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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 its

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hollow 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

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difficult mountain 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 all

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to 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;

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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 to

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converse 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 the

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transparent 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, there

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lay 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.

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