than his own.  He saw the world beneath his feet; and said in his heart, that he alone was wise.  Alas! he read more willingly in the book of Paracelsus, than in the book of Nature; and, believing that `where reason hath experience, faith hath no mind,’ would fain have made unto himself a child, not as Nature teaches us, but as the Philosopher taught,—­a poor homunculus, in a glass bottle.  And he died poor and childless!”

Whether it were worth while to climb the Stolzenfels to hear such a homily as this, some persons may perhaps doubt.  But Paul Flemming doubted not.  He laid the lesson to heart; and it would have saved him many an hour of sorrow, if he had learned that lesson better, and remembered it longer.

In ancient times, there stood in the citadel of Athens three statues of Minerva.  The first was of olive wood, and, according to popular tradition, had fallen from heaven.  The second was of bronze, commemorating the victory of Marathon; and the third of gold and ivory,—­a great miracle of art, in the age of Pericles.  And thus in the citadel of Time stands Man himself.  In childhood, shaped of soft and delicate wood, just fallen from heaven; in manhood, a statue of bronze, commemorating struggle and victory; and lastly, in the maturity of age, perfectly shaped in gold and ivory,—­a miracle of art!

Flemming had already lived through the oliveage.  He was passing into the age of bronze, into his early manhood; and in his hands the flowers of Paradise were changing to the sword and shield.

And this reminds me, that I have not yet described my hero.  I will do it now, as he stands looking down on the glorious landscape;—­but in few words.  Both in person and character he resembled Harold, the Fair-Hair of Norway, who is described, in the old Icelandic Death-Song of Regner Hairy-Breeches, as “the young chief so proud of his flowing locks; he who spent his mornings among the young maidens; he who loved toconverse with the handsome widows.”  This was an amiable weakness; and it sometimes led him into mischief.  Imagination was the ruling power of his mind.  His thoughts were twin-born; the thought itself, and its figurative semblance in the outer world.  Thus, through the quiet, still waters of his soul each image floated double, “swan and shadow.”

These traits of character, a good heart and a poetic imagination, made his life joyous and the world beautiful; till at length Death cut down the sweet, blue flower, that bloomed beside him, and wounded him with that sharp sickle, so that he bowed his head, and would fain have been bound up in the same sheaf with the sweet, blue flower.  Then the world seemed to him less beautiful, and life became earnest.  It would have been well if he could have forgotten the past; that he might not so mournfully have lived in it, but might have enjoyed and improved the present.  But this his heart refused to do; and ever, as he floated upon the great sea of life, he looked down