After lingering a day or two in Frankfort, the two friends struck across through Hochheim to the Rhine, and then up among the hills of the Rheingau to Schlangenbad, where they tarried only to bathe, and to dine; and then pursued their way to Langenschwalbach. The town lies in a valley, with gently-sloping hills around it, and long avenues of poplars leading forth1 into the fields. One interminable street cuts the town in twain, and there are old houses with curious faces carved upon their fronts, and dates of the olden time.
Our travellers soon sallied forth from their hotel, impatient to drink the strength-giving watersof the fountains. They continued their walk far up the valley under the poplars. The new grain was waving in the fields; the birds singing in the trees and in the air; and every thing seemed glad, save a poor old man, who came tottering2 out of the woods, with a heavy bundle of sticks on his shoulders.
Returning upon their steps, they passed down the valley and through the long street to the tumble-down old Lutheran church. A flight of stone steps leads from the street to the green terrace or platform on which the church stands, and which, in ancient times, was the churchyard, or as the Germans more devoutly3 say, God's-acre; where generations are scattered4 like seeds, and that which is sown in corruption5 shall be raised hereafter in incorruption. On the steps stood an old man,--a very old man,--holding a little girl by the hand. He took off his greasy6 cap as they passed, and wished them good day. His teeth were gone; he could hardly articulate a syllable7. The Baron8 asked him how old the church was. Hegave no answer; but when the question was repeated, came close up to them, and taking off his cap again, turned his ear attentively9, and said;
"I am hard of hearing."
"Poor old man," said Flemming; "He is as much a ruin as the church we are entering. It will not be long before he, too, shall be sown as seed in this God's-acre!"
The little girl ran into a house close at hand, and brought out the great key. The church door swung open, and, descending10 a few steps, they passed through a low-roofed passage into the church. All was in ruin. The gravestones in the pavement were started from their places; the vaults11 beneath yawned; the roof above was falling piecemeal12; there were rents in the old tower; and mysterious passages, and side doors with crazy flights of wooden steps, leading down into the churchyard. Amid all this ruin, one thing only stood erect13; it was a statue of a knight14 in armour15, standing16 in a niche17 under the pulpit.
"Who is this?" said Flemming to the old sexton; "who is this, that stands here so solemnly in marble, and seems to be keeping guard over the dead men below?"
"I do not know," replied the old man; "but I have heard my grandfather say it was the statue of a great warrior18!"
"There is history for you!" exclaimed the Baron. "There is fame! To have a statue of marble, and yet have your name forgotten by the sexton of your parish, who can remember only, that he once heard his grandfather say, that you were a great warrior!"
Flemming made no reply, for he was thinking of the days, when from that old pulpit, some bold reformer thundered down the first tidings of a new doctrine19, and the roof echoed with the grand old hymns20 of Martin Luther.
When he communicated his thoughts to the Baron, the only answer he received was;
"After all, what is the use of so much preaching? Do you think the fishes, that heard the sermon of St. Anthony, were any better than thosewho did not? I commend to your favorable notice the fish-sermon of this saint, as recorded by Abraham à Santa Clara. You will find it in your favorite Wonder-Horn."
Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach; and the evening at the Allée-Saal was quite solitary21; for as yet no company had arrived to fill its chambers22, or sit under the trees before the door. The next morning even Flemming and the Baron were gone; for the German's heart was beating with strong desire to embrace his sister; and the heart of his friend cared little whither he went, sobeit he were not too much alone.
After a few hours' drive, they were looking down from the summit of a hill right upon the house-tops of Ems. There it lay, deep sunk in the hollow beneath them, as if some inhabitant of Sirius, like him spoken of in Voltaire's tale of Micromegas, held it in the hollow of his hand. High and peaked rise the hills, that throw their shadows into this romantic valley, and at their base winds the river Lahn. Our travellersdrove through the one long street, composed entirely24 of hotels and lodging-houses. Sick people looked out of the windows, as they passed. Others were walking leisurely25 up and down, beneath the few decapitated trees, which represent a public promenade26; and a boy, with a blue frock and crimson27 cap, was driving three donkeys down the street. In short, they were in a fashionable watering-place; as yet sprinkled only by a few pattering drops of the summer rain of strangers, which generally follows the first hot days.
On alighting at the London Hotel, the Baron found--not his sister, but only a letter from her, saying she had changed her mind and gone to the Baths of Franconia. This was a disappointment, which the Baron pocketed with the letter, and said not a word more about either. It was his way; his life-philosophy in small things and great. In the evening, they went to an æsthetic tea, at the house of the Frau Kranich, the wife of a rich banker of Frankfort.
"I must tell you about this Frau Kranich," said the Baron to Flemming, on the way. "She is a woman of talent and beauty, and just in the prime of life. But, unfortunately, very ambitious. Her mania28 is, to make a figure in the fashionable world; and to this end she married a rich banker of Frankfort, old enough to be her father, not to say her grandfather, hoping, doubtless, that he would soon die; for, if ever a woman wished to be a widow, she is that woman. But the old fellow is tough and won't die. Moreover, he is deaf, and crabbed29, and penurious30, and half the time bed-ridden. The wife is a model of virtue31, notwithstanding her weakness. She nurses the old gentleman as if he were a child. And, to crown all, he hates society, and will not hear of his wife's receiving or going into company."
"How, then, can she give soirées?" asked Flemming.
"I was just going to tell you," continued the Baron. "The gay lady has no taste for long evenings with the old gentleman in the back chamber;--for being thus chained like a criminal under Mezentius, face to face with a dead body. So she puts him to bed first, and--"
"Gives him opium32."
"Yes, I dare say; and then gives herself a soirée, without his knowing any thing about it. This course of deception33 is truly hateful in itself, and must be particularly so to her, for she is not a low, or an immoral34 woman; but one of those who, not having strength enough to complete the sacrifice they have had strength enough to commence, are betrayed into a life of duplicity and falsehood."
They had now reached the house, and were ushered35 into a room gaily36 lighted and filled with guests. The hostess came forward to receive them, dressed in w............