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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 waters

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of 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. He

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gave 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

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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 those

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who 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 travellers

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drove through the one long street, composed entirely
of hotels and lodging-houses. Sick people looked
out of the windows, as they passed. Others were
walking leisurely up and down, beneath the few
decapitated trees, which represent a public promenade;
and a boy, with a blue frock and crimson
cap, was driving three donkeys down the street.
In 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,”

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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

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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

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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 on

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the 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;

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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

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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,

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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. The

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impression produced on the company was at once
ludicrous and awful. They tried in vain to rally.
The whole society was like a dead body, from
which the spirit has departed. Ere long the guests
had all dispersed, and left the lady of the mansion
to her mournful, expiring lamps, and still more
mournful reflections.

“Truly,” said Flemming, to the Baron, as they
wended their way homeward, “this seems not
like reality; but like one of the sharp contrasts
we find in novels. Who shall say, after this, that
there is not more romance in real life, than we find
written in books!”

“Not more romance,” said the Baron, “but a
different romance.”

A still more tragic scene had been that 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.

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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 its

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waters was not heard;—there was not a sigh of
the evening wind among the leaves,—not a sound
upon the earth nor in the air;—and yet that
night there fell a star from heaven!

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