And turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, while the congregation remained standing.  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 gateways 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 discourse 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, deserted street, and went to visit the veteran sculptor 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 tottered towards him; a venerable old man, of low stature, 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 awe creep over him, on touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years, and listened to life’s curfew-bell, telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour had come, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till the morning.

“You see,” he continued, in a melancholy tone, “my hands are cold; colder than yours.  They were warmer once.  I am now an old man.”

“Yet these are the hands,” answered Flemming, “that sculptured the beauteous Ariadne and the Panther.  The soul never grows old.”

“Nor does Nature,” said the old man, pleased with this allusion to his great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window.  “This pleasure I have left to me.  My sight is still good.  I can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain.  My hearing is also unimpaired.  For all which, I thank God.”

Then, directing Flemming’s attention to a fine engraving, which hung on the opposite wall of the room, he continued;

“That is an engraving of Canova’s Religion.  I love to sit here and look at it, for hours together.  It is beautiful.  He made the statue for his native town, where they had no church, until he built them one.  He placed the statue in it.  This engraving he sent me as a present.  Ah, he was a dear, good man.  The name of his native town I have forgotten.  My memory fails me.  I cannot remember names.”