“This fire within him was a Meleager’s fire-brand; and, when it burned out, he died.  And, as you say, marks of all this are clearly visible in Hoffmann’s writings.  Indeed, when I read his strange fancies, it is with me, as when in the summer night I hear the rising wind among the trees, and the branches bow, and beckon with their long fingers, and voices go gibbering and mockingthrough the air.  A feeling of awe and mysterious dread comes over me.  I wish to hear the sound of living voice or footstep near me,—­to see a friendly and familiar face.  In truth, if it be late at night, the reader as well as the writer of these unearthly fancies, would fain have a patient, meek-eyed wife, with her knitting-work, at his elbow.”

Berkley smiled; but Flemming continued without noticing the smile, though he knew what was passing in the mind of his friend;

“The life and writings of this singular being interest me in a high degree.  Oftentimes one may learn more from a man’s errors, than from his virtues.  Moreover, from the common sympathies of our nature, souls that have struggled and suffered are dear to me.  Willingly do I recognise their brotherhood.  Scars upon their foreheads do not so deform them, that they cease to interest.  They are always signs of struggle; though alas! too often, likewise, of defeat.  Seasons of unhealthy, dreamy, vague delight, are followed by seasons ofweariness and darkness.  Where are then the bright fancies, that, amid the great stillness of the night, arise like stars in the firmament of our souls?  The morning dawns, the light of common day shines in upon us, and the heavens are without a star!  From the lives of such men we learn, that mere pleasant sensations are not happiness;—­that sensual pleasures are to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, from the palm of the hand; and that those who bow down upon their knees to drink of these bright streams that water life, are not chosen of God either to overthrow or to overcome!”

“I think you are very lenient in your judgment.  This is not the usual defect of critics.  Like Shakspeare’s samphire-gatherer, they have a dreadful trade! and, to make the simile complete, they ought to hang for it!”

“Methinks it would be hard to hang a man for the sake of a simile.  But which of Hoffmann’s works is it, that you have in your hand?”

“His Phatasy-Pieces in Callot’s manner.  Who was this Callot?”

“He was a Lorrain painter of the seventeenth century, celebrated for his wild and grotesque conceptions.  These sketches of Hoffmann are imitations of his style.  They are full of humor, poetry, and brilliant imagination.”

“And which of them shall I read to you?  The Ritter Gluck; or the Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler; or that very exquisite story of the Golden Jar, wherein is depicted the life of Poesy, in this common-place world of ours?”

“Read the shortest.  Read Kreisler.  That will amuse me.  It is a picture of his own sufferings at the esthetic Teas in Berlin, supposed to be written in pencil on the blank leaves of a music-book.”