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"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!

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