[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

When the learned Thomas Diafoirus wooed
the fair Angélique, he drew from his pocket a
medical thesis, and presented it to her, as the
first-fruits of his genius; and at the same time,
invited her, with her father's permission, to attend
the dissection of a woman, upon whom he was to
lecture. Paul Flemming did nearly the same
thing; and so often, that it had become a habit.
He was continually drawing, from his pocket or his
memory, some scrap of song or story; and inviting
some fair Angélique, either with her father's permission
or without, to attend the dissection of an

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

author, upon whom he was to discourse. He
soon gave proofs of this to Mary Ashburton.

“What books have we here for afternoon reading?”
said Flemming, taking a volume from the
parlour table, when they had returned from the
dining-room. “O, it is Uhland's Poems. Have
you read any thing of his? He and Tieck are
the best living poets of Germany. They dispute
the palm of superiority. Let me give you a lesson
in German, this afternoon, Miss Ashburton;
so that no one may accuse you of `omitting the
sweet benefit of time, to clothe your age with
angel-like perfection.' I have opened at random
upon the ballad of the Black Knight. You repeat
the German after me, and I will translate to
you. Pfingsten war, das Fest der Freude!”

“I should never persuade my unwilling lips to
pronounce such sounds. So I beg you not to
perplex me with your German, but read me the
ballad in English.”

“Well, then, listen. I will improvise a translation
for your own particular benefit.

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

“That is indeed a striking ballad!” said Miss
Ashburton, “but rather too grim and ghostly for
this dull afternoon.”

“It begins joyously enough with the feast of
Pentecost, and the crimson banners at the old
castle. Then the contrast is well managed.
The Knight in black mail, and the waving
in of the mighty shadow in the dance, and the
dropping of the faded flowers, are all strikingly
presented to the imagination. However, it tells

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

its own story, and needs no explanation. Here is
something in a different vein, though still melancholy.
The Castle by the Sea. Shall I
read it?”

“Yes, if you like.”

Flemming read;


“Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That Castle by the Sea?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.
“And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below;
And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow.
“ `Well have I seen that castle,
That Castle by the Sea,
And the moon above it standing,
And the mist rise solemnly.'
“The winds and the waves of ocean,
Had they a merry chime?
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,
The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

“ `The winds and the waves of ocean,
They rested quietly,
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,
And tears came to my eye.'
“And sawest thou on the turrets
The King and his royal bride?
And the wave of their crimson mantles?
And the golden crown of pride?
“Led they not forth in rapture
A beauteous maiden there?
Resplendent as the morning sun,
Beaming with golden hair?
“ `Well saw I the ancient parents,
Without the crown of pride;
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe,
No maiden was by their side!'
How do you like that?”

“It is very graceful, and pretty. But Uhland
seems to leave a great deal to his reader's imagination.
All his readers should be poets themselves,
or they will hardly comprehend him. I confess, I

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

hardly understand the passage where he speaks of
the castle's stooping downward to the mirrored
wave below, and then soaring upward into the
gleaming sky. I suppose, however, he wishes to
express the momentary illusion we experience at
beholding a perfect reflection of an old tower in
the sea, and look at it as if it were not a mere
shadow in the water; and yet the real tower rises
far above, and seems to float in the crimson evening
clouds. Is that the meaning?”

“I should think it was. To me it is all a
beautiful cloud landscape, which I comprehend
and feel, and yet should find some difficulty perhaps
in explaining.”

“And why need one always explain? Some
feelings are quite untranslatable. No language
has yet been found for them. They gleam upon
us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy,
and yet, when we bring them close to us, and
hold them up to the light of reason, lose their
beauty, all at once; just as glow-worms, which
gleam with such a spiritual light in the shadows
of evening, when brought in where the candles

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

are lighted, are found to be only worms, like so
many others.”

“Very true. We ought sometimes to be content
with feeling. Here, now, is an exquisite
piece, which soothes one like the fall of evening
shadows,—like the dewy coolness of twilight after
a sultry day. I shall not give you a bald translation
of my own, because I have laid up in my
memory another, which, though not very literal,
equals the original in beauty. Observe how finely
it commences.

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

“O, that is beautiful,—`beautiful exceedingly!'
Who translated it?”

“I do not know. I wish I could find him out.
It is certainly admirably done; though in the
measure of the original there is something like the
rocking motion of a boat, which is not preserved
in the translation.”

“And is Uhland always so soothing and spiritual?”

“Yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world.

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

I am now trying to find here a little poem on the
Death of a Country Clergyman; in which he introduces
a beautiful picture. But I cannot turn to
it. No matter. He describes the spirit of the
good old man, returning to earth on a bright
summer morning, and standing amid the golden
corn and the red and blue flowers, and mildly
greeting the reapers as of old. The idea is beautiful,
is it not?”

“Yes, very beautiful!”

“But there is nothing morbid in Uhland's mind.
He is always fresh and invigorating, like a breezy
morning. In this he differs entirely from such writers
as Salis and Matthisson.”

“And who are they?”

“Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was
only a Dismal Swamp, upon whose margin they
walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands,
sobbing and sighing, and making signals to Death,
to come and ferry them over the lake. And now
their spirits stand in the green fields of German
song, like two weeping-willows, bending over a

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

grave. To read their poems, is like wandering
through a village churchyard on a summer evening,
reading the inscription upon the grave-stones,
and recalling sweet images of the departed; while
above you,


`Hark! in the holy grove of palms,
Where the stream of life runs free,
Echoes, in the angels' psalms,
`Sister spirit! hail to thee!' ”

“How musically those lines flow! Are they
Matthisson's!”

“Yes; and they do indeed flow musically. I
wish I had his poems here. I should like to read
to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient
Castle. It is an imitation of Gray's Elegy. You
have been at Baden-Baden?

“Yes; last summer.”

“And have not forgotten—”

“The old castle? Of course not. What a
magnificent ruin it is!”

“That is the scene of Matthisson's Poem, and

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

seems to have filled the melancholy bard with
more than wonted inspiration.”

“I should like very much to see the poem, I
remember that old ruin with so much delight.”

“I am sorry I have not a translation of it for
you. Instead of it I will give you a sweet and
mournful poem from Salis. It is called the Song
of the Silent Land.

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

Is not that a beautiful poem?”

Mary Ashburton made no answer. She had
turned away to hide her tears. Flemming wondered,
that Berkley could say she was not beautiful.
Still he was rather pleased than offended at
it. He felt at that moment how sweet a thing it
would be to possess one, who should seem beautiful
to him alone, and yet to him be more beautiful
than all the world beside! How bright the world
became to him at that thought! It was like one
of those paintings in which all the light streams
from the face of the Virgin. O, there is nothing
holier in this life of ours, than the first consciousness
of love,—the first fluttering of its silken
wings; the first rising sound and breath of that

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

wind, which is so soon to sweep through the soul,
to purify or to destroy!

Old histories tell us, that the great Emperor
Charlemagne stamped his edicts with the hilt of
his sword. The greater Emperor, Death, stamps
his with the blade; and they are signed and executed
with the same stroke. Flemming received
that night a letter from Heidelberg, which told
him, that Emma of Ilmenau was dead. The fate
of this poor girl affected him deeply; and he said
in his heart;

“Father in Heaven! Why was the lot of
this weak and erring child so hard! What had
she done, to be so tempted in her weakness, and
perish? Why didst thou suffer her gentle affections
to lead her thus astray?”

And, through the silence of the awful midnight,
the voice of an avalanche answered from the distant
mountains, and seemed to say;

“Peace! peace! Why dost thou question
God's providence!”

Previous section

Next section