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"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!

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