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Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages
he is continually recording illustrious names. But,
as often as a new name is written there, an old one
disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters,
never to be effaced. These are the high
nobility of Nature,—Lords of the Public Domain
of Thought. Posterity shall never question their
titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet
opinion of unwise men, must soon be as
well forgotten, as if they had never been. To
this great oblivion must most men come. It is
better, therefore, that they should soon make up
their minds to this; well knowing, that, as their
bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again,
and their graves tell no tales of them; so must

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their names likewise be utterly forgotten, and their
most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions
have no longer an individual being among men;
but be resolved and incorporated into the universe
of thought. If, then, the imagination can trace
the noble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping a
beer-barrel, and know that


“Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
May stop a hole to keep the wind away;”
not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great
men, till it finds them mouldered into the common
dust of conversation, and used to stop men's
mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out the
flaws of opinion. Such, for example, are all popular
adages and wise proverbs, which are now resolved
into the common mass of thought; their
authors forgotten, and having no more an individual
being among men.

It is better, therefore, that men should soon
make up their minds to be forgotten, and look
about them, or within them, for some higher motive,
in what they do, than the approbation of men,

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which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they
should be constantly and quietly at work, each in
his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their
fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed
be, in our imperfection; impossible perhaps
to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute, the indomitable
will of man can achieve much,—at
times even this victory over himself; being persuaded,
that fame comes only when deserved, and
then is as inevitable as destiny, for it is destiny.

It has become a common saying, that men of
genius are always in advance of their age; which
is true. There is something equally true, yet not
so common; namely, that, of these men of genius,
the best and bravest are in advance not only of
their own age, but of every age. As the German
prose-poet says, every possible future is behind
them. We cannot suppose, that a period of time
will ever come, when the world, or any considerable
portion of it shall have come up abreast with
these great minds, so as fully to comprehend them.

And oh! how majestically they walk in

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history; some like the sun, with all his travelling glories
round him; others wrapped in gloom, yet
glorious as a night with stars. Through the else
silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their
slow and solemn footsteps. Onward they pass,
like those hoary elders seen in the sublime vision
of an earthly Paradise, attendant angels bearing
golden lights before them, and, above and behind,
the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as
from the trail of pencils!

And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,—
not all happy, in the outward circumstance
of their lives. They were in want, and in pain,
and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping
walls of dungeons! Oh, I have looked with
wonder upon those, who, in sorrow and privation,
and bodily discomfort, and sickness, which is the
shadow of death, have worked right on to the
accomplishment of their great purposes; toiling
much, enduring much, fulfilling much;—and then,
with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung,
have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept

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the sleep of death,—and the world talks of them,
while they sleep!

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings
had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel,
in passing, had touched them with the hem of his
garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of
disease had been stretched out over them only to
make the sign of the cross upon their souls! And
as in the sun's eclipse we can behold the great
stars shining in the heavens, so in this life eclipse
have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity,
burning solemnly and forever!

This was Flemming's reverie. It was broken
by the voice of the Baron, suddenly exclaiming;

“An angel is flying over the house!—Here;
in this goblet, fragrant as the honey of Hymettus,
fragrant as the wild flowers in the Angel's Meadow,
I drink to the divinity of thy dreams.”

“This is all sunshine,” said Flemming, as he
drank. “The wine of the Prince, and the Prince
of wines. By the way, did you ever read that
brilliant Italian dithyrambic, Redi's Bacchus in

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Tuscany? an ode which seems to have been
poured out of the author's soul, as from a golden
pitcher,


`Filled with the wine
Of the vine
Benign,
That flames so red in Sansavine.'
He calls the Montepulciano the king of all wines.”

“Prince Metternich,” said the Baron, “is greater
than any king in Italy; and I wonder, that this
precious wine has never inspired a German poet
to write a Bacchus on the Rhine. Many little
songs we have on this theme, but none very extraordinary.
The best are Max Schenkendorf's
Song of the Rhine, and the Song of Rhine
Wine, by Claudius, a poet who never drank
Rhenish without sugar. We will drink for him a
blessing on the Rhine.”

And again the crystal lips of the goblets kissed
each other, with a musical chime, as of evening
bells at vintage-time from the villages on the Rhine.
Of a truth, I do not much wonder, that the

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German poet Schiller loved to write by candle-light
with a bottle of Rhine-wine upon the table. Nor
do I wonder at the worthy schoolmaster Roger
Ascham, when he says, in one of his letters from
Germany to Mr. John Raven, of John's College;
`Tell Mr. Maden I will drink with him now a carouse
of wine; and would to God he had a vessel
of Rhenish wine; and perchance, when I come to
Cambridge, I will so provide here, that every year
I will have a little piece of Rhenish wine.' Nor,
in fine, do I wonder at the German Emperor of
whom he speaks in another letter to the same
John Raven, and says, `The Emperor drank
the best that I ever saw; he had his head in the
glass five times as long as any of us, and never
drank less than a good quart at once of Rhenish
wine.' These were scholars and gentlemen.

“But to resume our old theme of scholars and
their whereabout,” said the Baron, with an unusual
glow, caught no doubt from the golden sunshine,
imprisoned, like the student Anselmus, in the glass
bottle; “where should the scholar live? In

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solitude or in society? In the green stillness of the
country, where he can hear the heart of nature
beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear
and feel the throbbing heart of man? I will make
answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city.
Oh, they do greatly err, who think, that the stars
are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore
that the poet's only dwelling should be in
sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees.
Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature,
when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry;
hamlets and harvest-fields, and nut-brown
waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy,
with all the sights and sounds of rural life.
But after all, what are these but the decorations
and painted scenery in the great theatre of human
life? What are they but the coarse materials
of the poet's song? Glorious indeed is the world
of God around us, but more glorious the world of
God within us. There lies the Land of Song;
there lies the poet's native land. The river of
life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing

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along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of
humanity;—the many homes and households,
each a little world in itself, revolving round its
fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy
and suffering, brought into that narrow compass;—
and to be in this and be a part of this; acting,
thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his fellow-men;—
such, such should be the poet's life. If he
would describe the world, he should live in the
world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you
would have it large and liberal, should come in
contact with other minds. It is better that his armour
should be somewhat bruised even by rude
encounters, than hang forever rusting on the wall.
Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because
apparently shut in between the walls of houses, and
having merely the decorations of street scenery.
A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined
castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs
in the human heart, which can be rendered passable
only by bridging them over with iron nerves
and sinews, as Challey bridged the Savine in

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Switzerland, and Telford the sea between Anglesea
and England, with chain bridges. These are the
great themes of human thought; not green grass,
and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the mere
external forms of Nature we make our own, and
carry with us into the city, by the power of
memory.”

“I fear, however,” interrupted Flemming, “that
in cities the soul of man grows proud. He needs
at times to be sent forth, like the Assyrian monarch,
into green fields, `a wonderous wretch and
weedless,' to eat green herbs, and be wakened
and chastised by the rain-shower and winter's
bitter weather. Moreover, in cities there is danger
of the soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and
forgetful of its high vocation. There have been
souls dedicated to heaven from childhood and
guarded by good angels as sweet seclusions for
holy thoughts, and prayers, and all good purposes;
wherein pious wishes dwelt like nuns, and every
image was a saint; and yet in life's vicissitudes,
by the treachery of occasion, by the thronging

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passions of great cities, have become soiled and sinful.
They resemble those convents on the river Rhine,
which have been changed to taverns; from whose
chambers the pious inmates have long departed,
and in whose cloisters the footsteps of travellers
have effaced the images of buried saints, and
whose walls are written over with ribaldry and the
names of strangers, and resound no more with holy
hymns, but with revelry and loud voices.”

“Both town and country have their dangers,”
said the Baron; “and therefore, wherever the
scholar lives, he must never forget his high vocation.
Other artists give themselves up wholly to
the study of their art. It becomes with them almost
religion. For the most part, and in their
youth, at least, they dwell in lands, where the
whole atmosphere of the soul is beauty; laden
with it as the air may be with vapor, till their very
nature is saturated with the genius of their art.
Such, for example, is the artist's life in Italy.”

“I agree with you,” exclaimed Flemming;
“and such should be the Poet's everywhere; for

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he has his Rome, his Florence, his whole glowing
Italy within the four walls of his library. He has
in his books the ruins of an antique world,—and
the glories of a modern one,—his Apollo and
Transfiguration. He must neither forget nor undervalue
his vocation; but thank God that he is a
poet; and everywhere be true to himself, and to
`the vision and the faculty divine' he feels within
him.”

“But, at any rate, a city life is most eventful,”
continued the Baron. “The men who make, or
take, the lives of poets and scholars, always
complain that these lives are barren of incidents.
Hardly a literary biography begins without some
such apology, unwisely made. I confess, however,
that it is not made without some show of truth; if,
by incidents, we mean only those startling events,
which suddenly turn aside the stream of Time,
and change the world's history in an hour. There
is certainly a uniformity, pleasing or unpleasing,
in literary life, which for the most part makes
to-day seem twin-born with yesterday. But if, by

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incidents, you mean events in the history of the
human mind, (and why not?) noiseless events, that
do not scar the forehead of the world as battles
do, yet change it not the less, then surely the
lives of literary men are most eventful. The
complaint and the apology are both foolish. I do
not see why a successful book is not as great an
event as a successful campaign; only different in
kind, and not easily compared.”

“Indeed,” interrupted Flemming, “in no sense
is the complaint strictly true, though at times apparently
so. Events enough there are, were they
all set down. A life, that is worth writing at all,
is worth writing minutely. Besides, all literary
men have not lived in silence and solitude;—not
all in stillness, not all in shadow. For many
have lived in troubled times, in the rude and adverse
fortunes of the state and age, and could say
with Wallenstein,


`Our life was but a battle and a march;
And, like the wind's blast, never-resting, homeless,
We stormed across the war convulsed earth.'

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Of such examples history has recorded many;
Dante, Cervantes, Byron, and others; men of
iron; men who have dared to breast the strong
breath of public opinion, and, like spectre-ships,
come sailing right against the wind. Others have
been puffed out by the first adverse wind that
blew; disgraced and sorrowful, because they could
not please others. Truly `the tears live in an
onion, that should water such a sorrow.' Had
they been men, they would have made these disappointments
their best friends, and learned from
them the needful lesson of self-reliance.”

“To confess the truth,” added the Baron, “the
lives of literary men, with their hopes and disappointments,
and quarrels and calamities, present
a melancholy picture of man's strength and weakness.
On that very account the scholar can make
them profitable for encouragement,—consolation,—
warning.”

“And after all,” continued Flemming, “perhaps
the greatest lesson, which the lives of literary
men teach us, is told in a single word; Wait!—

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Every man must patiently bide his time. He must
wait. More particularly in lands, like my native
land, where the pulse of life beats with such feverish
and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful.
Our national character wants the dignity of repose.
We seem to live in the midst of a battle,—there
is such a din,—such a hurrying to and fro. In
the streets of a crowded city it is difficult to walk
slowly. You feel the rushing of the crowd, and
rush with it onward. In the press of our life it is
difficult to be calm. In this stress of wind and
tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors,
and are swept out into the main. The voices of
the Present say, Come! But the voices of the
Past say, Wait! With calm and solemn footsteps
the rising tide bears against the rushing torrent up
stream, and pushes back the hurrying waters.
With no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less
certainly, does a great mind bear up against public
opinion, and push back its hurrying stream.
Therefore should every man wait;—should bide
his time. Not in listless idleness,—not in useless

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pastime,—not in querulous dejection; but in constant,
steady, cheerful endeavours, always willing
and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that,
when the occasion comes, he may be equal to
the occasion. And if it never comes, what matters
it? What matters it to the world whether I,
or you, or another man did such a deed, or wrote
such a book, sobeit the deed and book were well
done! It is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome
ambition, to care too much about fame,—
about what the world says of us. To be always
looking into the faces of others for approval;—
to be always anxious for the effect of what we do
and say; to be always shouting to hear the echo
of our own voices! If you look about you,
you will see men, who are wearing life away in
feverish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall
ever hear of them will be the funeral bell, that tolls
them to their early graves! Unhappy men, and
unsuccessful! because their purpose is, not to accomplish
well their task, but to clutch the `trick
and fantasy of fame'; and they go to their graves

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with purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled.
Better for them, and for the world in
their example, had they known how to wait!
Believe me, the talent of success is nothing
more than doing what you can do well; and doing
well whatever you do,—without a thought
of fame. If it come at all, it will come because it
is deserved, not because it is sought after. And,
moreover, there will be no misgivings,—no disappointment,—
no hasty, feverish, exhausting excitement.”

Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion. I
make no record of the winter. Paul Flemming
buried himself in books; in old, dusty books. He
studied diligently the ancient poetic lore of Germany,
from Frankish Legends of Saint George,
and Saxon Rhyme-Chronicles, down through Nibelungen
Lieds, and Helden-Buchs, and Songs of
the Minnesingers and Mastersingers, and Ships
of Fools, and Reinecke Foxes, and Death-Dances

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and Lamentations of Damned Souls, into the
bright, sunny land of harvests, where, amid the
golden grain and the blue corn-flowers, walk the
modern bards, and sing.

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