through thetransparent waters, checkered with sunshine and shade, into the vast chambers of the mighty deep, in which his happier days had sunk, and wherein they were lying still visible, like golden sands, and precious stones, and pearls; and, half in despair, half in hope, he grasped downward after them again, and drew back his hand, filled only with seaweed, and dripping with briny tears!—­And between him and those golden sands, a radiant image floated, like the spirit in Dante’s Paradise, singing “Ave-Maria!” and while it sang, down-sinking, and slowly vanishing away.

The truth is, that in all things he acted more from impulse than from fixed principle; as is the case with most young men.  Indeed, his principles hardly had time to take root; for he pulled them all up, every now and then, as children do the flowers they have planted,—­to see if they are growing.  Yet there was much in him which was good; for underneath the flowers and green-sward of poetry, and the good principles which would have taken root, had he given them time, therelay a strong and healthy soil of common sense,—­freshened by living springs of feeling, and enriched by many faded hopes, that had fallen upon it like dead leaves.

CHAPTER IV.  THE LANDLADY’S DAUGHTER.

“Allez Fuchs! allez lustig!” cried the impatient postilion to his horses, in accents, which, like the wild echo of the Lurley Felsen, came first from one side of the river, and then from the other,—­that is to say, in words alternately French and German.  The truth is, he was tired of waiting; and when Flemming had at length resumed his seat in the post-chaise, the poor horses had to make up the time lost in dreams on the mountain.  This is far oftener the case, than most people imagine.  One half of the world has to sweat and groan, that the other half may dream.  It would have been a difficult task for the traveller or his postilion to persuade the horses, that these dreams were all for their good.

The next stopping-place was the little tavern of the Star, an out-of-the-way corner in the town of Salzig.  It stands on the banks of the Rhine; and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water’s edge, rise the mountains of Liebenstein and Sternenfels, each with its ruined castle.  These are the Brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at each other face to face; and beneath them in the valley stands a cloister,—­meek emblem of that orphan child, they both so passionately loved.

In a small, flat-bottomed boat did the landlady’s daughter row Flemming “over the Rhine-stream, rapid and roaring wide.”  She was a beautiful girl of sixteen; with black hair, and dark, lovely eyes, and a face that had a story to tell.  How different faces are in this particular!  Some of them speak not.  They are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date.  Others are great family bibles, with all the Old and New Testament written in them.  Others are Mother Goose and nursery tales;—­others bad tragedies or pickle-herring farces; and others, like that of the landlady’s daughter at the Star, sweet love-anthologies, and songs of the affections.  It was on that account, that Flemming said to her, as they glided out into the swift stream;