"Farewell to thee, Saint Gilgen!" said Flemming, as he turned on the brow of the hill, to take his last look at the lake and the village below, and felt that this was one of the few spots on the wide earth to which he could say farewell with regret. "Thy majestic¹ hills have impressed themselves upon my soul, as a seal upon wax. The quiet beauty of thy lake shall be to me forever an image of peace and purity and stillness, and that inscription² in thy little churchyard, a sentence of wisdom for my after life."  
Before the setting of the same sun, which then shone on that fair landscape, he was far on his way towards Munich. He had left far behind him the mountains of the Tyrol; and beheld³ themfor the last time in the soft evening twilight⁴, their bases green with forest trees, and here and there, a sharp rocky spire⁵, and a rounded summit capped with snow. There they lay, their backs, like the backs of camels; a mighty⁶ caravan⁷, reposing⁸ at evening in its march across the desert.
 
From Munich he passed through Augsburg and Ulm, on his way to Stuttgard. At the entrances of towns and villages, he saw large crucifixes; and on the fronts of many houses, coarse paintings and images of saints. In Gunzburg three priests in black were slowly passing down the street, and women fell on their knees to receive their blessing⁹. There were many beggars, too, in the streets; and an old man who was making hay in a field by the road-side, when he saw the carriage approaching, threw down his rake, and came tumbling over the ditch, with his hat held out in both hands, uttering the most dismal¹⁰ wail¹¹. The next day, the bright yellow jackets of the postilions, and the two great tassels¹² of their bugle-horns, dangling¹³ down their backs, like two cauliflowers, told him he was in Würtemberg; and, late in the evening, he stopped at a hotel in Stuttgard; and from his chamber¹⁴-window, saw, in the bright moonlight, the old Gothic cathedral, with its narrow, lancet windows and jutting¹⁵ buttresses¹⁶, right in front of him. Ere long he had forgotten all his cares and sorrows in sleep, and with them his hopes, and wishes, and good resolves.
 
He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber, the next morning, when the great bell of the cathedral opposite began to ring, and reminded him that it was Sunday. Ere long the organ answered from within, and from its golden lips breathed forth¹⁷ a psalm¹⁸. The congregation began to assemble, and Flemming went up with them to the house of the Lord. In the body of the church he found the pews all filled or locked; they seemed to belong to families. He went up into the gallery, and looked over the psalm-book of a peasant, while the congregation sang the sublime¹⁹ old hymn²⁰ of Martin Luther,
 
"Our God, he is a tower of strength,
 
A trusty shield and weapon."
 
During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black, with a white surplice thrown loosely about him, came pacing along one of the aisles²¹, from beneath the organ-loft and ascended²² the pulpit. After the hymn, he read a portion of Scripture²³, and then said;
 
"Let us unite in silent prayer."
 
And turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, while the congregation remained standing²⁴. For a while there was a breathless silence in the church, which to Flemming was more solemnly impressive than any audible prayer. The clergyman then arose, and began his sermon. His theme was the Reformation; and he attempted to prove how much easier it was to enter the kingdom of Heaven through the gateways²⁵ of the Reformed Evangelical Dutch church, than by the aisles and penitential stair-cases of Saint Peter's. He then gave a history of the Reformation; and, when Flemming thought he was near the end, he heard him say, that he should divide his discourse²⁶ into four heads. This reminded him of the sturdy old Puritan, Cotton Mather, who after preaching an hour, would coolly turn the hour-glass on the pulpit, and say; "Now, my beloved hearers, let us take another glass." He stole out into the silent, deserted²⁷ street, and went to visit the veteran sculptor²⁸ Dannecker. He found him in his parlour, sitting alone, with his psalm-book, and the reminiscences of a life of eighty years. As Flemming entered, he arose from the sofa, and tottered²⁹ towards him; a venerable old man, of low stature³⁰, and dressed in a loose white jacket, with a face like Franklin's, his white hair flowing over his shoulders, and a pale, blue eye.
 
"So you are from America," said he. "But you have a German name. Paul Flemming was one of our old poets. I have never been in America, and never shall go there. I am now too old. I have been in Paris and in Rome. But that was long ago. I am now eight and seventy years old."
 
Here he took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit down by his side, on the sofa. And Flemmingfelt a mysterious awe³¹ creep over him, on touching³² the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely³⁴ amid the gathering³⁵ shade o............