotten and remembered again, as the fragmentsof a dream; till at length, far, far below him he beheld the great city of the past, with silent marble streets, and moss-grown walls, and spires uprising with a wave-like, flickering motion. and amid the crowd that thronged those streets, he beheld faces once familiar and dear to him; and heard sorrowful, sweet voices, singing; 'o forget us not! forget us not!' and then the distant, mournful sound of funeral bells, that were tolling below, in the city of the past. but in the gardens of that city, there were children playing, and among them, one who wore his features, as they had been in childhood. he was leading a little girl by the hand, and caressed her often, and adorned her with flowers. then, like a dream, the scene changed, and the boy had grown older, and stood alone, gazing into the sky; and, as he gazed, his countenance changed again, and hieronymus beheld him, as if it had been his own image in the clear water; and before him stood a beauteous maiden, whose face was like the face of hermione, and he feared lest the scroll had fallen into the water, as he bent overit. starting as from a dream he put his hand into his bosom and breathed freely again, when he found the scroll still there. he drew it forth, and read the blessed name of hermione, and the city beneath him vanished away, and the air grew fragrant as with the breath of may-flowers, and a light streamed through the shadowy forest and gleamed upon the lake; and the student hieronymus pressed the dear name to his lips and exclaimed with streaming eyes; 'o, scorn me as thou wilt, still, still will i love thee; and thy name shall irradiate the gloom of my life, and make the waters of oblivion smile!' and the name was no longer hermione, but was changed to mary; and the student hieronymus--is lying at your feet! o, gentle lady! 'i did hear you talk far above singing; after you were gone i grew acquainted with my heart, and searched what stirred it so! alas! i found it love." chapter ix. a talk on the stairs. no! i will not describe that scene; nor how pale the stately lady sat on the border of the green, sunny meadow! the hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and then are still again. others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled to rest. and such was the proud heart of mary ashburton. it had remained unmoved by the presence of this stranger; and the sound of his footsteps and his voice excited in it no emotion. he had deceived himself! silently they walked homeward through the green meadow. the very sunshine was sad; and the rising wind, through the old ruin above them, sounded in his ears like a hollow laugh! flemming went straight to his chamber. on the way, he passed the walnut trees under which he had first seen the face of mary ashburton. involuntarily he closed his eyes. they were full of tears. o, there are places in this fair world, which we never wish to see again, however dear they may be to us! the towers of the old franciscan convent never looked so gloomily as then, though the bright summer sun was shining full upon them. in his chamber he found berkley. he was looking out of the window, whistling. "this evening i leave interlachen forever," said flemming, rather abruptly. berkley stared. "indeed! pray what is the matter? you look as pale as a ghost!" "and have good reason to look pale," replied flemming bitterly. "hoffmann says, in one of his note-books, that, on the eleventh of march, at half past eight o'clock, precisely, he was an ass. that is what i was this morning at half past ten o'clock, precisely, and am now, and i suppose always shall be." he tried to laugh, but could not. he then related to berkley the whole story, from beginning to end. "this is a miserable piece of business!" exclaimed berkley, when he had finished. "strange enough! and yet i have long ceased to marvel at the caprices of women. did not pan captivate the chaste diana? did not titania love nick bottom, with his ass's head? do you think that maidens' eyes are no longer touched with the juice of love-in-idleness! take my word for it, she is in love with somebody else. there must be some reason for this. no; women never have any reasons, except their will. but never mind. keep a stout heart. care killed a cat. after all,--what is she? who is she? only a--" "hush! hush," exclaimed flemming, in great excitement. "not one word more, i beseech you. do not think to console me, by depreciating her. she is very dear to me still; a beautiful, high-minded, noble woman." "yes," answered berkley; "that is the waywith you all, you young men. you see a sweet face, or a something, you know not what, and flickering reason says, good night; amen to common sense. the imagination invests the beloved object with a thousand superlative charms; furnishes her with all the purple and fine linen, all the rich apparel and furniture, of human nature. i did the same when i was young. i was once as desperately in love as you are now; and went through all the 'delicious deaths, soft exhalations of soul; dear and divine annihilations, a thousand unknown rites of joys, and rarified delights.' i adored and was rejected. 'you are in love with certain attributes,' said the lady. 'damn your attributes, madam,' said i; 'i know nothing of attributes.' 'sir,' said she, with dignity, 'you have been drinking.' so we parted. she was married afterwards to another, who knew something about attributes, i suppose. i have seen her once since, and only once. she had a baby in a yellow gown. i hate a baby in a yellow gown. how glad i am she did not marry me. one of these days, you will be glad you have been rejected. take my word for it." "all that does not prevent my lot from being a very melancholy one!" said flemming sadly. "o, never mind the lot," cried berkley laughing, "so long as you don't get lot's wife. if the cucumber is bitter, throw it away, as the philosopher marcus antoninus says, in his meditations. forget her, and all will be as if you had not known her." "i shall never forget her," replied flemming, rather solemnly. "not my pride, but my affections, are wounded; and the wound is too deep ever to heal. i shall carry it with me always. i enter no more into the world, but will dwell only in the world of my own thoughts. all great and unusual occurrences, whether of joy or sorrow, lift us above this earth; and we should do well always to preserve this elevation. hitherto i have not done so. but now i will no more descend; i will sit apart and above the world, with my mournful, yet holy thoughts." "whew! you had better go into society; the whirl and delirium will cure you in a week. if you find a lady, who pleases you very much, and you wish to marry her, and she will not listen to such a horrid thing, i see but one remedy, which is to find another, who pleases you more, and who will listen to it." "no, my friend; you do not understand my character," said flemming, shaking his head. "i love this woman with a deep, and lasting affection. i shall never cease to love her. this may be madness in me; but so it is. alas and alas! paracelsus of old wasted life in trying to discover its elixir, which after all turned out to be alcohol; and instead of being made immortal upon earth, he died drunk on the floor of a tavern. the like happens to many of us. we waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into love-potions, which after all do not immortalize, butonly intoxicate us. by heaven! we are all of us mad." "but are you sure the case is utterly hopeless?" "utterly! utterly!" "and yet i perceive you have not laid aside all hope. you still flatter yourself, that the lady's heart may change. the great secret of happiness consists not in enjoying, but in renouncing. but it is hard, very hard. hope has as many lives as a cat or a king. i dare say you have heard the old italian proverb, 'the king never dies.' but perhaps you have never heard, that, at the court of naples, where the dead body of a monarch lies in state, his dinner is carried up to him as usual, and the court physician tastes it, to see that it be not poisoned, and then the servants bear it out again, saying 'the king does not dine to-day.' hope in our souls is king; and we also say, 'the king never dies.' even when in reality he lies dead within us, in a kind of solemn mockery we offer him his accustomed food, but are constrainedto say, 'the king does not dine to-day.' it must be an evil day, indeed, when a king of naples has no heart for his dinner! but you yourself are a proof, that the king never dies. you are feeding your king, although you say he is dead." "to show you, that i do not wish to cherish hope," replied flemming, i shall leave interlachen to-morrow morning. i am going to the tyrol." "you are right," said berkley; "there is nothing so good for sorrow as rapid motion in the open air. i shall go with you; though probably your conversation will not be very various; nothing but edward and kunigunde." "what do you mean by that?" "go to berlin, and you will find out. however, jesting apart, i will do all i can to cheer you, and make you forget the dark ladie, and this untoward accident." "accident!" said flemming. "this is no accident, but god's providence, which brought us together, to punish me for my sins." "o, my friend," interrupted berkley, "if you see the finger of providence so distinctly in every act of your life, you will end by thinking yourself an apostle and envoy extraordinary. i see nothing so very uncommon in what has happened to you." "what! not when our souls are so akin to each other! when we seemed so formed to be together,--to be one!" "i have often observed," replied berkley coldly, "that those who are of kindred souls, rarely wed together; almost as rarely as those who are akin by blood. there seems, indeed, to be such a thing as spiritual incest. therefore, mad lover, do not think to persuade thyself and thy scornful lady, that you have kindred souls; but rather the contrary; that you are much unlike; and each wanting in those qualities which most mark and distinguish the other. trust me, thy courtship will then be more prosperous. but good morning. i must prepare for this sudden journey." on the following morning, flemming and berkleystarted on their way to innsbruck, like huon of bordeaux and scherasmin on their way to babylon. berkley's self-assumed duty was to console his companion; a duty which he performed like an old spanish matadora, a woman whose business was to attend the sick, and put her elbow into the stomach of the dying to shorten their agony. book iv. epigraph "mortal, they softly say, peace to thy heart! we too, yes, mortal, have been as thou art; hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, seeing in part, tried, troubled, tempted,-sustained,--as thou art." chapter i. a miserere. in the orlando innamorato, malagigi, the necromancer, puts all the company to sleep by reading to them from a book. some books have this power of themselves and need no necromancer. fearing, gentle reader, that mine may be of this kind, i have provided these introductory chapters, from time to time, like stalls or misereres in a church, with flowery canopies and poppy-heads over them, where thou mayest sit down and sleep. no,--the figure is not a bad one. this book does somewhat resemble a minster, in the romanesque style, with pinnacles, and flying buttresses, and roofs, "gargoyled with greyhounds, and with many lions made of fine gold, with divers sundry dragons." you step into its shade and coolness out of the hot streets of life; a mysterious light streams through the painted glass of the marigold windows, staining the cusps and crumpled leaves of the window-shafts, and the cherubs and holy-water-stoups below. here and there is an image of the virgin mary; and other images, "in divers vestures, called weepers, stand in housings made about the tomb"; and, above all, swells the vast dome of heaven, with its star-mouldings, and the flaming constellations, like the mosaics in the dome of st. peter's. have you not heard funeral psalms from the chauntry? have you not heard the sound of church-bells, as i promised; mysterious sounds from the past and future, as from the belfries outside the cathedral; even such a mournful, mellow, watery peal of bells, as is heard sometimes at sea, from cities afar off below the horizon? i know not how this romanesque, and at times flamboyant, style of architecture may please thecritics. they may wish, perhaps, that i had omitted some of my many ornaments, my arabesques, and roses, and fantastic spouts, and holy-roods and gallilee-steeples. but would it then have been romanesque? but perhaps, gentle reader, thou art one of those, who think the days of romance gone forever. believe it not! o, believe it not! thou hast at this moment in thy heart as sweet a romance as was ever written. thou art not less a woman, because thou dost not sit aloft in a tower, with a tassel-gentle on thy wrist! thou art not less a man, because thou wearest no hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest not on horseback after foolish adventures! nay, nay! every one has a romance in his own heart. all that has blessed or awed the world lies there; and "the oracle within him, that which lives, he must invoke and question,--not dead books, not ordinances, not mould-rotten papers." sooner or later some passages of every one's romance must be written, either in words or actions. they will proclaim the truth; for truth is thought, which has assumed its appropriate garments, either of words or actions; while falsehood is thought, which, disguised in words or actions not its own, comes before the blind old world, as jacob came before the patriarch isaac, clothed in the goodly raiment of his brother esau. and the world, like the patriarch, is often deceived; for, though the voice is jacob's voice, yet the hands are the hands of esau, and the false takes away the birth-right and the blessing from the true. hence it is, that the world so often lifts up its voice and weeps. that very pleasing and fanciful chinese romance, the shadow in the water, ends with the hero's marrying both the heroines. i hope my gentle reader feels curious to know the end of this romance, which is a shadow upon the earth; and see whether there be any marriage at all in it. that is the very point i am now thinking of, as i sit here at my pleasant chamber window, and enjoy the balmy air of a bright summer morning, and watch the motions of the golden robin, that sits on its swinging nest on the outermost, pendulous branch of yonder elm. the broad meadows and the steel-blue river remind me of the meadows of unterseen, and the river aar; and beyond them rise magnificent snow-white clouds, piled up like alps. thus the shades of washington and william tell seem to walk together on these elysian fields; for it was here, that in days long gone, our great patriot dwelt; and yonder clouds so much resemble the snowy alps, that they remind me irresistibly of the swiss. noble examples of a high purpose and a fixed will! do they not move, hyperion-like on high? were they not, likewise, sons of heaven and earth? nothing can be more lovely than these summer mornings; nor than the southern window at which i sit and write, in this old mansion, which is like an italian villa. but o, this lassitude,--thisweariness,--when all around me is so bright! i have this morning a singular longing for flowers; a wish to stroll among the roses and carnations, and inhale their breath, as if it would revive me. i wish i knew the man, who called flowers "the fugitive poetry of nature." from this distance, from these scholastic shades,--from this leafy, blossoming, and beautiful cambridge, i stretch forth my hand to grasp his, as the hand of a poet!--yes; this morning i would rather stroll with him among the gay flowers, than sit here and write. i feel so weary! old men with their staves, says the spanish poet, are ever knocking at the door of the grave. but i am not old. the spanish poet might have included the young also.--no matter! courage, and forward! the romance must be finished; and finished soon. o thou poor authorling! reach a little deeper into the human heart! touch those strings,--touch those deeper strings, and more boldly, or the notes will die away like whispers, and no earshall hear them, save thine own! and, to cheer thy solitary labor, remember, that the secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. they are out of sight; but without them no superstructure can stand secure! and now, reader, since the sermon is over, and we are still sitting here in this miserere, let us read aloud a page from the old parchment manuscript on the lettern before us; let us sing it through these dusky aisles, like a gregorian chant, and startle the sleeping congregation! "i have read of the great river euripus, which ebbeth and floweth seven times a day, and with such violence, that it carrieth ships upon it with full sail, directly against the wind. seven times in an hour ebbeth and floweth rash opinion, in the torrent of indiscreet and troublesome apprehensions; carrying critic calumny and squint-eyed detraction mainly against the wind of wisdom and judgment." in secula seculorum! amen! chapter ii. curfew bells. welcome disappointment! thy hand is cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend! thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice of a friend! o, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success! the emperor isaac angelus made a treaty with saladin, and tried to purchase the holy sepulchre with gold. richard lion-heart scorned such alliance, and sought to recover it by battle. thus do weak minds make treaties with the passions they cannot overcome, and try to purchase happiness at the expense of principle. but the resolute will of a strong man scorns such means; and struggles nobly with his foe, to achieve great deeds. therefore, whosoever thou art that sufferest, try not to dissipate thy sorrow by the breath of the world, nor drown its voice in thoughtless merriment. it is a treacherous peace that is purchased by indulgence. rather take this sorrow to thy heart, and make it a part of thee, and it shall nourish thee till thou art strong again. the shadows of the mind are like those of the body. in the morning of life they all lie behind us; at noon, we trample them under foot; and in the evening they stretch long, broad, and deepening before us. are not, then, the sorrows of childhood as dark as those of age? are not the morning shadows of life as deep and broad as those of its evening? yes; but morning shadows soon fade away, while those of evening reach forward into the night and mingle with the coming darkness. man is begotten in delight and born in pain; and in these are the rapture and labor of his life fore-shadowed from the beginning. but thelife of man upon this fair earth is made up for the most part of little pains and little pleasures. the great wonder-flowers bloom but once in a lifetime. a week had already elapsed since the events recorded in the last chapter. paul flemming went his way, a melancholy man, "drinking the sweet wormwood of his sorrow." he did not rail at providence and call it fate, but suffered and was silent. it is a beautiful trait in the lover's character, that he thinks no evil of the object loved. what he suffered was no swift storm of feeling, that passes away with a noise, and leaves the heart clearer; but a dark phantom had risen up in the clear night, and, like that of adamastor, hid the stars; and if it ever vanished away for a season, still the deep sound of the moaning main would be heard afar, through many a dark and lonely hour. and thus he journeyed on, wrapped in desponding gloom, and mainly heedless of all things around him. his mind was distempered. that one face was always before him; that one voice forever saying; "you are not the magician." painful, indeed, it is to be misunderstood and undervalued by those we love. but this, too, in our life, must we learn to bear without a murmur; for it is a tale often repeated. there are persons in this world to whom all local associations are naught. the genius of the place speaks not to them. even on battle-fields, where the voice of this genius is wont to be loudest, they hear only the sound of their own voices; they meet there only their own dull and pedantic thoughts, as the old grammarian brunetto latini met on the plain of roncesvalles a poor student riding on a bay mule. this was not always the case with paul flemming, but it had become so now. he felt no interest in the scenery around him. he hardly looked at it. even the difficult mountain-passes, where, from his rocky eyrie the eagle-eyed tyrolese peasant had watched his foe, and the roaring, turbid torrent underneath, which had swallowed up the bloody corse, that fell from the rocks like a crushed worm, awakened no lively emotion in his breast. all around him seemed dreamy and vague; all within dim, as in a sun's eclipse. as the moon, whether visible or invisible, has power over the tides of the ocean, so the face of that lady, whether present or absent, had power over the tides of his soul; both by day and night, both waking and sleeping. in every pale face and dark eye he saw a resemblance to her; and what the day denied him in reality, the night gave him in dreams. "this is a strange, fantastic world," said berkley, after a very long silence, during which the two travellers had been sitting each in his corner of the travelling carriage, wrapped in his own reflections. "a very strange, fantastic world; where each one pursues his own golden bubble, and laughs at his neighbour for doing the same. i have been thinking how a moral linnæus would classify our race. i think he would divide it, not as lord byron did, into two great classes, the bores and those who are bored, but into three, namely; happy men, lucky dogs, and miserable wretches. this is more true and philosophical, though perhaps not quite so comprehensive. he is the happy man, who, blessed with modest ease, a wife and children,--sits enthroned in the hearts of his family, and knows no other ambition, than that of making those around him happy. but the lucky dog is he, who, free from all domestic cares, saunters up and down his room, in morning gown and slippers; drums on the window of a rainy day; and, as he stirs his evening fire, snaps his fingers at the world, and says, 'i have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for.' i had a friend, who is now no more. he was taken away in the bloom of life, by a very rapid--widow. he was by birth and by profession a beau,--born with a quizzing-glass and a cane. cock of the walk, he flapped his wings, and crowed among the feathered tribe. but alas! a fair, white partlet has torn his crest out, and he shall crow no more. you will generally find him of a morning, smelling round a beef-cart, with domestic felicity written in every line of his countenance; and sometimes meet him in a cross-street at noon, hurrying homeward, with a beef-steak on a wooden skewer, or a fresh fish, with a piece of tarred twine run through its gills. in the evening he rocks the cradle, and gets up in the night when the child cries. like a goth, of the dark ages, he consults his wife on all mighty matters, and looks upon her as a being of more than human goodness and wisdom. in short, the ladies all say he is a very domestic man, and makes a good husband; which, under the rose, is only a more polite way of saying he is hen-pecked. he is a happy man. i have another dear friend, who is a sexagenary bachelor. he has one of those well-oiled dispositions, which turn upon the hinges of the world without creaking. the hey-day of life is over with him; but his old age is sunny and chirping; and a merry heart still nestles in his tottering frame, like a swallow that builds in a tumble-down chimney. he is a professed squire of dames. the rustle of a silk gown is music to his ears, and his imagination is continuallylantern-led by some will-with-a-wisp in the shape of a lady's stomacher. in his devotion to the fair sex,--the muslin, as he calls it,--he is the gentle flower of chivalry. it is amusing to see how quick he strikes into the scent of a lady's handkerchief. when once fairly in pursuit, there is no such thing as throwing him out. his heart looks out at his eye; and his inward delight tingles down to the tail of his coat. he loves to bask in the sunshine of a smile; when he can breathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves and cambric handkerchiefs, his soul is in its element; and his supreme delight is to pass the morning, to use his own quaint language, 'in making dodging calls, and wiggling round among the ladies!' he is a lucky dog!" "and as a specimen of the class of miserable wretches, i suppose you will take me," said flemming, making an effort to enter into his friend's humor. "certainly i am wretched enough. you may make me the stuffed bear,--the specimen of this class." "by no means," replied berkley; "you are not reduced so low. he only is utterly wretched, who is the slave of his own passions, or those of others. this, i trust, will never be your condition. why so wan and pale, fond lover? do you remember sir john suckling's song? 'why so wan and pale, fond lover; pr'ythee why so pale? will, if looking well can't move her, looking ill prevail? pr'ythee why so pale? 'why so dull and mute, young sinner; pr'ythee why so mute? will, if speaking well can't win her, saying nothing do 't? pr'ythee why so mute? 'quit, quit, for shame! this cannot move, this cannot take her! if of herself she do not love, nothing will make her! the devil take her!' how do you like that?" "to you i say quit, quit for shame;" replied flemming. "why quote the songs of that witty and licentious age? have you no better consolation to offer me? how many, many times must i tell you, that i bear the lady no ill-will. i do not blame her for not loving me. i desire her happiness, even at the sacrifice of my own." "that is generous in you, and deserves a better fate. but you are so figurative in all you say, that a stranger would think you had no real feeling,--and only fancied yourself in love." "expression of feeling is different with different minds. it is not always simple. some minds, when excited, naturally speak in figures and similitudes. they do not on that account feel less deeply. this is obvious in our commonest modes of speech. it depends upon the individual." "kyrie eleëson!" "well, abuse my figures of speech as much as you please. what i insist upon is, that you shall not abuse the lady. when did you ever hear me breathe a whisper against her?" "oho! now you speak like launce to his dog!" their conversation, which had begun so merrily, was here suddenly interrupted by a rattling peal of thunder, that announced a near-approaching storm. it was late in the afternoon, and the whole heaven black with low, trailing clouds. still blacker the storm came sailing up majestically from the southwest, with almost unbroken volleys of distant thunder. the wind seemed to be storming a cloud redoubt; and marched onward with dust, and the green banners of the trees flapping in the air, and heavy cannonading, and occasionally an explosion, like the blowing up of a powder-wagon. mingled with this was the sound of thunder-bells from a village not far off. they were all ringing dolefully to ward off the thunderbolt. at the entrance of the village stood a large wooden crucifix; around which was a crowd of priests and peasants, kneeling in the wet grass, by the roadside, with their hands and eyes lifted toheaven, and praying for rain. their prayer was soon answered. the travellers drove on with the driving wind and rain. they had come from landeck, and hoped to reach innsbruck before midnight. night closed in, and flemming fell asleep with the loud storm overhead, and at his feet the roaring inn, a mountain torrent leaping onward as wild and restless, as when it first sprang from its cradle in the solitudes of engaddin; meet emblem of himself, thus rushing through the night. his slumber was long, but broken; and at length he awoke in terror; for he heard a voice pronounce in his ear distinctly these words; "they have brought the dead body." they were driving by a churchyard at the entrance of a town; and among the tombs a dim lamp was burning before an image of the virgin. it had a most unearthly appearance. flemming almost feared to see the congregation of the dead go into the church and sing their midnight mass. he spoke to berkley; but received no answer; he was in a deep sleep. "then it was only a dream," said he to himself; "yet how distinct the voice was! o, if we had spiritual organs, to see and hear things now invisible and inaudible to us, we should behold the whole air filled with the departing souls of that vast multitude which every moment dies,--should behold them streaming up like thin vapors heaven-ward, and hear the startling blast of the archangel's trump sounding incessant through the universe and proclaiming the awful judgment day. truly the soul departs not alone on its last journey, but spirits of its kind attend it, when not ministering angels; and they go in families to the unknown land! neither in life nor in death are we alone." he slept again at intervals; and at length, though long after midnight, reached innsbruck between sleeping and waking; his mind filled with dim recollections of the unspeakably dismal night-journey;--the climbing of hills, and plunging into dark ravines;--the momentary rattling of the wheels over paved streets of towns, and the succeeding hollow rolling and tramping on the wetearth;--the blackness of the night;--the thunder and lightning and rain; the roar of waters, leaping through deep chasms by the road-side, and the wind through the mountain-passes, sounding loud and long, like the irrepressible laughter of the gods. the travellers on the morrow lingered not long in innsbruck. they did not fail, however, to visit the tomb of maximilian in the franciscan church of the holy cross, and gaze with some admiration upon the twenty-eight gigantic bronze statues of godfrey of bouillon, and king arthur and ernest the iron-man, and frederick of the empty pockets, kings and heroes, and others, which stand leaning on their swords between the columns of the church, as if guarding the tomb of the dead. these statues reminded flemming of the bronze giants, which strike the hours on the belfry of san basso, in venice, and of the flail-armed monsters, that guarded the gateway of angulaffer's castle in oberon. after gazing awhile at these motionless sentinels, they went forth, and strolled throughthe public gardens, with the jagged mountains right over their heads, and all around them tall, melancholy pines, like tyrolese peasants, with shaggy hair; and at their feet the mad torrent of the inn, sweeping with turbid waves through the midst of the town. in the afternoon they drove on towards salzburg through the magnificent mountain-passes of waidering and unken. chapter iii. shadows on the wall. on the following morning flemming awoke in a chamber of the golden ship at salzburg, just as the clock in the dome-church opposite was striking ten. the window-shutters were closed, and the room nearly dark. he was lying on his back, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his eyes looking up at the white curtains overhead. he thought them the white marble canopy of a tomb, and himself the marble statue, lying beneath. when the clock ceased striking, the eight and twenty gigantic bronze statues from the church of holy rood in innsbruck stalked into the chamber, and arranged themselves along the walls, which spread into dimly-lighted aisles and arches. on the painted windows he saw interlachen, withits franciscan cloister, and the square tower of the ruins. in a pendent, overhead, stood the german student, as saint vitus; and on a lavatory, or basin of holy-water, below, sat a cherub, with the form and features of berkley. then the organ-pipes began to blow, and he heard the voices of an invisible choir chanting. and anon the gilded gates in the bronze screen before the chancel opened, and a bridal procession passed through. the bride was clothed in the garb of the middle ages; and held a book in her hand, with velvet covers, and golden clasps. it was mary ashburton. she looked at him as she passed. her face was pale; and there were tears in her sweet eyes. then the gates closed again; and one of the oaken poppy-heads over a carved stall, in the shape of an owl, flapped its broad wings, and hooted, "towhit! to-whoo!" then the whole scene changed; and he thought himself a monk's-head on a gutterspout; and it rained dismally; and berkley was standing under with an umbrella, laughing! in other words, flemming was in a ragingfever, and delirious. he remained in this state for a week. the first thing he was conscious of was hearing the doctor say to berkley; "the crisis is passed. i now consider him out of danger." he then fell into a sweet sleep; the wild fever had swept away like an angry, red cloud, and the refreshing summer rain began to fall like dew upon the parched earth. still another week; and flemming was, "sitting clothed, and in his right mind." berkley had been reading to him; and still held the book in his hand, with his fore-finger between the leaves. it was a volume of hoffmann's writings. "how very strange it is," said he, "that you can hardly open the biography of any german author, but you will find it begin with an account of his grandfather. it will tell you how the venerable old man walked up and down the garden among the gay flowers, wrapped in his morning gown, which is likewise covered with flowers, and perhaps wearing on his head a little velvet cap. oryou will find him sitting by the chimney-corner in the great chair, smoking his ancestral pipe, with shaggy eyebrows and eyes like birdsnests under the eaves of a house, and a mouth like a nuremberg nutcracker's. the future poet climbs upon the old man's knees. his genius is not recognised yet. he is thought for the most part a dull boy. his father is an austere man, or perhaps dead. but the mother is still there, a sickly, saint-like woman, with knitting-work, and an elder sister, who has already been in love, and wears rings on her fingers;-'death's heads, and such mementos, her grandmother and worm-eaten aunts left to her, to tell her what her beauty must arrive at.'" "but this is not the case with the life of hoffmann, if i recollect right." "no, not precisely. instead of the grandfather we have the grandmother, a stately dame, who has long since shaken hands with the vanities of life. the mother, separated from her husband, is sick in mind and body, and flits to and fro, like a shadow. then there is an affectionate maiden aunt; and an uncle, a retired judge, the terror of little boys,--the giant despair of this doubting castle in koenigsberg; and occasionally the benign countenance of a venerable grand-uncle, whom lamotte fouqué called a hero of the olden time in morning gown and slippers, looks in at the door and smiles. in the upper story of the same house lived a poor boy with his mother, who was so far crazed as to believe herself to be the virgin mary, and her son the saviour of the world. wild fancies, likewise, were to sweep through the brain of that child. he was to meet hoffmann elsewhere and be his friend in after years, though as yet they knew nothing of each other. this was werner, who has made some noise in german literature as the author of many wild destiny-dramas." "hoffmann died, i believe, in berlin." "yes. he left koenigsberg at twenty years of age, and passed the next eight years of his life in the prussian-polish provinces, where he held some petty office under government; and took to himselfmany bad habits and a polish wife. after this he was music-director at various german theatres, and led a wandering, wretched life for ten years. he then went to berlin as clerk of the exchange, and there remained till his death, which took place some seven or eight years afterward." "did you ever see him?" "i was in berlin during his lifetime, and saw him frequently. i shall never forget the first time. it was at one of the æsthetic teas, given by a literary lady unter den linden, where the lions were fed with convenient food, from tea and bread and butter, up to oysters and rhine-wine. during the evening my attention was arrested by the entrance of a strange little figure, with a wild head of brown hair. his eyes were bright gray; and his thin lips closely pressed together with an expression of not unpleasing irony. this strangelooking personage began to bow his way through the crowd, with quick, nervous, hinge-like motions, much resembling those of a marionette. he had a hoarse voice, and such a rapid utterance, that although i understood german well enough for ordinary purposes, i could not understand one half he said. ere long he had seated himself at the piano-forte, and was improvising such wild, sweet fancies, that the music of one's dreams is not more sweet and wild. then suddenly some painful thought seemed to pass over his mind, as if he imagined, that he was there to amuse the company. he rose from the piano-forte, and seated himself in another part of the room; where he began to make grimaces, and talk loud while others were singing. finally he disappeared, like a hobgoblin, laughing, 'ho! ho! ho!' i asked a person beside me who this strange being was. 'that was hoffmann,' was the answer. 'the devil!' said i. 'yes,' continued my informant; 'and if you should follow him now, you would see him plunge into an obscure and unfrequented wine-cellar, and there, amid boon companions, with wine and tobacco-smoke, and quirks and quibbles, and quaint, witty sayings, turn the dim night into glorious day.'" "what a strange being!" "i once saw him at one of his night-carouses. he was sitting in his glory, at the head of the table; not stupidly drunk, but warmed with wine, which made him madly eloquent, as the devil's elixir did the monk medardus. there, in the full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his gray, hawk eye flashing from beneath his matted hair, and taking note of all that was grotesque in the company round him, sat this unfortunate genius, till the day began to dawn. then he found his way homeward, having, like the souls of the envious in purgatory, his eyelids sewed together with iron wire;--though his was from champagne bottles. at such hours he wrote his wild, fantastic tales. to his excited fancy everything assumed a spectral look. the shadows of familiar things about him stalked like ghosts through the haunted chambers of his soul; and the old portraits on the walls winked at him, and seemed stepping down from their frames; till, aghast at the spectral throng about him, he would call his wife from her bed, to sit by him while he wrote." "no wonder he died in the prime of life!" "no. the only wonder is, that he could have followed this course of life for six years. i am astonished that it did not kill him sooner." "but death came at last in an appalling shape." "yes; his forty-sixth birth day found him sitting at home in his arm-chair, with his friends around him. but the rare old wine,--he always drank the best,--touched not the sick-man's lips that night. his wonted humor was gone. of all his 'jibes, his gambols, his songs, his flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar, not one now, to mock his own grinning!--quite chap-fallen.'--the conversation was of death and the grave. and when one of his friends said, that life was not the highest good, hoffmann interrupted him, exclaiming with a startling earnestness; 'no, no! life, life, only life! on any condition whatsoever!' five months after this he had ceased to suffer, because he had ceased to live. he died piecemeal. his feet and hands, his legs and arms, gradually, and in succession, became motionless, dead. but his spirit was not dead, nor motionless; and, through the solitary day or sleepless night, lying in his bed, he dictated to an amanuensis his last stories. strange stories, indeed, were they for a dying man to write! yet such delight did he take in dictating them, that he said to his friend hitzig, that, upon the whole, he was willing to give up forever the use of his hands, if he could but preserve the power of writing by dictation. such was his love of life,--of what he called the sweet habitude of being!" "was it not he, who in his last hours expressed such a longing to behold the green fields once more; and exclaimed; 'heaven! it is already summer, and i have not yet seen a single green tree!'" "yes, that was hoffmann. soon afterwards he died. the closing scene was striking. he gradually lost all sensation, though his mind remained vigorous. feeling no more pain, he said to his physician; 'it will soon be over now. i feel no more pain.' he thought himself well again; but the physician knew that he was dying, and said; 'yes, it will soon be over!' the next morning he called his wife to his bed-side; and begged her to fold his motionless hands together. then, as he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard him say, 'we must, then, think of god, also!' more sorrowful words than these have seldom fallen from the lips of man. shortly afterwards the flame of life glared up within him; he said he was well again; that in the evening he should go on with the story he was writing; and wished that the last sentence might be read over to him. shortly after this they turned his face to the wall, and he died." "and thus passed to its account a human soul, after much self-inflicted suffering. let us tread lightly upon the poet's ashes. for my part, i confess, that i have not the heart to take him from the general crowd of erring, sinful men, and judge him harshly. the little i have seen of the world, and know of the history of mankind, teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not inanger. when i take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed,--the brief pulsations of joy,--the feverish inquie-tude of hope and fear,--the tears of regret,--the feebleness of purpose,--the pressure of want,--the desertion of friends,--the scorn of a world that has little charity,--the desolation of the soul's sanctuary,--and threatening voices within,--health gone,--happiness gone,--even hope, that stays longest with us, gone,--i have little heart for aught else than thankfulness, that it is not so with me, and would fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with him, from whose hands it came, 'even as a little child, weeping and laughing in its childish sport.'" "you are right. and it is worth a student's while to observe calmly how tobacco, wine, and midnight did their work like fiends upon the delicate frame of hoffmann; and no less thoroughly upon his delicate mind. he who drinks beer, thinks beer; and he who drinks wine, thinks wine;--and he who drinks midnight, thinks midnight. he was a man of rare intellect. he was endowed with racy humor and sarcastic wit, and a glorious imagination. but the fire of his genius burned not peacefully, and with a steady flame, upon the hearth of his home. it was a glaring and irregular flame;--for the branches that he fed it with, were not branches from the tree of life,--but from another tree that grew in paradise,--and they were wet with the unhealthy dews of night, and more unhealthy wine; and thus, amid smoke and ashes the fire burned fitfully, and went out with a glare, which leaves the beholder blind." "this fire within him was a meleager's fire-brand; and, when it burned out, he died. and, as you say, marks of all this are clearly visible in hoffmann's writings. indeed, when i read his strange fancies, it is with me, as when in the summer night i hear the rising wind among the trees, and the branches bow, and beckon with their long fingers, and voices go gibbering and mockingthrough the air. a feeling of awe and mysterious dread comes over me. i wish to hear the sound of living voice or footstep near me,--to see a friendly and familiar face. in truth, if it be late at night, the reader as well as the writer of these unearthly fancies, would fain have a patient, meek-eyed wife, with her knitting-work, at his elbow." berkley smiled; but flemming continued without noticing the smile, though he knew what was passing in the mind of his friend; "the life and writings of this singular being interest me in a high degree. oftentimes one may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues. moreover, from the common sympathies of our nature, souls that have struggled and suffered are dear to me. willingly do i recognise their brotherhood. scars upon their foreheads do not so deform them, that they cease to interest. they are always signs of struggle; though alas! too often, likewise, of defeat. seasons of unhealthy, dreamy, vague delight, are followed by seasons ofweariness and darkness. where are then the bright fancies, that, amid the great stillness of the night, arise like stars in the firmament of our souls? the morning dawns, the light of common day shines in upon us, and the heavens are without a star! from the lives of such men we learn, that mere pleasant sensations are not happiness;--that sensual pleasures are to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, from the palm of the hand; and that those who bow down upon their knees to drink of these bright streams that water life, are not chosen of god either to overthrow or to overcome!" "i think you are very lenient in your judgment. this is not the usual defect of critics. like shakspeare's samphire-gatherer, they have a dreadful trade! and, to make the simile complete, they ought to hang for it!" "methinks it would be hard to hang a man for the sake of a simile. but which of hoffmann's works is it, that you have in your hand?" "his phatasy-pieces in callot's manner. who was this callot?" "he was a lorrain painter of the seventeenth century, celebrated for his wild and grotesque conceptions. these sketches of hoffmann are imitations of his style. they are full of humor, poetry, and brilliant imagination." "and which of them shall i read to you? the ritter glück; or the musical sufferings of john kreisler; or that very exquisite story of the golden jar, wherein is depicted the life of poesy, in this common-place world of ours?" "read the shortest. read kreisler. that will amuse me. it is a picture of his own sufferings at the æsthetic teas in berlin, supposed to be written in pencil on the blank leaves of a music-book." thereupon berkley leaned back in his easychair, and read as follows. chapter iv. musical sufferings of john kreisler. "they are all gone! i might have known it by the whispering, shuffling, coughing, buzzing through all the notes of the gamut. it was a true swarm of bees, leaving the old hive. gottlieb has lighted fresh candles for me, and placed a bottle of burgundy on the piano-forte. i can play no more, i am perfectly exhausted. my glorious old friend here on the music-stand is to blame for that. again he has borne me away through the air, as mephistopheles did faust, and so high, that i took not the slightest notice of the little men under me, though i dare say they made noise enough. a rascally, worthless, wasted evening! but now i am well and merry! however, while i was playing, i took out my pencil, and on pagesixty-three, under the last system, noted down a couple of good flourishes in cipher with my right hand, while the left was struggling away in the torrent of sweet sounds. upon the blank page at the end i go on writing. i leave all ciphers and sweet tones, and with true delight, like a sick man restored to health, who can never stop relating what he has suffered, i note down here circumstantially the dire agonies of this evening's tea-party. and not for myself alone, but likewise for all those who from time to time may amuse and edify themselves with my copy of john sebastian bach's variations for the piano-forte, published by nägeli in zürich, and who find my marks at the end of the thirtieth variation, and, led on by the great latin verte, (i will write it down the moment i get through this doleful statement of grievances,) turn over the leaf and read. "they will at once see the connexion. they know, that the geheimerath rödelein's house is a charming house to visit in, and that he has two daughters, of whom the whole fashionable world proclaims with enthusiasm, that they dance like goddesses, speak french like angels, and play and sing and draw like the muses. the geheimerath rödelein is a rich man. at his quarterly dinners he brings on the most delicious wines and richest dishes. all is established on a footing of the greatest elegance; and whoever at his tea-parties does not amuse himself heavenly, has no ton, no esprit, and particularly no taste for the fine arts. it is with an eye to these, that, with the tea, punch, wine, ice-creams, etc., a little music is always served up, which, like the other refreshments, is very quietly swallowed by the fashionable world. "the arrangements are as follows.--after every guest has had time enough to drink as many cups of tea as he may wish, and punch and ices have been handed round twice, the servants wheel out the card-tables for the elder and more solid part of the company, who had rather play cards than any musical instrument; and, to tell the truth, this kind of playing does not make such a useless noise as others, and you hear only the clink of money. "this is a hint for the younger part of the company to pounce upon the misses rödelein. a great tumult ensues; in the midst of which you can distinguish these words,-"'schönes fräulein! do not refuse us the gratification of your heavenly talent! o, sing something! that's a good dear!--impossible,--bad cold,--the last ball! have not practised anything,--oh, do, do, we beg of you,' etc. "meanwhile gottlieb has opened the piano-forte, and placed the well-known music-book on the stand; and from the card-table cries the respectable mamma,-" 'chantez donc, mes enfans!' "that is the cue of my part. i place myself at the piano-forte, and the rödeleins are led up to the instrument in triumph. "and now another difficulty arises. neither wishes to sing first. "'you know, dear nanette, how dreadful hoarse i am.' "'why, my dear marie, i am as hoarse as you are.' "'i sing so badly!--' "'o, my dear child; do begin!' "my suggestion, (i always make the same!) that they should both begin together with a duet, is loudly applauded;--the music-book is thumbed over, and the leaf, carefully folded down, is at length found, and away we go with dolce dell' anima, etc. "to tell the truth, the talent of the misses rödelein is not the smallest. i have been an instructer here only five years, and little short of two years in the rödelein family. in this short time, fräulein nanette has made such progress, that a tune, which she has heard at the theatre only ten times, and has played on the piano-forte, at farthest, ten times more, she will sing right off, so that you know in a moment what it is. fräulein marie catches it at the eighth time; and if she is sometimes a quarter of a note lower than the piano-forte, after all it is very tolerable, considering her pretty little doll-face, and very passable rosy-lips. "after the duet, a universal chorus of applause! and now arriettas and duettinos succeed each other, and right merrily i hammer away at the thousand-times-repeated accompaniment. during the singing, the finanzräthin eberstein, by coughing and humming, has given to understand that she also sings. fräulein nanette says; "'but, my dear finanzräthin, now you must let us hear your exquisite voice.' "a new tumult arises. she has a bad cold in her head,--she does not know anything by heart! gottlieb brings straightway two armfuls of music-books; and the leaves are turned over again and again. first she thinks she will sing der hölle rache, etc., then hebe sich, etc., then ach, ich liebte, etc. in this embarrassment, i propose, ein veilchen auf der wiese, etc. but she is for the heroic style; she wants to make a display, and finally selects the aria in constantia. "o scream, squeak, mew, gurgle, groan, agonize, quiver, quaver, just as much as you please, madam,--i have my foot on the fortissimo pedal, and thunder myself deaf! o satan, satan! which of thy goblins damned has got into this throat, pinching, and kicking, and cuffing the tones about so! four strings have snapped already, and one hammer is lamed for life. my ears ring again,--my head hums,--my nerves tremble! have all the harsh notes from the cracked trumpet of a strolling-player been imprisoned in this little throat! (but this excites me,--i must drink a glass of burgundy.) "the applause was unbounded; and some one observed, that the finanzräthin and mozart had put me quite in a blaze. i smiled with downcast eyes, very stupidly. i could but acknowledge it. and now all talents, which hitherto had bloomed unseen, were in motion, wildly flitting to and fro. they were bent upon a surfeit of music; tuttis, finales, choruses must be performed. the canonicus kratzer sings, you know, a heavenly bass, as was observed by the gentleman yonder, with the head of titus andronicus, who modestly remarked also, that he himself was properly only a second-ratetenor; but, though he said it, who should not say it, was nevertheless member of several academies of music. forthwith preparations are made for the first chorus in the opera of titus. it went off gloriously. the canonicus, standing close behind me, thundered out the bass over my head, as if he were singing with bass-drums and trumpet obbligato in a cathedral. he struck the notes gloriously; but in his hurry he got the tempo just about twice too slow. however, he was true to himself at least in this, that through the whole piece he dragged along just half a beat behind the rest. the others showed a most decided penchant for the ancient greek music, which, as is well known, having nothing to do with harmony, ran on in unison or monotone. they all sang treble, with slight variations, caused by accidental rising and falling of the voice, say some quarter of a note. "this somewhat noisy affair produced a universal tragic state of feeling, namely a kind of terror, even at the card-tables, which for the momentcould no longer, as before, chime in melodramatic, by weaving into the music sundry exclamations; as, for instance; " 'o! i loved,--eight and forty,--was so happy,--i pass,--then i knew not,--whist,--pangs of love,--follow suit,' etc.--it has a very pretty effect. (i fill my glass.) "that was the highest point of the musical exhibition this evening. 'now it is all over,' thought i to myself. i shut the book, and got up from the piano-forte. but the baron, my ancient tenor, came up to me, and said; " 'my dear herr capellmeister, they say you play the most exquisite voluntaries! now do play us one; only a short one, i entreat you!' "i answered very drily, that to-day my fantasies had all gone a wool-gathering; and, while we are talking about it, a devil, in the shape of a dandy, with two waistcoats, had smelt out bach's variations, which were lying under my hat in the next room. he thinks they are merely little variations, such as nel cor mio non più sento, or ah, vous dirai-je, maman, etc., and insists upon it, that i shall play them. i try to excuse myself, but they all attack me. so then, 'listen, and burst with ennui,' think i to myself,--and begin to work away. "when i had got to variation number three, several ladies departed, followed by the gentleman with the titus-andronicus head. the rödeleins, as their teacher was playing, stood it out, though not without difficulty, to number twelve. number fifteen made the man with two waistcoats take to his heels. out of most excessive politeness, the baron stayed till number thirty, and drank up all the punch, which gottlieb placed on the piano-forte for me. "i should have brought all to a happy conclusion, but, alas! this number thirty,--the theme,--tore me irresistibly away. suddenly the quarto leaves spread out to a gigantic folio, on which a thousand imitations and developments of the theme stood written, and i could not choose but play them. the notes became alive, and glimmered and hopped all round about me,--an electric firestreamed through the tips of my fingers into the keys,--the spirit, from which it gushed forth, spread his broad wings over my soul, the whole room was filled with a thick mist, in which the candles burned dim,--and through which peered forth now a nose, and anon a pair of eyes, and then suddenly vanished away again. and thus it came to pass, that i was left alone with my sebastian bach, by gottlieb attended, as by a familiar spirit. (your good health, sir.) "is an honest musician to be tormented with music, as i have been to-day, and am so often tormented? verily, no art is so damnably abused, as this same glorious, holy musica, who, in her delicate being, is so easily desecrated. have you real talent,--real feeling for art? then study music;--do something worthy of the art,--and dedicate your whole soul to the beloved saint. if without this you have a fancy for quavers and demi-semi-quavers, practise for yourself and by yourself, and torment not therewith the capellmeister kreisler and others. "well, now i might go home, and put the finishing touch to my sonata for the piano-forte; but it is not yet eleven o'clock, and, withal, a beautiful summer night. i will lay any wager, that, at my next-door neighbour's, (the oberjägermeister,) the young ladies are sitting at the window, screaming down into the street, for the twentieth time, with harsh, sharp, piercing voices, 'when thine eye is beaming love,'--but only the first stanza, over and over again. obliquely across the way, some one is murdering the flute, and has, moreover, lungs like rameau's nephew; and, in notes of 'linked sweetness long drawn out,' his neighbour is trying acoustic experiments on the french horn. the numerous dogs of the neighbourhood are growing unquiet, and my landlord's cat, inspired by that sweet duet, is making close by my window (for, of course, my musico-poetic laboratory is an attic,) certain tender confessions,--upward through the whole chromatic scale, soft complaining, to the neighbour's puss, with whom he has been in love since march last! till this is all fairly over, ii think will sit quietly here. besides, there is still blank paper and burgundy left, of which i forthwith take a sip. "there is, as i have heard, an ancient law, forbidding those, who followed any noisy handicraft, from living near literary men. should not then musical composers, poor, and hard beset, and who, moreover, are forced to coin their inspiration into gold, to spin out the thread of life withal, be allowed to apply this law to themselves, and banish out of the neighbourhood all ballad-singers and bagpipers? what would a painter say, while transferring to his canvass a form of ideal beauty, if you should hold up before him all manner of wild faces and ugly masks? he might shut his eyes, and in this way, at least, quietly follow out the images of fancy. cotton, in one's ears, is of no use; one still hears the dreadful massacre. and then the idea,--the bare idea, 'now they are going to sing,--now the horn strikes up,'--is enough to send one's sublimest conceptions to the very devil." chapter v. saint gilgen. it was a bright sunday morning when flemming and berkley left behind them the cloud-capped hills of salzburg, and journeyed eastward towards the lakes. the landscape around them was one to attune their souls to holy musings. field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the perfume of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birds singing, and the sound of village bells, and the moving breeze among the branches,--no laborers in the fields, but peasants on their way to church, coming across the green pastures, with roses in their hats,--the beauty and quiet of the holy day of rest,--all, all in earth and air, breathed upon the soul like a benediction. they stopped to change horses at hof, a handfulof houses on the brow of a breezy hill, the church and tavern standing opposite to each other, and nothing between them but the dusty road, and the churchyard, with its iron crosses, and the fluttering tinsel of the funeral garlands. in the churchyard and at the tavern-door, were groups of peasants, waiting for divine service to begin. they were clothed in their holiday dresses. the men wore breeches and long boots, and frock-coats with large metal buttons; the women, straw hats, and gay calico gowns, with short waists and scant folds. they were adorned with a profusion of great, trumpery ornaments, and reminded flemming of the indians in the frontier villages of america. near the churchyard-gate was a booth, filled with flaunting calicos; and opposite sat an old woman behind a table, which was loaded with ginger-bread. she had a roulette at her elbow, where the peasants risked a kreutzer for a cake. on other tables, cases of knives, scythes, reaping-hooks, and other implements of husbandry were offered for sale. the travellers continued their journey, without stopping to hear mass. in the course of the forenoon they came suddenly in sight of the beautiful lake of saint wolfgang, lying deep beneath them in the valley. on its shore, under them, sat the white village of saint gilgen, like a swan upon its reedy nest. they seemed to have taken it unawares, and as it were clapped their hands upon it in its sleep, and almost expected to see it spread its broad, snow-white wings, and fly away. the whole scene was one of surpassing beauty. they drove leisurely down the steep hill, and stopped at the village inn. before the door was a magnificent, broad-armed tree, with benches and tables beneath its shadow. on the front of the house was written in large letters, "post-tavern by franz schoendorfer"; and over this was a large sun-dial, and a half-effaced painting of a bear-hunt, covering the whole side of the house, and mostly red. just as they drove up, a procession of priests with banners, and peasants with their hats in their hands, passed by towards the church. they were singing a solemn psalm. at the same moment, a smart servant girl, with a black straw hat, set coquettishly on her flaxen hair, and a large silver spoon stuck in her girdle, came out of the tavern, and asked flemming what he would please to order for breakfast. breakfast was soon ready, and was served up at the head of the stairs, on an old-fashioned oaken table in the great hall, into which the chambers opened. berkley ordered at the same time a tub of cold water, in which he seated himself, with his coat on, and a bed-quilt thrown round his knees. thus he sat for an hour; ate his breakfast, and smoked a pipe, and laughed a good deal. he then went to bed and slept till dinner time. meanwhile flemming sat in his chamber and read. it was a large room in the front of the house, looking upon the village and the lake. the windows were latticed, with small panes, and the window-sills filled with fragrant flowers. at length the heat of the noon was over. day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the westerngate of heaven, and evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon. flemming and berkley sallied forth to ramble by the borders of the lake. down the cool, green glades and alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of the forest, over the rising grounds, in the glimmering fretwork of sunshine and leaf-shadow,--an exhilarating walk! the cool evening air by the lake was like a bath. they drank the freshness of the hour in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long confinement of the sultry summer day. and there, too, lay the lake, so beautiful and still! did it not recall, think ye, the lake of thun? on their return homeward they passed near the village churchyard. "let us go in and see how the dead rest," said flemming, as they passed beneath the belfry of the church; and they went in, and lingered among the tombs and the evening shadows. how peaceful is the dwelling-place of those who inhabit the green hamlets, and populous cities of the dead! they need no antidote for care,--nor armour against fate. no morning sun shines in at the closed windows, and awakens them, nor shall until the last great day. at most a straggling sunbeam creeps in through the crumbling wall of an old neglected tomb,--a strange visiter, that stays not long. and there they all sleep, the holy ones, with their arms crossed upon their breasts, or lying motionless by their sides,--not carved in marble by the hand of man, but formed in dust, by the hand of god. god's peace be with them. no one comes to them now, to hold them by the hand, and with delicate fingers smooth their hair. they heed no more the blandishments of earthly friendship. they need us not, however much we may need them. and yet they silently await our coming. beautiful is that season of life, when we can say, in the language of scripture, "thou hast the dew of thy youth." but of these flowers death gathers many. he places them upon his bosom, and his form becomes transformed into somethingless terrific than before. we learn to gaze and shudder not; for he carries in his arms the sweet blossoms of our earthly hopes. we shall see them all again, blooming in a happier land. yes, death brings us again to our friends. they are waiting for us, and we shall not live long. they have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven. they stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection, which they wore on earth; yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual! o, he spake well who said, that graves are the foot-prints of angels. death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the dew of thy youth. he has placed thee upon his bosom, and his stern countenance wears a smile. the far country, toward which we journey, seems nearer to us, and the way less dark; for thou hast gone before, passing so quietly to thy rest, that day itself dies not more calmly! it was in an hour of blessed communion with the souls of the departed, that the sweet poet henry vaughan wrote those few lines, whichhave made death lovely, and his own name immortal! "they are all gone into a world of light, and i alone sit lingering here! their very memory is fair and bright, and my sad thoughts doth clear. "it glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, like stars upon some gloomy grove, or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed, after the sun's remove. "i see them walking in an air of glory, whose light doth trample on my days, my days, which are at best but dull and hoary, mere glimmerings and decays. "o holy hope, and high humility, high as the heavens above! these are your walks, and ye have showed them me, to kindle my cold love. "dear, beauteous death! the jewel of the just! shining nowhere but in the dark! what mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, could man outlook that mark! "he that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know, at first sight, if the bird be flown; but what fair field or grove he sings in now, that is to him unknown. "and yet as angels, in some brighter dreams, call to the soul, when man doth sleep, so some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, and into glory peep!" such were flemming's thoughts, as he stood among the tombs at evening in the churchyard of saint gilgen. a holy calm stole over him. the fever of his heart was allayed. he had a moment's rest from pain; and went back to his chamber in peace. whence came this holy calm, this long-desired tranquillity? he knew not; yet the place seemed consecrated. he resolved to linger there, beside the lake, which was a pool of bethesda for him; and let berkley go on alone to the baths of ischel. he would wait for him there in the solitude of saint gilgen. long after they had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber, and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyedthe silence within and without. hour after hour, slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie. at length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one flickering gleam, and expired with a sob. this aroused him. he went to the window, and peered out into the dark night. it was very late. twice already since midnight had the great pulpit-orator time, like a preacher in the days of the puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry, and still went on with his sermon, thundering downward to the congregation in the churchyard and in the village. but they heard him not. they were all asleep in their narrow pews, namely, in their beds and in their graves. soon afterward the cock crew; and the cloudy heaven, like the apostle, who denied his lord, wept bitterly. chapter vi. saint wolfgang. the morning is lovely beyond expression. the heat of the sun is great; but a gentle wind cools the air. birds never sang more loud and clear. the flowers, too, on the window-sill, and on the table, rose, geranium, and the delicate crimson cactus, are all so beautiful, that we think the german poet right, when he calls the flowers "stars in the firmament of the earth." out of doors all is quiet. opposite the window stands the village schoolhouse. there are two parasite trees, with their outspread branches nailed against the white walls, like the wings of culprit kites. there the rods grow. under them, on a bench at the door, sit school-girls; and barefoot urchins in breeches are spelling out their lessons. the clock strikestwelve, and one by one they disappear, and go into the hive, like bees at the sound of a brass pan. at the door of the next house sits a poor woman, knitting in the shade; and in front of her is an aqueduct pouring its cool, clear water into a rough wooden trough. a travelling carriage without horses, stands at the inn-door, and a postilion in red jacket is talking with a blacksmith, who wears blue woollen stockings and a leather apron. beyond is a stable, and still further a cluster of houses and the village church. they are repairing the belfry and the bulbous steeple. a little farther, over the roofs of the houses, you can see saint wolfgang's lake. water so bright and beautiful hardly flows elsewhere. green, and blue, and silver-white run into each other, with almost imperceptible change, like the streaks on the sides of a mackerel. and above are the pinnacles of the mountains; some bald, and rocky, and cone-shaped, and others bold, and broad, and dark with pines. such was the scene, which paul flemming beheldfrom his window a few mornings after berkley's departure. the quiet of the place had soothed him. he had become more calm. his heart complained less loudly in the holy village silence, as we are wont to lower our voices when those around us speak in whispers. he began to feel at times an interest in the lowly things around him. the face of the landscape pleased him, but more than this the face of the poor woman who sat knitting in the shade. it was a pale, meek countenance, with more delicacy in its features than is usual among peasantry. it wore also an expression of patient suffering. as he was looking at her, a deformed child came out of the door and hung upon her knees. she caressed him affectionately. it was her child; in whom she beheld her own fair features distorted and hardly to be recognised, as one sometimes sees his face reflected from the bowl of a spoon. the child's deformity and the mother's tenderness interested the feelings of flemming. the landlady told him something of the poor woman's history. she was the widow of a blacksmith, who had died soon after their marriage. but she survived to become a mother, just as, in oaks, immediately after fecundation, the male flower fades and falls, while the female continues and ripens into perfect fruit. alas! her child was deformed. yet she looked upon him with eyes of maternal fondness and pity, loving him still more for his deformity. and in her heart she said, as the mexicans say to their new-born offspring, "child, thou art come into the world to suffer. endure, and hold thy peace." though poor, she was not entirely destitute; for her husband had left her, beside the deformed child, a life estate in a tomb in the churchyard of saint gilgen. during the week she labored for other people, and on sundays for herself, by going to church and reading the bible. on one of the blank leaves she had recorded the day of her birth, and that of her child's, likewise her marriage and her husband's death. thus she lived, poor, patient and resigned. her heart was a passion-flower, bearing within it the crown of thorns and the cross of christ. her ideas of heaven were few and simple. she rejected the doctrine that it was a place of constant activity, and not of repose, and believed, that, when she at length reached it, she should work no more, but sit always in a clean white apron, and sing psalms. as flemming sat meditating on these things, he paid new homage in his heart to the beauty and excellence of the female character. he thought of the absent and the dead; and said, with tears in his eyes; "shall i thank god for the green summer, and the mild air, and the flowers, and the stars, and all that makes this world so beautiful, and not for the good and beautiful beings i have known in it? has not their presence been sweeter to me than flowers? are they not higher and holier than the stars? are they not more to me than all things else?" thus the morning passed away in musings; andin the afternoon, when flemming was preparing to go down to the lake, as his custom was, a carriage drew up before the door, and, to his great astonishment, out jumped berkley. the first thing he did was to give the postmaster, who stood near the door, a smart cut with his whip. the sufferer gently expostulated, saying, "pray, sir, don't; i am lame." whereupon berkley desisted, and began instead to shake the postmaster's wife by the shoulders, and order his dinner in english. but all this was done so good-naturedly, and with such a rosy, laughing face, that no offence was taken. "so you have returned much sooner than you intended;" said flemming, after the first friendly salutations. "yes," replied berkley; "i got tired of ischel,--very tired. i did not find the friends there, whom i expected. now i am going back to salzburg, and then to gastein. there i shall certainly find them. you must go with me." flemming declined the invitation; and proposedto berkley, that he should join him in his excursion on the lake. "you shall hear the grand echo of the falkenstein," said he, "and behold the scene of the bridal tragedy; and then we will go on as far as the village of saint wolfgang, which you have not yet seen, except across the lake." "well, this afternoon i devote to you; for to-morrow we part once more, and who knows when we shall meet again?" they went down to the water's side without farther delay; and, taking a boat with two oars, struck across an elbow of the lake towards a barren rock by the eastern shore, from which a small white monument shone in the sun. "that monument," said one of the boatmen, a stout young lad in leather breeches, "was built by a butcher, to the glory of saint wolfgang, who saved him from drowning. he was one day riding an ox to market along the opposite bank; when the animal taking fright, sprang into the water, and swam over to this place, with the butcher on his back." "and do you think he could have done this," asked berkley; "if saint wolfgang had not helped him?" "of course not!" answered leather-breeches; and the englishman laughed. from this point they rowed along under the shore to a low promontory, upon which stood another monument, commemorating a more tragical event. "this is the place i was speaking of," said flemming, as the boatmen rested on their oars. "the melancholy and singular event it commemorates happened more than two centuries ago. there was a bridal party here upon the ice one winter; and in the midst of the dance the ice broke, and the whole merry company were drowned together, except the fiddlers, who were sitting on the shore." they looked in silence at the monument, and at the blue quiet water, under which the bones of the dancers lay buried, hand in hand. the monument is of stone, painted white, with an over-hangingroof to shelter it from storms. in a niche in front is a small image of the saviour, in a sitting posture; and an inscription, upon a marble tablet below, says that it was placed there by longinus walther and his wife barbara juliana von hainberg; themselves long since peacefully crumbled to dust, side by side in some churchyard. "that was breaking the ice with a vengeance!" said berkley, as they pushed out into the lake again; and ere long they were floating beneath the mighty precipice of falkenstein; a steep wall of rock, crowned with a chapel and a hermitage, where in days of old lived the holy saint wolfgang. it is now haunted only by an echo, so distinct and loud, that one might imagine the ghost of the departed saint to be sitting there, and repeating the voices from below, not word by word, but sentence by sentence, as if he were passing them up to the recording angel. "ho! ho! ho!" shouted berkley; and the sound seemed to strike the wall of stone, like the flapping of steel plates; "ho! ho! ho! how areyou to-day, saint wolfgang! you infernal old rascal! how is the frau von wolfgang!--god save great george the king! damn your eyes! hold your tongue! ho! ho! ha! ha! hi!" and the words were recorded above; and a voice repeated them with awful distinctness in the blue depths overhead, and flemming felt in his inmost soul the contrast between the holy heavens, and the mockery of laughter, and the idle words, which fall back from the sky above us and soil not its purity. in half an hour they were at the village of saint wolfgang, threading a narrow street, above which the roofs of quaint, picturesque old houses almost met. it led them to a gothic church; a magnificent one for a village;--in front of which was a small court, shut in by italian-looking houses, with balconies, and flowers at the windows. here a bronze fountain of elaborate workmanship was playing in the shade. on its summit stood an image of the patron saint of the village; and, running round the under lip of the water-basin below, they read this inscription in old german rhymes; "i am in the honor of saint wolfgang raised. abbot wolfgang habel of emensee, he hath made me for the use and delight of poor pilgrim wight. neither gold nor wine hath he; at this water shall he merry be. in the year of the lord fifteen hundred and fifteen, hath the work completed been. god be praised!" as they were deciphering the rude characters of this pious inscription, a village priest came down a high flight of steps from the parsonage near the church, and courteously saluted the strangers. after returning the salutation, the mad englishman, without preface, asked him how many natural children were annually born in the parish. the question seemed to astonish the good father, but he answered it civilly, as he did several other questions, which flemming thought rather indiscreet, to say the least. "you will excuse our curiosity," said he to the priest, by way of apology. "we are strangersfrom distant countries. my friend is an englishman and i an american." berkley, however, was not so easily silenced. after a few moments' conversation he broke out into most audacious latin, in which the only words clearly intelligible were; "plurimum reverende, in christo religiosissime, ac clarissime domine, necnon et amice observandissime! petrus sic est locutus; 'nec argentum mihi, nec aurum est; sed quod habeo, hoc tibi do; surge et ambula.'" he seemed to be speaking of the fountain. the priest answered meekly, "non intellexi, domine!" but berkley continued with great volubility to speak of his being a stranger in the land, and all men being strangers upon earth, and hoping to meet the good priest hereafter in the kingdom of heaven. the priest seemed confounded, and abashed. through the mist of a strange pronunciation he could recognise only here and there afamiliar word. he took out his snuff-box; and tried to quote a passage from saint paul; "ut dixit sanctus paulus; qui bene facit--" here his memory failed him, or, as the french say, he was at the end of his latin, and, stretching forth his long forefinger, he concluded in german; "yes;--i don't--so clearly remember--what he did say." the englishman helped him through with a moral phrase; and then pulling off his hat, exclaimed very solemnly; "vale, domine doctissime et reverendissime!" and the dominie, as if pursued by a demon, made a sudden and precipitate retreat down a flight of steps into the street. "there!" said berkley laughing, "i beat him at his own weapons. what do you say of my latin?" "i say of it," replied flemming, "what holophernes said of sir nathaniel's; 'priscian a little scratched; 't will serve.' i think i have heardbetter. but what a whim! i thought i should have laughed aloud." they were still sitting by the bronze fountain when the priest returned, accompanied by a short man, with large feet, and a long blue surtout, so greasy, that it reminded one of polilla's in the spanish play, which was lined with slices of pork. his countenance was broad and placid, but his blue eyes gleamed with a wild, mysterious, sorrowful expression. flemming thought the latin contest was to be renewed, with more powder and heavier guns. he was mistaken. the stranger saluted him in german, and said, that, having heard he was from america, he had come to question him about that distant country, for which he was on the point of embarking. there was nothing peculiar in his manner, nor in the questions he asked, nor the remarks he made. they were the usual questions and remarks about cities and climate, and sailing the sea. at length flemming asked him the object of his journey to america. thestranger came close up to him, and lowering his voice, said very solemnly; "that holy man, frederick baraga, missionary among the indians at lacroix, on lake superior, has returned to his father-land, krain; and i am chosen by heaven to go forth as minister extraordinary of christ, to unite all nations and people in one church!" flemming almost started at the singular earnestness, with which he uttered these words; and looked at him attentively, thinking to see the face of a madman. but the modest, unassuming look of that placid countenance was unchanged; only in the eyes burned a mysterious light, as if candles had been lighted in the brain, to magnify the daylight there. "it is truly a high vocation," said he in reply. "but are you sure, that this is no hallucination? are you certain, that you have been chosen by heaven for this great work?" "i am certain," replied the german, in a tone of great calmness and sincerity; "and, if saint peter and saint paul should come down from heaven to assure me of it, my faith would be no stronger than it now is. it has been declared to me by many signs and wonders. i can no longer doubt, nor hesitate. i have already heard the voice of the spirit, speaking to me at night; and i know that i am an apostle; and chosen for this work." such was the calm enthusiasm with which he spoke, that flemming could not choose but listen. he felt interested in this strange being. there was something awe-inspiring in the spirit that possessed him. after a short pause he continued; "if you wish to know who i am, i can tell you in few words. i think you will not find the story without interest." he then went on to relate the circumstances recorded in the following chapter. chapter vii. the story of brother bernardus. "i was born in the city of stein, in the land of krain. my pious mother gertrude sang me psalms and spiritual songs in childhood; and often, when i awoke in the night, i saw her still sitting, patiently at her work by the stove, and heard her singing those hymns of heaven, or praying in the midnight darkness when her work was done. it was for me she prayed. thus, from my earliest childhood, i breathed the breath of pious aspirations. afterwards i went to laybach as a student of theology; and after the usual course of study, was ordained a priest. i went forth to the care of souls; my own soul filled with the faith, that ere long all people would be united in one church. yet attimes my heart was heavy, to behold how many nations there are who have not heard of christ; and how those, who are called christians, are divided into numberless sects, and how among these are many who are christians in name only. i determined to devote myself to the great work of the one church universal; and for this purpose, to give myself wholly up to the study of the evangelists and the fathers. i retired to the benedictine cloister of saint paul in the valley of lavant. the father-confessor in the nunnery of laak, where i then lived, strengthened me in this resolve. i had long walked with this angel of god in a human form, and his parting benediction sank deep into my soul. the prince-abbot berthold, of blessed memory, was then head of the benedictine convent. he received me kindly, and led me to the library; where i gazed with secret rapture on the vast folios of the christian fathers, from which, as from an arsenal, i was to draw the weapons of holy warfare. in the study of these, the year of my noviciate passed. i becamea franciscan friar; and took the name of brother bernardus. yet my course of life remained unchanged. i seldom left the cloister; but sat in my cell, and pored over those tomes of holy wisdom. about this time the aged confessor in laak departed this life. his death was made known to me in a dream. it must have been after midnight, when i thought that i came into the church, which was brilliantly lighted up. the dead body of the venerable saint was brought in, attended by a great crowd. it seemed to me, that i must go up into the pulpit and pronounce his funeral oration; and, as i ascended the stairs, the words of my text came into my mind; 'blessed in the sight of the lord is the death of his saints.' my funeral sermon ended in a strain of exultation; and i awoke with 'amen!' upon my lips. a few days afterwards, i heard that on that night the old man died. after this event i became restless and melancholy. i strove in vain to drive from me my gloomy thoughts. i could no longer study. i was no longer contented in the cloister. i even thought of leaving it. "one night i had gone to bed early, according to my custom, and had fallen asleep. suddenly i was awakened by a bright and wonderful light, which shone all about me, and filled me with heavenly rapture. shortly after i heard a voice, which pronounced distinctly these words, in the sclavonian tongue; 'remain in the cloister!' it was the voice of my departed mother. i was fully awake; yet saw nothing but the bright light, which disappeared, when the words had been spoken. still it was broad daylight in my chamber. i thought i had slept beyond my usual hour. i looked at my watch. it was just one o'clock after midnight. suddenly the daylight vanished, and it was dark. in the morning i arose, as if new-born, through the wonderful light, and the words of my mother's voice. it was no dream. i knew it was the will of god that i should stay; and i could again give myself up to quiet study. i read the whole bible through once more in theoriginal text; and went on with the fathers, in chronological order. often, after the apparition of the light, i awoke at the same hour; and though i heard no voice and saw no light, yet was refreshed with heavenly consolation. "not long after this an important event happened in the cloister. in the absence of the deacon of the abbey, i was to preach the thanksgiving sermon of harvest-home. during the week the prince-abbot berthold gave up the ghost; and my sermon became at once a thanks-giving and funeral sermon. perhaps it may not be unworthy of notice, that i was thus called to pronounce the burial discourse over the body of the last reigning, spiritual prince abbot in germany. he was a man of god, and worthy of this honor. "one year after this event, i was appointed professor of biblical hermeneutics in klagenfurt, and left the abbey forever. in klagenfurt i remained ten years, dwelling in the same house, and eating at the same table, with seventeen other professors. their conversation naturally suggestednew topics of study, and brought to my notice books, which i had never before seen. one day i heard at table, that maurus cappellari, a monk of camaldoli, had been elected pope, under the name of gregory sixteenth. he was spoken of as a very learned man, who had written many books. at this time i was a firm believer in the pope's infallibility; and when i heard these books mentioned, there arose in me an irresistible longing to read them. i inquired for them; but they were nowhere to be had. at length i heard, that his most important work, the triumph of the holy see, and of the church, had been translated into german and published in augsburg. ere long the precious volume was in my hands. i began to read it with the profoundest awe. the farther i read, the more my wonder grew. the subject was of the deepest interest to me. i could not lay the book out of my hand, till i had read it through with the closest attention. now at length my eyes were opened. i saw before me a monk, who had been educated in an italian cloister; who, indeed, had read much, and yet only what was calculated to strengthen him in the prejudices of his childhood; and who had entirely neglected those studies upon which a bishop should most rely, in order to work out the salvation of man. i perceived at the same time, that this was the strongest instrument for battering down the walls, which separate christian from christian. i saw, though as yet dimly, the way in which the union of christians in the one true church was to be accomplished. i knew not whether to be most astonished at my own blindness, that, in all my previous studies, i had not perceived, what the reading of this single book made manifest to me; or at the blindness of the pope, who had undertaken to justify such follies, without perceiving that at the same moment he was himself lying in fatal error. but since i have learned more thoroughly the ways of the lord, i am now no more astonished at this, but pray only to divine providence, who so mysteriously prepares all people to be united in one true church. i no longer believed in the pope's infallibility; nay, i believed even, that, to the great injury of humanity, he lay in fatal error. i felt, moreover, that now the time had fully come, when i should publicly show myself, and found in america a parish and a school, and become the spiritual guide of men, and the schoolmaster of children. "it was then, and on that account, that i wrote in the latin tongue my great work on biblical hermeneutics. but in germany it cannot be published. the austrian censor of the press cannot find time to read it, though i think, that if i have spent so many laborious days and sleepless nights in writing it, this man ought likewise to find time enough not only to read it, but to examine all the grounds of my reasoning, and point out to me any errors, if he can find any. notwithstanding, the spirit gave me no repose, but urged me ever mightily on to the perfection of my great work. "one morning i sat writing, under peculiar influences of the spirit, upon the confusion of tongues, the division of the people, and the importance ofthe study of comparative philology, in reference to their union in one church. so wrapped was i in the thought, that i came late into my lecture-room; and after lecture returned to my chamber, where i wrote till the clock struck twelve. at dinner, one of the professors asked if any one had seen the star, about which so much was said. the professor of physics, said, that the student johannes schminke had come to him in the greatest haste, and besought him to go out and see the wonderful star; but, being incredulous about it, he made no haste, and, when they came into the street, the star had disappeared. when i heard the star spoken of, my soul was filled with rapture; and a voice within me seemed to say, 'the great time is approaching; labor unweariedly in thy work.' i sought out the student; and like herod, inquired diligently what time the star appeared. he informed me, that, just as the clock was striking eight, in the morning, he went out of his house to go to the college, and saw on the square a crowd looking at a bright star. it was the veryhour, when i was writing alone in my chamber on the importance of comparative philology in bringing about the union of all nations. i felt, that my hour had come. strangely moved, i walked up and down my chamber. the evening twilight came on. i lighted my lamp, and drew the green curtains before the windows, and sat down to read. but hardly had i taken the book into my hand, when the spirit began to move me, and urge me then to make my last decision and resolve. i made a secret vow, that i would undertake the voyage to america. suddenly my troubled thoughts were still. an unwonted rapture filled my heart. i sat and read till the supper bell rang. they were speaking at table of a red glaring meteor, which had just been seen in the air, southeast from klagenfurt; and had suddenly disappeared with a dull, hollow sound. it was the very moment at which i had taken my final resolution to leave my native land. every great purpose and event of my life, seemed heralded and attended by divine messengers; the voices of thedead; the bright morning star, shining in the clear sunshine; and the red meteor in the evening twilight. "i now began seriously to prepare for my departure. the chamber i occupied, had once been the library of a franciscan convent. only a thick wall separated it from the church. in this wall was a niche, with heavy folding-doors, which had served the franciscans as a repository for prohibited books. here also i kept my papers, and my great work on biblical hermeneutics. the inside of the doors was covered with horrible caricatures of luther, melancthon, calvin, and other great men. i used often to look at them with the deepest melancholy, when i thought that these great men likewise had labored upon earth, and fought with satan in the church. but they were persecuted, denounced, condemned to die. so perhaps will it be with me. i thought of this often; and armed myself against the fear of death. i was in constant apprehension, lest the police should search my chamber during my absence, and, by examining my papers, discover my doctrine and designs. but the spirit said to me; 'be of good cheer; i will so blind the eyes of thy enemies, that it shall not once occur to them to think of thy writings.' "at length, after many difficulties and temptations of the devil, i am on my way to america. yesterday i took leave of my dearest friend, gregory kuscher, in hallstadt. he seemed filled with the spirit of god, and has wonderfully strengthened me in my purpose. all the hosts of heaven looked on, and were glad. the old man kissed me at parting; and i ascended the mountain as if angels bore me up in their arms. near the summit, lay a newly fallen avalanche, over which, as yet, no footsteps had passed. this was my last temptation. 'ha!' cried i aloud, 'satan has prepared a snare for me; but i will conquer him with godly weapons.' i sprang over the treacherous snow, with greater faith than st. peter walked the waters of the lake of galilee; and came down the valley, while the mountain peaks yetshone in the setting sun. god smiles upon me. i go forth, full of hopeful courage. on christmas next, i shall excommunicate the pope." saying these words, he slowly and solemnly took his leave, like one conscious of the great events which await him, and withdrew with the other priest into the church. flemming could not smile as berkley did; for in the solitary, singular enthusiast, who had just left them, he saw only another melancholy victim to solitude and over-labor of the brain; and felt how painful a thing it is, thus to become unconsciously the alms-man of other men's sympathies, a kind of blind beggar for the charity of a good wish or a prayer. the sun was now setting. silently they floated back to saint gilgen, amid the cool evening shadows. the village clock struck nine as they landed; and as berkley was to depart early in the morning, he went to bed betimes. on bidding flemming good night he said; "i shall not see you in the morning; so good bye, and god bless you. remember my partingwords. never mind trifles. in this world a man must either be anvil or hammer. care killed a cat!" "i have heard you say that so often," replied flemming, laughing, "that i begin to believe it is true. but i wonder if care shaved his left eyebrow, after doing the deed, as the ancient egyptians used to do!" "aha! now you are sweeping cobwebs from the sky! good night! good night!" a sorrowful event happened in the neighbourhood that night. the widow's child died suddenly. "woe is me!"--thus mourns the childless mother in one of the funeral songs of greenland; "woe is me, that i should gaze upon thy place and find it vacant! in vain for thee thy mother dries the sea-drenched garments!" not in these words, but in thoughts like these, did the poor mother bewail the death of her child, thinking mostly of the vacant place, and the daily cares and solicitudes of maternal love. flemming saw a light in her chamber, and shadows moving toand fro, as he stood by the window, gazing into the starry, silent sky. but he little thought of the awful domestic tragedy, which was even then enacted behind those thin curtains! chapter viii. foot-prints of angels. it was sunday morning; and the church bells were all ringing together. from all the neighbouring villages, came the solemn, joyful sounds, floating through the sunny air, mellow and faint and low,--all mingling into one harmonious chime, like the sound of some distant organ in heaven. anon they ceased; and the woods, and the clouds, and the whole village, and the very air itself seemed to pray, so silent was it everywhere. two venerable old men,--high priests and patriarchs were they in the land,--went up the pulpit stairs, as moses and aaron went up mount hor, in the sight of all the congregation,--for the pulpit stairs were in front, and very high. paul flemming will never forget the sermon he heard that day,--no, not even if he should live to be as old as he who preached it. the text was, "i know that my redeemer liveth." it was meant to console the pious, poor widow, who sat right below him at the foot of the pulpit stairs, all in black, and her heart breaking. he said nothing of the terrors of death, nor of the gloom of the narrow house, but, looking beyond these things, as mere circumstances to which the imagination mainly gives importance, he told his hearers of the innocence of childhood upon earth, and the holiness of childhood in heaven, and how the beautiful lord jesus was once a little child, and now in heaven the spirits of little children walked with him, and gathered flowers in the fields of paradise. good old man! in behalf of humanity, i thank thee for these benignant words! and, still more than i, the bereaved mother thanked thee, and from that hour, though she wept in secret for her child, yet "she knew he was with jesus, and she asked him not again." after the sermon, paul flemming walked forth alone into the churchyard. there was no one there, save a little boy, who was fishing with a pin hook in a grave half full of water. but a few moments afterward, through the arched gateway under the belfry, came a funeral procession. at its head walked a priest in white surplice, chanting. peasants, old and young, followed him, with burning tapers in their hands. a young girl carried in her arms a dead child, wrapped in its little winding sheet. the grave was close under the wall, by the church door. a vase of holy water stood beside it. the sexton took the child from the girl's arms, and put it into a coffin; and, as he placed it in the grave, the girl held over it a cross, wreathed with roses, and the priest and peasants sang a funeral hymn. when this was over, the priest sprinkled the grave and the crowd with holy water; and then they all went into the church, each one stopping as he passed the grave to throw a handful of earth into it, and sprinkle it with holy water. a few moments afterwards, the voice of the priest was heard saying mass in the church, and flemming saw the toothless old sexton treading the fresh earth into the grave of the little child, with his clouted shoes. he approached him, and asked the age of the deceased. the sexton leaned a moment on his spade, and shrugging his shoulders replied; "only an hour or two. it was born in the night, and died this morning early?" "a brief existence," said flemming. "the child seems to have been born only to be buried, and have its name recorded on a wooden tombstone." the sexton went on with his work, and made no reply. flemming still lingered among the graves, gazing with wonder at the strange devices, by which man has rendered death horrible and the grave loathsome. in the temple of juno at elis, sleep and his twin-brother death were represented as children reposing in the arms of night. on various funeral monuments of the ancients the genius of death issculptured as a beautiful youth, leaning on an inverted torch, in the attitude of repose, his wings folded and his feet crossed. in such peaceful and attractive forms, did the imagination of ancient poets and sculptors represent death. and these were men in whose souls the religion of nature was like the light of stars, beautiful, but faint and cold! strange, that in later days, this angel of god, which leads us with a gentle hand, into the "land of the great departed, into the silent land," should have been transformed into a monstrous and terrific thing! such is the spectral rider on the white horse;--such the ghastly skeleton with scythe and hour-glass;--the reaper, whose name is death! one of the most popular themes of poetry and painting in the middle ages, and continuing down even into modern times, was the dance of death. in almost all languages is it written,--the apparition of the grim spectre, putting a sudden stop to all business, and leading men away into the "remarkable retirement" of the grave. itis written in an ancient spanish poem, and painted on a wooden bridge in switzerland. the designs of holbein are well known. the most striking among them is that, where, from a group of children sitting round a cottage hearth, death has taken one by the hand, and is leading it out of the door. quietly and unresisting goes the little child, and in its countenance no grief, but wonder only; while the other children are weeping and stretching forth their hands in vain towards their departing brother. a beautiful design it is, in all save the skeleton. an angel had been better, with folded wings, and torch inverted! and now the sun was growing high and warm. a little chapel, whose door stood open, seemed to invite flemming to enter and enjoy the grateful coolness. he went in. there was no one there. the walls were covered with paintings and sculpture of the rudest kind, and with a few funeral tablets. there was nothing there to move the heart to devotion; but in that hour the heart of flemming was weak,--weak as a child's. he bowed hisstubborn knees, and wept. and oh! how many disappointed hopes, how many bitter recollections, how much of wounded pride, and unrequited love, were in those tears, through which he read on a marble tablet in the chapel wall opposite, this singular inscription; "look not mournfully into the past. it comes not back again. wisely improve the present. it is thine. go forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear, and with a manly heart." it seemed to him, as if the unknown tenant of that grave had opened his lips of dust, and spoken to him the words of consolation, which his soul needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. in a moment the anguish of his thoughts was still. the stone was rolled away from the door of his heart; death was no longer there, but an angel clothed in white. he stood up, and his eyes were no more bleared with tears; and, looking into the bright, morning heaven, he said; "i will be strong!" men sometimes go down into tombs, with painfullongings to behold once more the faces of their departed friends; and as they gaze upon them, lying there so peacefully with the semblance, that they wore on earth, the sweet breath of heaven touches them, and the features crumble and fall together, and are but dust. so did his soul then descend for the last time into the great tomb of the past, with painful longings to behold once more the dear faces of those he had loved; and the sweet breath of heaven touched them, and they would not stay, but crumbled away and perished as he gazed. they, too, were dust. and thus, far-sounding, he heard the great gate of the past shut behind him as the divine poet did the gate of paradise, when the angel pointed him the way up the holy mountain; and to him likewise was it forbidden to look back. in the life of every man, there are sudden transitions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. at once, as if some magician had touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity succeedsthe storm. the causes which produce these sudden changes may have been long at work within us, but the changes themselves are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient cause. it was so with flemming; and from that hour forth he resolved, that he would no longer veer with every shifting wind of circumstance; no longer be a child's plaything in the hands of fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. he resolved henceforward not to lean on others; but to walk self-confident and self-possessed; no longer to waste his years in vain regrets, nor wait the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet desires; but to live in the present wisely, alike forgetful of the past, and careless of what the mysterious future might bring. and from that moment he was calm, and strong; he was reconciled with himself! his thoughts turned to his distant home beyond the sea. an indescribable, sweet feeling rose within him. "thither will i turn my wandering footsteps," said he; "and be a man among men, and no longer a dreamer among shadows. henceforth bemine a life of action and reality! i will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. this alone is health and happiness. this alone is life; 'life that shall send a challenge to its end, and when it comes, say, welcome, friend!' why have i not made these sage reflections, this wise resolve, sooner? can such a simple result spring only from the long and intricate process of experience? alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the book of human life, to light the fires of passion with, from day to day, that man begins to see, that the leaves which remain are few in number, and to remember, faintly at first, and then more clearly, that, upon the earlier pages of that book, was written a story of happy innocence, which he would fain read over again. then come listless irresolution, and the inevitable inaction of despair; or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain, a more noble history, than the child's story, with which the book began." chapter ix. the last pang. "farewell to thee, saint gilgen!" said flemming, as he turned on the brow of the hill, to take his last look at the lake and the village below, and felt that this was one of the few spots on the wide earth to which he could say farewell with regret. "thy majestic hills have impressed themselves upon my soul, as a seal upon wax. the quiet beauty of thy lake shall be to me forever an image of peace and purity and stillness, and that inscription in thy little churchyard, a sentence of wisdom for my after life." before the setting of the same sun, which then shone on that fair landscape, he was far on his way towards munich. he had left far behind him the mountains of the tyrol; and beheld themfor the last time in the soft evening twilight, their bases green with forest trees, and here and there, a sharp rocky spire, and a rounded summit capped with snow. there they lay, their backs, like the backs of camels; a mighty caravan, reposing at evening in its march across the desert. from munich he passed through augsburg and ulm, on his way to stuttgard. at the entrances of towns and villages, he saw large crucifixes; and on the fronts of many houses, coarse paintings and images of saints. in gunzburg three priests in black were slowly passing down the street, and women fell on their knees to receive their blessing. there were many beggars, too, in the streets; and an old man who was making hay in a field by the road-side, when he saw the carriage approaching, threw down his rake, and came tumbling over the ditch, with his hat held out in both hands, uttering the most dismal wail. the next day, the bright yellow jackets of the postilions, and the two great tassels of their bugle-horns, dangling down their backs, like two cauliflowers, told him he was in würtemberg; and, late in the evening, he stopped at a hotel in stuttgard; and from his chamber-window, saw, in the bright moonlight, the old gothic cathedral, with its narrow, lancet windows and jutting buttresses, right in front of him. ere long he had forgotten all his cares and sorrows in sleep, and with them his hopes, and wishes, and good resolves. he was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber, the next morning, when the great bell of the cathedral opposite began to ring, and reminded him that it was sunday. ere long the organ answered from within, and from its golden lips breathed forth a psalm. the congregation began to assemble, and flemming went up with them to the house of the lord. in the body of the church he found the pews all filled or locked; they seemed to belong to families. he went up into the gallery, and looked over the psalm-book of a peasant, while the congregation sang the sublime old hymn of martin luther, "our god, he is a tower of strength, a trusty shield and weapon." during the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black, with a white surplice thrown loosely about him, came pacing along one of the aisles, from beneath the organ-loft and ascended the pulpit. after the hymn, he read a portion of scripture, and then said; "let us unite in silent prayer." and turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, while the congregation remained standing. for a while there was a breathless silence in the church, which to flemming was more solemnly impressive than any audible prayer. the clergyman then arose, and began his sermon. his theme was the reformation; and he attempted to prove how much easier it was to enter the kingdom of heaven through the gateways of the reformed evangelical dutch church, than by the aisles and penitential stair-cases of saint peter's. he then gave a history of the reformation; and, when flemming thought he was near the end, he heard him say, that he should divide his discourse into four heads. this reminded him of the sturdy old puritan, cotton mather, who after preaching an hour, would coolly turn the hour-glass on the pulpit, and say; "now, my beloved hearers, let us take another glass." he stole out into the silent, deserted street, and went to visit the veteran sculptor dannecker. he found him in his parlour, sitting alone, with his psalm-book, and the reminiscences of a life of eighty years. as flemming entered, he arose from the sofa, and tottered towards him; a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed in a loose white jacket, with a face like franklin's, his white hair flowing over his shoulders, and a pale, blue eye. "so you are from america," said he. "but you have a german name. paul flemming was one of our old poets. i have never been in america, and never shall go there. i am now too old. i have been in paris and in rome. but that was long ago. i am now eight and seventy years old." here he took flemming by the hand, and made him sit down by his side, on the sofa. and flemmingfelt a mysterious awe creep over him, on touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years, and listened to life's curfew-bell, telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour had come, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till the morning. "you see," he continued, in a melancholy tone, "my hands are cold; colder than yours. they were warmer once. i am now an old man." "yet these are the hands," answered flemming, "that sculptured the beauteous ariadne and the panther. the soul never grows old." "nor does nature," said the old man, pleased with this allusion to his great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window. "this pleasure i have left to me. my sight is still good. i can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. my hearing is also unimpaired. for all which, i thank god." then, directing flemming's attention to a fine engraving, which hung on the opposite wall of the room, he continued; "that is an engraving of canova's religion. i love to sit here and look at it, for hours together. it is beautiful. he made the statue for his native town, where they had no church, until he built them one. he placed the statue in it. this engraving he sent me as a present. ah, he was a dear, good man. the name of his native town i have forgotten. my memory fails me. i cannot remember names." fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning devotions, flemming did not remain long, but took his leave with regret. there was something impressive in the scene he had witnessed;--this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the open window, in the bright summer morning,--the labor of life accomplished, the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet,--thinking it was angel's music, when he heard the church-bells ring; himself too old to go. as he walked back to his chamber, he thought within himself, whether he likewise might not accomplish something, which should live after him;--might not bring something permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in silence. he wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he could no longer go to church, but must sit at home and read the bible in large print. his heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of life; regret, that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had felt and dreamed only. thus the warm days in spring bring forth passion-flowers and forget-menots. it is only after mid-summer, when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. then, the heat of the day brings forward the harvest, and after the harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost. much meditating upon these things, paul flemming reached his hotel. at that moment a person clad in green came down the church-steps, and crossed the street. it was the german student, of interlachen. flemming started as if a green snake had suddenly crossed his path. he took refuge in his chamber. that night as he was sitting alone in his chamber, having made his preparation to depart the following morning, his attention was arrested by the sound of a female voice in the next room. a thin partition, with a door, separated it from his own. he had not before observed that the room was occupied. but, in the stillness of the night, the tones of that voice struck his ear. he listened. it was a lady, reading the prayers of the english church. the tones were familiar; and awakened at once a thousand painfully sweet recollections. it was the voice of mary ashburton! his heart could not be deceived; and all its wounds began to bleed afresh, like those of a murdered man, when the murderer approaches. his first impulse was of affection only, boundless, irrepressible, delirious, as of old in the green valley of interlachen. he waited for the voice to cease; that he might go to her, and behold her face once more. and then his pride rose up within him, and rebuked this weakness. he remembered his firm resolve; and blushed to find himself so feeble. and the voice ceased; and yet he did not go. pride had so far gained the mastery over affection. he lay down upon his bed, like a child as he was. all about him was silence, and the silence was holy, for she was near; so near that he could almost hear the beating of her heart. he knew now for the first time how weak he was, and how strong his passion for that woman. his heart was like the altar of the israelites of old; and, though drenched with tears, as with rain, it was kindled at once by the holy fire from heaven! towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted with the strong excitement; and, in that hour when, sleep being "nigh unto the soul," visions are deemed prophetic, he dreamed. o blessed visionof the morning, stay! thou wert so fair! he stood again on the green sunny meadow, beneath the ruined towers; and she was by his side, with her pale, speaking countenance and holy eyes; and he kissed her fair forehead; and she turned her face towards him beaming with affection and said, "i confess it now; you are the magician!" and pressed him in a meek embrace, that he, "might rather feel than see the swelling of her heart." and then she faded away from his arms, and her face became transfigured, and her voice like the voice of an angel in heaven;--and he awoke, and was alone! it was broad daylight; and he heard the postilion, and the stamping of horses' hoofs on the pavement at the door. at the same moment his servant came in, with coffee, and told him all was ready. he did not dare to stay. but, throwing himself into the carriage, he cast one look towards the window of the dark ladie, and a moment afterwards had left her forever! he had drunk thelast drop of the bitter cup, and now laid the golden goblet gently down, knowing that he should behold it no more! no more! o how majestically mournful are those words! they sound like the roar of the wind through a forest of pines! 