"Come," said he to Flemming; "make this short journey with me. We will pass a few pleasant days at Ems, and visit the other watering-places of Nassau. It will drive away the melancholy2 day-dreams that haunt you. Perhaps some future bride is even now waiting for you, with dim presentiments3 and undefined longings4, at the Serpent's Bath."
"Or some widow of Ems, with a cork-leg!" said Flemming, smiling; and then added, in a toneof voice half jest, half earnest, "Certainly; let us go in pursuit of her;--
`Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible she,
That shall command my heart and me.
Where'er she lie,
Hidden from mortal eye,
In shady leaves of destiny.' "
They started in the afternoon for Frankfort, pursuing their way slowly along the lovely Bergstrasse, famed throughout Germany for its beauty. They passed the ruined house where Martin Luther lay concealed5 after the Diet of Worms, and through the village of Handschuhsheimer, as old as the days of King Pepin the Short,--a hamlet, lying under the hills, half-buried in blossoms and green leaves. Close on the right rose the mountains of the mysterious Odenwald; and on the left lay the Neckar, like a steel bow in the meadow. Farther westward6, a thin, smoky vapor7 betrayed the course of the Rhine; beyond which, like a troubled sea, ran the blue, billowy Alsatian hills. Song of birds, and sound of evening bells, and fragrance8 of sweet blossoms filled the air; and silent and slow sank the broad red sun, half-hidden amid folding clouds.
"We shall not pass the night at Weinheim," said the Baron to the postilion, who had dismounted to walk up the hill, leading to the town. "You may drive to the mill in the Valley of Birkenau."
The postilion seized one of his fat horses by the tail, and swung himself up to his seat again. They rattled9 through the paved streets of Weinheim, and took no heed10 of the host of the Golden Eagle, who stood so invitingly11 at the door of his own inn; and the ruins of Burg Windeck, above there, on its mountain throne, frowned at them for hurrying by, without staying to do him homage12.
"The old ruin looks well from the valley," said the Baron; "but let us beware of climbing that steep hill. Most travellers are like children; they must needs touch whatever they behold13. They climb up to every old broken tooth of acastle, which they find on their way;--get a toilsome ascent14 and hot sunshine for their pains, and come down wearied and disappointed. I trust we are wiser."
They crossed the bridge, and turned up the stream, passing under an arch of stone, which serves as a gateway15 to this enchanted16 Valley of Birkenau. A cool and lovely valley! shut in by high hills;--shaded by alder-trees and tall poplars, under which rushes the Wechsnitz, a noisy mountain brook17, that ever and anon puts its broad shoulder to the wheel of a mill, and shows that it can labor18 as well as laugh. At one of these mills they stopped for the night.
A mill forms as characteristic a feature in the romantic German landscape, as in the romantic German tale. It is not only a mill, but likewise an ale-house and rural inn; so that the associations it suggests are not of labor only, but also of pleasure. It stands in the narrow defile19, with its picturesque20, thatched roof; thither21 throng22 thepeasants, of a holiday; and there are rustic23 dances under the trees.
In the twilight24 of the fast-approaching summer night, the Baron and Flemming walked forth25 along the borders of the stream. As they heard it, rushing and gushing26 among the stones and tangled27 roots, and the great wheel turning in the current, with its never-ceasing plash! plash! it brought to their minds that exquisite28, simple song of Goethe, the Youth and the Mill-brook. It was for the moment a nymph, which sang to them in the voice of the waters.
"I am persuaded," said Flemming, "that, in order fully29 to understand and fell the popular poetry of Germany, one must be familiar with the German landscape. Many sweet little poems are the outbreaks of momentary30 feelings;--words, to which the song of birds, the rustling31 of leaves, and the gurgle of cool waters form the appropriate music. Or perhaps I should say they are words, which man has composed to the music of nature. Can you not, even now, hear this brooklet32 tellingyou how it is on its way to the mill, where at day-break the miller's daughter opens her window, and comes down to bathe her face in its stream, and her bosom33 is so full and white, that it kindles34 the glow of love in the cool waters!"
"A most delightful35 ballad36, truly," said the Baron. "But like many others of our little songs, it requires a poet to fell and understand it. Sing them in the valley and woodland shadows, and under the leafy roofs of garden walks, and at night, and alone, as they were written. Sing them not in the loud world,--for the loud world laughs such things to scorn. It is Mueller who says, in that little song, where the maiden37 bids the moon good evening;
`This song was made to be sung at night,
And he who reads it in broad daylight,
Will never read the mystery right;
And yet it is childlike easy!'
He has written a great many pretty songs, in which the momentary, indefinite longings and impulses of the soul of man find an expression. Hecalls them the songs of a Wandering Horn-player. There is one among them much to our present purpose. He expresses in it, the feeling of unrest and desire of motion, which the sight and sound of running waters often produce in us. It is entitled, `Whither?' and is worth repeating to you.
`I heard a brooklet gushing
From its rocky fountain near,
Down into the valley rushing,
So fresh and wondrous38 clear.
`I know not what came o'er me,
Nor who the counsel gave;
But I must hasten downward,
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