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"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 Sœur?

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

How does the leathery Mamsell Sœur?

Ha! Ha!

Mamsell Sœur!

How does the Mamsell Sœur?

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.

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