THE NEW HYPERION.

From Paris to Marly by way of the Rhine.

[The author’s vignettes neatly copied by Gusatave Dore.]

I.—­Preambulary.

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The behavior of a great Hope is like the setting of the sun.  It splashes out from under a horizontal cloud, so diabolically incandescent that you see a dozen false suns blotting the heavens with purple in every direction.  You bury your eyes in a handkerchief, with your back carefully turned upon the west, and meantime the spectacle you were waiting for takes place and disappears.  You promise yourself to nick it better to-morrow.  The soul withdraws into its depths.  The stars arise (offering two or three thousand more impracticable suns), and the night is ironical.

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Having already conquered, without boasting, a certain success before the reading public, and having persuaded an author of renown to sign his name to my bantling, my Expectation and Hope have long been to surpass that trifling production.  You may think it a slight thing to prepare a lucky volume, and, tapping Fame familiarly on the shoulder, engage her to undertake its colportage throughout the different countries of the globe.  My first little work of travel and geography had exceeded my dreams of a good reception.  It had earned me several proposals from publishers; it had been annotated with “How true!” and “Most profound!” by the readers in public libraries; its title had given an imaginative air to the ledgers of book-sellers; and it had added a new shade of moodiness to the collection of Mudie.  The man who hits one success by accident is always trying to hit another by preparation.  Since that achievement I have thought of nothing but the creation of another impromptu, and I have really prepared a quantity of increments toward it in the various places to which my traveling existence has led me.  That I have settled down, since these many years past, at the centre and capital of ideas would prove me, even without the indiscretions of that first little book, an American by birth.  I need not add that my card is printed in German text, Paul Fleming, and that time has brought to me a not ungraceful, though a sometimes practically retardating, circumference.  Beneath a mask of cheerfulness, and even of obesity, however, I continue to guard the sensitive feelings of my earlier days.  Yes:  under this abnormal convexity are fostered, as behind a lens, the glowing tendencies of my youth.  Though no longer, like the Harold described in Icelandic verse by Regner Hairy-Breeches, “a young chief proud of my flowing locks,” yet I still “spend my mornings among the young maidens,” or such of them as frequent the American Colony, as we call it, in Paris.  I still “love to converse with the handsome widows.”  Miss Ashburton, who in one little