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It was a bright Sunday morning when Flemming
and Berkley left behind them the cloud-capped
hills of Salzburg, and journeyed eastward
towards the lakes. The landscape around them
was one to attune their souls to holy musings.
Field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the perfume
of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birds
singing, and the sound of village bells, and the
moving breeze among the branches,—no laborers
in the fields, but peasants on their way to church,
coming across the green pastures, with roses in
their hats,—the beauty and quiet of the holy day
of rest,—all, all in earth and air, breathed upon
the soul like a benediction.

They stopped to change horses at Hof, a

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handful of houses on the brow of a breezy hill, the
church and tavern standing opposite to each other,
and nothing between them but the dusty road, and
the churchyard, with its iron crosses, and the fluttering
tinsel of the funeral garlands. In the
churchyard and at the tavern-door, were groups
of peasants, waiting for divine service to begin.
They were clothed in their holiday dresses. The
men wore breeches and long boots, and frock-coats
with large metal buttons; the women, straw hats,
and gay calico gowns, with short waists and scant
folds. They were adorned with a profusion of
great, trumpery ornaments, and reminded Flemming
of the Indians in the frontier villages of America.
Near the churchyard-gate was a booth, filled with
flaunting calicos; and opposite sat an old woman
behind a table, which was loaded with ginger-bread.
She had a roulette at her elbow, where
the peasants risked a kreutzer for a cake. On
other tables, cases of knives, scythes, reaping-hooks,
and other implements of husbandry were
offered for sale.

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The travellers continued their journey, without
stopping to hear mass. In the course of the forenoon
they came suddenly in sight of the beautiful
Lake of Saint Wolfgang, lying deep beneath them
in the valley. On its shore, under them, sat the
white village of Saint Gilgen, like a swan upon its
reedy nest. They seemed to have taken it unawares,
and as it were clapped their hands upon it
in its sleep, and almost expected to see it spread
its broad, snow-white wings, and fly away. The
whole scene was one of surpassing beauty.

They drove leisurely down the steep hill, and
stopped at the village inn. Before the door was
a magnificent, broad-armed tree, with benches and
tables beneath its shadow. On the front of the
house was written in large letters, “Post-Tavern
by Franz Schoendorfer”; and over this was a
large sun-dial, and a half-effaced painting of a bear-hunt,
covering the whole side of the house, and
mostly red. Just as they drove up, a procession of
priests with banners, and peasants with their hats
in their hands, passed by towards the church.

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They were singing a solemn psalm. At the same
moment, a smart servant girl, with a black straw
hat, set coquettishly on her flaxen hair, and a
large silver spoon stuck in her girdle, came out
of the tavern, and asked Flemming what he would
please to order for breakfast.

Breakfast was soon ready, and was served up at
the head of the stairs, on an old-fashioned oaken
table in the great hall, into which the chambers
opened. Berkley ordered at the same time a tub
of cold water, in which he seated himself, with his
coat on, and a bed-quilt thrown round his knees.
Thus he sat for an hour; ate his breakfast, and
smoked a pipe, and laughed a good deal. He
then went to bed and slept till dinner time. Meanwhile
Flemming sat in his chamber and read. It
was a large room in the front of the house, looking
upon the village and the lake. The windows
were latticed, with small panes, and the window-sills
filled with fragrant flowers.

At length the heat of the noon was over. Day,
like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western

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gate of Heaven, and Evening stooped down to
unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon. Flemming
and Berkley sallied forth to ramble by the
borders of the lake. Down the cool, green glades
and alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of the
forest, over the rising grounds, in the glimmering
fretwork of sunshine and leaf-shadow,—an exhilarating
walk! The cool evening air by the lake
was like a bath. They drank the freshness of the
hour in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved
rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long confinement
of the sultry summer day. And there,
too, lay the lake, so beautiful and still! Did it
not recall, think ye, the lake of Thun?

On their return homeward they passed near the
village churchyard.

“Let us go in and see how the dead rest,”
said Flemming, as they passed beneath the belfry
of the church; and they went in, and lingered
among the tombs and the evening shadows.

How peaceful is the dwelling-place of those
who inhabit the green hamlets, and populous cities

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of the dead! They need no antidote for care,—
nor armour against fate. No morning sun shines in
at the closed windows, and awakens them, nor shall
until the last great day. At most a straggling sunbeam
creeps in through the crumbling wall of an
old neglected tomb,—a strange visiter, that stays
not long. And there they all sleep, the holy ones,
with their arms crossed upon their breasts, or lying
motionless by their sides,—not carved in marble
by the hand of man, but formed in dust, by the
hand of God. God's peace be with them. No
one comes to them now, to hold them by the hand,
and with delicate fingers smooth their hair. They
heed no more the blandishments of earthly friendship.
They need us not, however much we may
need them. And yet they silently await our
coming.

Beautiful is that season of life, when we can
say, in the language of Scripture, “Thou hast the
dew of thy youth.” But of these flowers Death
gathers many. He places them upon his bosom,
and his form becomes transformed into something

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less terrific than before. We learn to gaze and
shudder not; for he carries in his arms the sweet
blossoms of our earthly hopes. We shall see them
all again, blooming in a happier land.

Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. They
are waiting for us, and we shall not live long.
They have gone before us, and are like the angels
in heaven. They stand upon the borders of the
grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection,
which they wore on earth; yet more lovely,
more radiant, more spiritual! O, he spake well
who said, that graves are the foot-prints of angels.

Death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the
dew of thy youth. He has placed thee upon his
bosom, and his stern countenance wears a smile.
The far country, toward which we journey, seems
nearer to us, and the way less dark; for thou hast
gone before, passing so quietly to thy rest, that day
itself dies not more calmly!

It was in an hour of blessed communion with
the souls of the departed, that the sweet poet
Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines, which

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have made death lovely, and his own name immortal!

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Such were Flemming's thoughts, as he stood
among the tombs at evening in the churchyard of
Saint Gilgen. A holy calm stole over him. The
fever of his heart was allayed. He had a moment's
rest from pain; and went back to his chamber
in peace. Whence came this holy calm, this
long-desired tranquillity? He knew not; yet the
place seemed consecrated. He resolved to linger
there, beside the lake, which was a Pool of Bethesda
for him; and let Berkley go on alone to
the baths of Ischel. He would wait for him there
in the solitude of Saint Gilgen. Long after they
had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber,
and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyed

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the silence within and without. Hour after hour,
slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie.
At length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one
flickering gleam, and expired with a sob. This
aroused him.

He went to the window, and peered out into
the dark night. It was very late. Twice already
since midnight had the great pulpit-orator Time,
like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned
the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry,
and still went on with his sermon, thundering
downward to the congregation in the churchyard
and in the village. But they heard him not.
They were all asleep in their narrow pews, namely,
in their beds and in their graves. Soon afterward
the cock crew; and the cloudy heaven, like
the apostle, who denied his Lord, wept bitterly.

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