And I shall read them there without a taper.”

CHAPTER I. SUMMER-TIME.

They were right,—­those old German Minnesingers,—­to sing the pleasant summer-time!  What a time it is!  How June stands illuminated in the Calendar!  The windows are all wide open; only the Venetian blinds closed.  Here and there a long streak of sunshine streams in through a crevice.  We hear the low sound of the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound.  The trees are heavy with leaves; and the gardens full of blossoms, red and white.  The whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sunshine.  The birds sing.  The cock struts about, and crows loftily.  Insects chirp in the grass.  Yellow butter-cups stud the green carpet like golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies.  The elm-trees reach their long, pendulous branches almost to the ground.  White clouds sail aloft; and vapors fret the blue sky with silver threads.  The white village gleams afar against the dark hills.  Through the meadow winds the river,—­careless, indolent.  It seems to love the country, and is in no haste to reach the sea.  The bee only is at work,—­the hot and angry bee.  All things else are at play; he never plays, and is vexed that any one should.

People drive out from town to breathe, and to be happy.  Most of them have flowers in their hands; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still oftener lilacs.  Ye denizens of the crowded city, how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry streets to the open fields, fragrant with clover-blossoms! how pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, dashed with brine from the meadows! howpleasant, above all, the flowers, the manifold, beautiful flowers!

It is no longer day.  Through the trees rises the red moon, and the stars are scarcely seen.  In the vast shadow of night, the coolness and the dews descend.  I sit at the open window to enjoy them; and hear only the voice of the summer wind.  Like black hulks, the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.  I cannot see the red and blue flowers, but I know that they are there.  Far away in the meadow gleams the silver Charles.  The tramp of horses’ hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge.  Then all is still, save the continuous wind of the summer night.  Sometimes I know not if it be the wind or the sound of the neighbouring sea.  The village clock strikes; and I feel that I am not alone.

How different is it in the city!  It is late, and the crowd is gone.  You step out upon the balcony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, dewy night, as if you folded her garments about you.  The whole starry heaven is spread out overhead.  Beneath lies the public walk with trees, like a fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent darkness the spirit plunges and floats away, with some beloved spirit clasped in its embrace.  The lamps are still burning