The power of magic in the Middle Ages created monsters, who followed the unhappy magician everywhere. The power of Love in all ages creates angels, who likewise follow the happy or unhappy lover everywhere, even in his dreams. By such an angel was Paul Flemming now haunted, both when he waked and when he slept. He walked as in a dream; and was hardly conscious of the presence of those around him. A sweet face looked at him from every page of every book he read; and it was the face of Mary Ashburton! a sweet voice spake to him in every sound he heard; and it was the voice of Mary Ashburton! Day and night succeeded each other, with pleasant interchange of light and darkness; but to him thepassing of time was only as a dream. When he arose in the morning, he thought only of her, and wondered if she were yet awake; and when he lay down at night he thought only of her, and how, like the Lady Christabel,  
"Her gentle limbs she did undress,
 
And lay down in her loveliness."
 
And the livelong day he was with her, either in reality or in day-dreams, hardly less real; for, in each delirious¹ vision of his waking hours, her beauteous form passed like the form of Beatrice through Dante's heaven; and, as he lay in the summer afternoon, and heard at times the sound of the wind in the trees, and the sound of Sabbath bells ascending² up to heaven, holy wishes and prayers ascended³ with them from his inmost soul, beseeching⁴ that he might not love in vain! And whenever, in silence and alone, he looked into the silent, lonely countenance⁵ of Night, he recalled the impassioned lines of Plato;--
 
"Lookest thou at the stars? If I were heaven,
 
With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee!"
 
O how beautiful it is to love! Even thou, that sneerest at this page, and laughest in cold indifference⁶ or scorn if others are near thee, thou, too, must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone; and confess, that a foolish world is prone⁷ to laugh in public, at what in private it reverences⁸, as one of the highest impulses of our nature,--namely, Love!
 
One by one the objects of our affection depart from us. But our affections remain, and like vines stretch forth⁹ their broken, wounded tendrils for support. The bleeding heart needs a balm to heal it; and there is none but the love of its kind,--none but the affection of a human heart! Thus the wounded, broken affections of Flemming began to lift themselves from the dust and cling around this new object. Days and weeks passed; and, like the Student Crisostomo, he ceased to love because he began to adore. And with this adoration¹⁰ mingled¹¹ the prayer, that, in that hour when the world is still, and the voices that praise are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight¹², and themaiden, in her day-dreams, counted the number of her friends, some voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts might whisper his name! And was it indeed so? Did any voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts whisper his name?--We shall soon learn.
 
They were sitting together one morning, on the green, flowery meadow, under the ruins of Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching¹⁵ the ruins. The birds were singing one and all, as if there were no aching hearts, no sin nor sorrow, in the world. So motionless was the bright air, that the shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass. The distant snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and nothing frowned, save the square tower of the old ruin above them.
 
"What a pity it is," said the lady, as she stopped to rest her weary fingers; "what a pity it is, that there is no old tradition connected with this ruin."
 
"I will make you one, if you wish," said Flemming.
 
"Can you make old traditions?"
 
"O yes; I made three the other day for the Rhine, and one very old one for the Black Forest. A lady with dishevelled hair; a robber with a horrible slouched hat; and a night-storm among the roaring pines."
 
"Delightful¹⁶! Do make one for me."
 
"With the greatest pleasure. Where will you have the scene? Here, or in the Black Forest?"
 
"In the Black Forest, by all means? Begin."
 
"First promise not to interrupt me. If you snap the golden threads of thought, they will float away on the air like gossamer¹⁷ threads, and I shall never be able to recover them."
 
"I promise."
 
"Listen, then, to the Tradition of 'The Fountain of Oblivion.' "
 
"Begin."
 
Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, at the lady's feet, looking up with dreamy eyes into her sweet face, and then into the leaves of the linden-trees overhead.
 
"Gentle Lady! Dost thou remember the linden-trees of Bülach, those tall and stately trees, with velvet¹⁸ down upon their shining leaves and rustic¹⁹ benches underneath²⁰ their overhanging eaves! A leafy dwelling²¹, fit to be the home of elf or fairy, where first I told my love to thee, thou cold and stately Hermione! A little peasant girl stood near, and listened all the while, with eyes of wonder and delight, and an unconscious smile, to hear the stranger still speak on in accents deep yet mild,--none else was with us in that hour, save God and that peasant child!"
 
"Why, it is in rhyme!"
 
"No, no! the rhyme is only in your imagination. You promised not to interrupt me, and you have already snapped asunder²² the gossamer threads of as sweet a dream as was ever spun¹⁴ from a poet's brain."
 
"It certainly did rhyme!"
 
"This was the reverie of the Student Hieronymus, as he sat at midnight in his chamber²³, with his hands clasped together, and resting upon anopen volume, which he should have been reading. His pale face was raised, and the pupils of his eyes dilated²⁴ as if the spirit-world were open before him, and some beauteous vision were standing²⁵ there, and drawing the student's soul through his eyes up into Heaven, as the evening sun through parting summer-clouds, seems to draw into its bosom²⁶ the vapors²⁷ of the earth. O, it was a sweet vision! I can see it before me now!
 
"Near the student stood an antique bronze lamp, with strange figures carved upon it. It was a magic lamp, which once belonged to the Arabian astrologer El Geber, in Spain. Its light was beautiful as the light of stars; and, night after night, as the lonely wight sat alone and read in his lofty tower, through the mist, and mirk, and dropping rain, it streamed out into the darkness, and was seen by many wakeful eyes. To the poor Student Hieronymus it was a wonderful Aladdin's Lamp; for in its flame a Divinity revealed herself unto him, and showed him treasures. Whenever he opened a ponderous²⁸, antiquatedtome, it seemed as if some angel opened for him the gates of Paradise; and already he was known in the city as Hieronymus the Learned.
 
"But, alas²⁹! he could read no more. The charm was broken. Hour after hour he passed with his hands clasped before him, and his fair eyes gazing at vacancy³⁰. What could so disturb the studies of this melancholy³¹ wight? Lady, he was in love! Have you ever been in love? He had seen the face............