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 anauthor, 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.
"'t was pentecost, the feast of gladness,
when woods and fields put off all sadness.
thus began the king and spake;
'so from the halls
of ancient hofburg's walls,
a luxuriant spring shall break.'
"drums and trumpets echo loudly,
wave the crimson banners proudly.
from balcony the king looked on;
in the play of spears,
fell all the cavaliers,
before the monarch's stalwart son.
"to the barrier of the fight,
rode at last a sable knight.
'sir knight! your name and scutcheon, say!'
'should i speak it here,
ye would stand aghast with fear;
am a prince of mighty sway!'
"when he rode into the lists,
the arch of heaven grew black with mists,
and the castle 'gan to rock.
at the first blow,
fell the youth from saddle-bow,
hardly rises from the shock.
"pipe and viol call the dances,
torch-light through the high halls glances;
waves a mighty shadow in.
with manner bland
doth ask the maiden's hand,
doth with her the dance begin.
"danced in sable iron sark,
danced a measure weird and dark,
coldly clasped her limbs around.
from breast and hair
down fall from her the fair
flowerets wilted to the ground.
"to the sumptuous banquet came
every knight and every dame.
'twixt son and daughter all distraught,
with mournful mind
the ancient king reclined,
gazed at them in silent thought.
"pale the children both did look,
but the guest a beaker took;
'golden wine will make you whole!"
the children drank,
gave many a courteous thank;
'o that draught was very cool!'
"each the father's breast embraces,
son and daughter; and their faces
colorless grow utterly.
whichever way
looks the fear-struck father gray,
he beholds his children die.
" 'woe! the blessed children both,
takest thou in the joy of youth;
take me, too, the joyless father!'
spake the grim guest,
from his hollow, cavernous breast;
'roses in the spring i gather!' "
"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 tellsits 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?
" '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, ihardly 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 candlesare 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.
"many a year is in its grave,
since i crossed this restless wave;
and the evening, fair as ever,
shines on ruin, rock, and river.
"then, in this same boat, beside,
sat two comrades old and tried;
one with all a father's truth,
one with all the fire of youth.
"one on earth in silence wrought,
and his grave in silence sought;
but the younger, brighter form
passed in battle and in storm!
"so, whene'er i turn my eye
back upon the days gone by,
saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,--
friends, who closed their course before me.
"yet what binds us, friend to friend,
but that soul with soul can blend?
soul-like were those hours of yore;
let us walk in soul once more!
"take, o boatman, thrice thy fee;
take,--i give it willingly;
for, invisibly to thee,
spirits twain have crossed with me!"
"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. 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 agrave. 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, andseems 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.
"into the silent land!
ah! who shall lead us thither!
clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
and shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
who leads us with a gentle hand,
thither, oh, thither.
into the silent land?
"into the silent land!
to you, ye boundless regions
of all perfection! tender morning-visions
of beauteous souls! eternity's own band!
who in life's battle firm doth stand,
shall bear hope's tender blossoms
into the silent land!
"o land! o land!
for all the broken-hearted
the mildest herald by our fate allotted,
beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
to lead us with a gentle hand
into the land of the great departed,
into the silent land!
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 thatwind, 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!"
