After a few days' journey they arrived at a small village, situated at
the foot of some sharp hill-tops, interspersed with deep defiles. The
country in other respects was fruitful and pleasant, though the hilly
ridge presented a dead, repulsive appearance. The inn was neat, the
people attentive; and a number of men, partly travellers, partly mere
drinking guests, sat in the room entertaining themselves with various
cheer.
Our travellers mingled with them, and joined in their conversation. The
attention of the company was particularly directed to an old man
strangely dressed, who sat by a table and answered pleasantly whatever
questions of curiosity were put to him. He had come from foreign lands,
and early that day had been examining the surrounding country. He was
now explaining his business, and the discoveries he had made during the
day. The people here called him a treasure-digger. But he spoke very
modestly of his power and knowledge; yet what he said bore the impress
of quaintness and novelty. He said that he was born in Bohemia. From
his youth he had been very curious to know what might be hidden in the
mountains, whence water poured its visible springs, and where gold,
silver, and precious stones were found, so irresistibly attractive to
man. He had often in the neighboring cloister-chapel beheld their solid
light appended to the pictures and relics, and only wished that they
would speak to him in explanation of their wonderful origin. He had
indeed sometimes heard that they came from far distant regions; but had
always wondered why such treasures and jewels might not also be found
in his own land. The mountains would not be so extensive and lofty, and
so closely guarded, without some purpose; he also imagined that he had
found shining and glimmering stones upon them. He had climbed about
industriously among the clefts and caves, and had peered into their
antiquated halls and arches with unspeakable pleasure.
At length he met a traveller who told him that he must become a miner
in order to satisfy his curiosity. There were miners in Bohemia, and he
needed only descend the river for ten or twelve days, to Eula, where to
gratify his desire he had only to mention it. He waited for no further
confirmation of this, but set off on the next day. After a fatiguing
journey of several days he reached Eula.
"I cannot describe how gloriously I felt, when I saw from the hill the
piles of rock overgrown with thickets, upon which stood the board huts,
and watched the smoke-wreaths rising over the forest from the valley
below. A distant murmur increased my eager anticipations. With
incredible curiosity and full of silent reverence, I soon stood
over a steep descent, which led precipitously down into the mountain,
from among the huts. I hastened towards the valley, and soon met
some men dressed in black, with lamps in their hands, whom I not
improperly took to be miners, and to whom I told my desire with anxious
timidity. They listened to me kindly, and told me that I must go to the
smelting-houses and inquire for the overseer, who supplied the place of
director and master, and who would tell me whether I could be admitted.
They thought my request would be granted, and told me that 'good luck'
was the customary form of greeting the overseer. Full of joyous
expectations I pursued my way, constantly repeating to myself the new
and significant greeting. I found a venerable old man who received me
with kindness, and after telling him my history and my warm desire to
be instructed in his rare and mysterious art, he readily promised to
fulfil my wishes. He seemed pleased with me, and entertained me in his
own house. I could scarcely wait for the moment when I should descend
the pit, and behold myself in the long-coveted apparel. That very
evening he brought me a mining-dress, and explained to me the use of
some tools which were kept in a chamber. At evening the miners came to
him, and not a word of their conversation did I lose, however foreign
and unintelligible the chief part of their language appeared to me. The
little, however, that I seemed to understand heightened the ardor of my
curiosity, and busied me at night with strange dreams. I awoke early,
and found myself at the house of my new host, where the miners were
gradually collecting to receive orders. A little side-room was fitted
up as a chapel. A monk appeared and read mass, and afterwards
pronounced a solemn prayer, in which he invoked Heaven to give the
miners its holy protection, to assist them in their dangerous labors,
to defend them from the temptations and snares of evil spirits, and to
grant them abundant ore. I never prayed more fervently, and never
realized so vividly the deep significance of the mass. My companions
appeared to me like heroes of the lower earth, who were obliged to
encounter a thousand perils, but possessing an enviable fortune in
their precious knowledge, and prepared, by grave and silent intercourse
with the primeval children of nature, in their sombre, mystic chambers,
for the reception of heavenly gifts, and for a blessed elevation above
the world and its troubles. When the service was concluded, the
overseer, giving me a lamp and a small wooden crucifix, accompanied me
to the shaft, as we are accustomed to call the steep entrance into the
subterraneous abodes. He taught me the method of descent, acquainted me
with the necessary precautions, as well as with the names of the
various objects and divisions. He led the way, and slid down a round
beam, grasping with one hand a rope, which was knotted to a transverse
bar, and with the other his lamp. I followed his example, and in this
manner we soon reached a considerable depth. I have seldom felt so
solemnly; and the distant light glimmered like a happy star, pointing
out the path to the secret treasures of nature. We came below to a
labyrinth of paths. My kind master was ever ready to answer my
inquisitive questions, and to teach me concerning his art. The roaring
of the water, the distance from the inhabited surface, the darkness and
intricacy of the paths, and the distant hum of the working miners,
delighted me extremely, and I joyfully felt myself in full possession
of all that for which I had most ardently sighed. This complete
satisfaction of our innate taste, this wonderful delight in things
which perhaps have an intimate relation to our secret being, and in
occupations for which one is destined from the cradle, cannot be
explained or described. Perhaps they might appear to every one else
common, insignificant, and unpleasant; but they seemed to me necessary
as air to the lungs, or food to the stomach. My good master was pleased
at my inward delight, and promised me that, with such zeal and
attention, I should advance rapidly and become an able miner. With what
reverence did I behold for the first time in my life, on the sixteenth
of March, more than five-and-forty years ago, the king of metals in
small, delicate leaves between the fissures of the rocks! It seemed as
if, having been doomed here to close captivity, it glittered kindly
towards, the miner, who with so many dangers and labors breaks a way to
it through its strong prison-walls, that he may remove it to the light
of day, and exalt it to the honor of royal crowns, vessels, and holy
relics, and to dominion over the world in the shape of genuine coin,
adorned with emblems, cherished by all. From that time I remained at
Eula, and advanced gradually from the business of removing the hewn
pieces of ore in baskets, to the degree of hewer, who is the real
miner, and who performs the observations upon the stone."
The old man paused a moment in his narration, and drank, while the
attentive listeners pledged his good luck, as they drained their cups.
Henry was delighted with the old man's discourse, and was desirous to
hear still more from him.
His listeners related descriptions of the dangers and strangeness of
the miner's life, and had many marvels to tell, at which the old man
often smiled, and endeavored to correct their odd representations.
After a while Henry said, "you must have experienced much that is
wonderful since then, I hope you have never repented your selection of
a mode of life. Be kind enough to tell us how you have employed
yourself since, and why you are now travelling. You must have looked
farther into the world, and I am certain that you are now something
more than a common miner."
"I take great pleasure," said the old man, "in the recollection of past
times, in which I find cause to bless the divine mercy and goodness.
Fate has led me through a joyful and serene life, and not a day has
passed, at the close of which I could not retire to rest with a
thankful heart. I have always been fortunate in my undertakings, and
our common Father in Heaven has guarded me from evil, and brought me to
a gray old age with honor. Next to him I must thank my old master for
all these blessings, who long since was gathered to his fathers, and of
whom I never can think without tears. He was a man of the old school,
after God's own heart. He was gifted with deep penetration, yet
childlike and humble in every action. Through his means mining has
become in high repute, and has helped the duke of Bohemia to immense
treasures. The whole region has become by its influence settled and
prosperous, and is now a blooming land. All the miners honored him as a
father, and as long as Eula stands, his name will be mentioned with
emotion and gratitude. His name was Werner, and he was a Lausatian by
birth. His only daughter was a mere child when I came to his house. My
industry, faithfulness, and devoted attachment daily won his affection.
He gave me his name and adopted me as his son. The little girl grew to
be an open-hearted, merry creature, whose countenance was as
beautifully clear and pure as her own mind. The old man, when he saw
that she was attached to me, that I loved to play with her, and that I
could never cease gazing at her eyes, which were as blue and open as
heaven and glittering as crystal, often told me that when I became a
worthy miner, he would not refuse her to me. He kept his word. The day
I became hewer he laid his hands upon us, blessed us as bride and
bridegroom, and a few weeks afterward I called her my wife. Early on
that day, although a mere apprentice, I struck upon a rich vein. The
Duke sent me a golden chain, with his likeness engraven on a large
medallion, and promised me the office of my father-in-law. How happy
was I when on my marriage day I hung the chain around the neck of my
bride, and the eyes of all were turned upon her. Our old father lived
to see some merry grand-children, and his declining years were more
joyous than he had ever anticipated. With joy could he finish his task,
and fare forth from the dark mine of this world, to rest in peace, and
await the final day.
"Sir," said the old man, as he turned his gaze upon Henry, and wiped
some tears from his eyes, "it must be that mining is blessed by God;
for there is no art, which renders those who are occupied in it happier
and nobler, which awakens a deeper faith in divine wisdom and guidance,
or which preserves the innocence and childlike simplicity of the heart
more freshly. Poor is the miner born, and poor he departs again. He is
satisfied with knowing where metallic riches are found, and with
bringing them to light; but their dazzling glare has no power over his
simple heart. Untouched by the perilous delirium, he is more pleased in
examining their wonderful formation, and the peculiarities of their
origin and primitive situation, than in calling himself their
possessor. When changed into property, they have no longer any charm
for him, and he prefers to seek them amid a thousand dangers and
travails, in the fastnesses of the earth, rather than to follow their
vocation in the world, or aspire after them on the earth's surface,
with cunning and deceitful arts. These severe labors keep his heart
fresh and his mind strong; he enjoys his scanty pay with inward
thankfulness, and comes forth every day from the dark tombs of his
calling, with new-born enjoyment of life. He now appreciates the
pleasure of light and of rest, the charms of the free air and prospect;
his food and drink are right refreshing to one, who enjoys them as
devoutly as if at the Lord's Supper; and with what a warm and tender
heart he joins his friends, or embraces his wife and children, and
thankfully shares the delights of heart-felt intercourse."
"His lonely occupation cuts off a great part of his life from day and
the society of man. Still he does not harden himself in dull
indifference as to these deep-meaning matters of the upper world; and
he retains a childlike simplicity, which recognises the interior
essence, and the manifold, primitive energies of all things. Nature
will never be the possession of any single individual. In the form of
property it becomes a terrible poison, which destroys rest, excites the
ruinous desire of drawing everything within the reach of its possessor,
and carries with it a train of wild passions and endless sorrows. Thus
it undermines secretly the ground of the owner, buries him in the abyss
which breaks beneath him, and so passes into the hands of another, thus
gradually satisfying its tendency to belong to all.
"How quietly, on the contrary, the poor miner labors in his deep
solitudes, far from the restless turmoil of day, animated solely by a
thirst for knowledge and a love of harmony. In his solitude he tenderly
thinks of his friends and family, and his sense of their value and
relationship is continually renewed. His calling teaches indefatigable
patience, and forbids his attention to be diverted by useless thoughts.
He deals with a strange, hard, and unwieldly power, which will yield
only to persevering industry and continual care. But what a glorious
flower blooms for him in these awful depths,--a firm confidence in his
heavenly Father, whose hand and care are every day visible to him in
signs not easily mistaken! How often have I sat down, and by the light
of my lamp gazed upon the plain crucifix with the most heart-felt
devotion! Then for the first time I clearly understood the holy meaning
of this mysterious image, and struck upon a heart-vein of the richest
golden ore, and which has yielded me an everlasting reward."
After a pause the old man continued:--
"Truly must he have been divine, who first taught men the noble art of
mining, and who has hidden in the bosom of the rock this sober emblem
of human life. In one place the veins are large, easily broken, but
poor; in another a wretched and insignificant cleft of rock confines
it; and here the best ores are to be found. It often splits before the
miner's face into a thousand atoms, but the patient one is not
terrified; he quietly pursues his course, and soon sees his zeal
rewarded, whilst working it open in a new and more promising direction.
"A specious lump often entices him from the true direction; but he soon
discovers that the way is false, and breaks his way by main strength
across the grain of the rock, until he has found the true path that
leads to the ore. How thoroughly acquainted does the miner here become
with all the humors of chance, and how assured that energy and
constancy are the only sure means of overcoming them and of raising the
hidden treasure."
"Certainly you are not without cheering songs," said Henry. "I should
think that your calling would involuntarily inspire you with music, and
that songs would be your welcome companions."
"There you have spoken the truth," said the old man. "The song and the
guitar belong to the miner's life, and no occupation can retain their
charm with more zest than ours. Music and dancing are the pleasures of
the miner; like a joyful prayer are they, and the remembrance and hope
of them help to lighten weary labor and shorten long solitude.
"If you would like it now, I will give you a song for your
entertainment, which was a favorite in my youth.
"Who fathoms her recesses,
Is monarch of the sphere,--
Forgetting all distresses,
Within her bosom here.
"Of all her granite piling
The secret make he knows,
And down amid her toiling
Unweariedly he goes.
"He is unto her plighted,
And tenderly allied,--
Becomes by her delighted,
As if she were his bride.
"New love each day is burning
For her within his breast,
No toil or trouble shunning,
She leaveth him no rest.
"To him her voice is swelling
In solemn, friendly rhyme,
The mighty stories telling
Of long-evanished time.
"The Fore-world's holy breezes
Around his temples play,
And caverned night releases
To him a quenchless ray.
"On every side he greeteth
A long familiar land,
And willingly she meeteth
The labors of his hand.
"For helpful waves are flowing
Along his mountain course,
And rocky holds are showing
Their treasures' secret source.
"Toward his monarch's palace
He guides the golden stream,
And diadem and chalice
With noble jewels gleam.
"Though faithfully his treasure
He renders to the king,
He liveth poor with pleasure,
And makes no questioning.
"And though beneath him daily
They fight for gold and gain,
Above here let him gaily
The lord of earth remain."
The song pleased Henry exceedingly, and he begged the old man to sing
another. He was willing to gratify him, saying, "I know one song that
is very strange, and of whose origin we ourselves are ignorant. A
travelling miner, who came to us from a distance, and who was a curious
diviner with a wand, brought it with him. The song became a favorite
because it was so peculiar,--nearly as dark and obscure as the music
itself; but on that very account singularly attractive, and like a
dream between sleeping and waking.
"I know where is a castle strong,
With stately king in silence reigning,
Attended by a wondrous throng,
Yet deep within its walls remaining.
His pleasure-hall is far aloof,
With viewless warders round it gliding,
And only streams familiar sliding
Toward him from the sparry roof.
"Of what they see with lustrous eyes,
Where all the stars in light are dwelling,
They faithfully the king apprize,
And never are they tired of telling.
He bathes himself within their flood,
So daintily his members washing,
And all his light again is flashing
Throughout his mother's[2] paly blood.
"His castle old and marvellous,
From seas unfathomed o'er him closing,
Stood firm, and ever standeth thus,
Escape to upper air opposing;
An inner spell in secret thrall
The vassals of the realm is holding,
And clouds, like triumph-flags unfolding,
Are gathered round the rocky wall.
"Lo, an innumerable race
Before the barred portals lying;
And each the trusty servant plays,
The ears of men so blandly plying.
So men are lured the king to gain,
Divining not that they are captured;
But thus by specious longing raptured,
Forget the hidden cause of pain.
"But few are cunning and awake,
Nor ever for his treasures pining;
And these assiduous efforts make,
The ancient castle undermining.
The mighty spell's primeval tie
True insight's hand alone can sever;
If so the Inmost opens ever,
The dawn of freedom's day is nigh.
"To toil the firmest wall is sand,
To courage no abyss unsounded;
Who trusteth in his heart and hand,
Seeks for the king with zeal unbounded.
He brings him from his secret hill,
The spirit foes by spirits quelling,
Masters the torrents madly swelling,
And makes them follow at his will.
"The more the king appears in sight,
And freely round the earth is flowing,
The more diminishes his might,
The more the free in number growing.
At length dissolves that olden spell,--
And through the castle void careering,
Us homeward is the ocean bearing
Upon its gentle, azure swell."
Just as the old man ended, it struck Henry that he had somewhere heard
that song. He asked him to repeat it and wrote it down. The old man
then departed, and the merchants conversed with the other guests on the
pleasures and hardships of mining. One said "I don't believe the old
man is here without some object. He has been climbing to-day among the
hills, and has doubtless discovered good signs. We will ask him when he
comes in again."
"See here," said another, "we might ask him to hunt up a well for our
village. Good water is far off, and a well would be right welcome to
us."
"It occurs to me," said a third, "that I might ask him to take with him
one of my sons, who has already filled the house with stones. The
youngster would certainly make an able miner, and the old man seems
honest, and one who would bring him up in the way he should go."
The merchants were thinking whether they might not establish, by aid of
the miner, a profitable trade with Bohemia, and procure metals thence
at low prices. The old man entered the room again, and all wished to
make use of his acquaintance, when he began to say:--
"How dull and depressing is this narrow room! The moon is without there
in all her glory, and I have a great desire to take a walk. I saw
to-day some remarkable caves in this neighborhood. Perhaps some of you
would like to go with me; and if we take lights, we shall be able to
view them without any difficulty."
The inhabitants of the village were already acquainted with the
existence of these caves, but no one had as yet dared to enter them. On
the contrary they were deceived by frightful traditions of dragons and
other monsters, which were said to dwell therein. Some went so far as
to say that they had seen them, and insisted that the bones of men who
had been robbed, and of animals which had been devoured, were to be
found at the entrances of these caves. Others thought that a ghost
haunted them, for they had often seen from a distance a strange human
form there, and songs had been heard thence at night.
The old man was rather incredulous upon the point, and laughingly
assured them that they could visit the caves with safety under the
protection of a miner, since such monsters must shun him; and as for a
singing spirit, that must certainly be a beneficent one. Curiosity
rendered many courageous enough to accept his proposition. Henry wished
also to accompany him, and his mother at length yielded to his
entreaties, and the persuasion and promises of the old man, who agreed
to have a special eye to his safety. The merchants promised to do the
same. Long sticks of pitch-pine were collected for torches; part of the
company provided themselves plentifully with ladders, poles, ropes, and
all sorts of defensive weapons, and thus finally they started for the
neighboring hills. The old man led the way with Henry and the
merchants. The boor had brought that inquisitive son of his, who full
of joy held a torch and pointed out the way to the caves. The evening
was clear and warm. The moon shone mildly over the hills, prompting
strange dreams in all creatures. Itself lay like a dream of the sun,
above the introverted world of visions, and restored nature, now living
in its infinite phases, back to that fabulous olden time, when every
bud yet slumbered by itself, lonely and unquickened, longing in vain to
expand the dark fulness of its immeasurable existence. The evening's
tale mirrored itself in Henry's mind. It seemed as if the world lay
disclosed within him, showing him as a friendly visitor all her hidden
treasures and beauties. So clearly was the great yet simple apparition
revealed to him. Nature seemed incomprehensible, only because the near
and the true loomed around man with such a manifold lavishment of
expression. The words of the old man had opened a secret door. He saw a
little dwelling built close to a lofty minster, from whose stone
pavement arose the solemn foreworld, while the clear, joyous future, in
the form of golden cherubs, floated from the spire towards it with
songs. Loud swelled the notes in their silvery chanting, as all
creatures were entering at the wide gate, each audibly expressing in a
simple prayer and proper tongue their interior nature. How strange it
seemed that this clear view, so necessary to his existence, had been so
long unknown to him. He now reviewed at a glance all his relations to
the wide world around him. He felt what he had become, and was to
become, through its influence, and comprehended all the peculiar
conceptions and presages, which he had already often stumbled upon in
contemplation. The story which the merchants had related of the young
man, who studied nature so assiduously, and who became the son-in-law
of the king, recurred to his mind, with a thousand other recollections
of his past life, weaving themselves involuntarily on his part into a
magic thread. While Henry was thus occupied in his inward musings, the
company had approached the cave. The entrance was low, and the old man
took a torch and first clambered over some fragments of rock. A
perceptible current of air blew towards them, and the old man assured
them that they could follow with confidence. The most timorous brought
up the rear, holding their weapons in readiness. Henry and the
merchants were behind the old man, and the boy walked merrily at his
side. The path, at first narrow, emerged into a spacious and lofty
cave, which the gleam of the torches could not fully illumine. Some
openings, however, were seen in the rocky wall opposite. The ground was
soft and quite even; the walls and ceiling were also neither rough nor
irregular. But the innumerable bones and teeth which covered the
ground, chiefly attracted the attention of all. Many were in a full
state of preservation, some bore marks of decay, while some projecting
here and there from the walls seemed petrified. Most of them were of
extraordinary size and strength. The old man was much gratified at
seeing these relics of gray antiquity; they added little courage,
however, to the farmers, who considered them downright evidence, that
beasts of prey were near at hand, although the old man pointed out the
signs upon them of a remote antiquity, and asked them whether they had
ever heard of destruction among their flocks, or the seizure of men in
the neighborhood, and whether they thought these relics the bones of
known beasts or men. The old man wished to penetrate farther into the
cave, but the farmers deemed it advisable to retreat to its mouth, and
there await his return. Henry, the merchants, and the boy remained with
him, having provided themselves with ropes and torches. They soon
reached a second cave, where the old man did not forget to mark the
path by which they entered, by a figure of bones which he erected
before the mouth. This cave resembled the other, and was equally full
of the remains of animals. Henry's mind was affected by wonder and
awe; he felt as if passing through the outer-court of the central
earth-palace. Heaven and earth lay at once far distant from him; these
dark and vast halls seemed parts of some strange subterraneous kingdom.
"May it not be possible," thought he to himself, "that beneath our feet
there moves by itself a world in mighty life, that strange productions
derive their being from the bowels of the earth, which sends forth the
internal heat of its dark bosom into gigantic and preternatural shapes?
Might not these awful strangers have been driven forth once by the
piercing cold, and appeared amongst us, while perhaps at the same time
heavenly guests, living, speaking energies of the stars, were visible
above our heads? Are these bones the remains of their wandering upon
the surface, or of their flight into the deep?"
Suddenly the old man called them to him, and showed them the fresh
track of a human foot upon the ground. They could discover no more, so
that the old man concluded they might follow the track without fear of
meeting robbers. They were about to do this, when suddenly, as from a
great depth beneath their feet, a distinct strain arose. They listened
attentively, with not a little astonishment.
"In the vale I gladly linger,
Smiling in the dusky night,
For to me with rosy finger
Proffers Love his cup of light.
"With its dew my spirit sunken
Wafted is toward the skies,
And I stand in this life drunken
At the gate of paradise.
"Lulled in blessed contemplation,
Vexes me no petty smart;
O, the queen of all creation
Gives to me her faithful heart.
"Many years of tearful sorrows
Glorified this common clay,--
Thence a graven form it borrows,
Life securing it for aye.
"Here the lapse of days evanished
But a moment seems to me;
Backward would I turn, if banished,
Gazing hither gratefully."
All were most agreeably surprised and eagerly wished to discover the
singer.
After some search, they found in an angle of the right wall a deep
sunken path, to which the footsteps seemed to lead them. Soon they
thought they perceived a light, which became clearer as they
approached. A new vault of greater extent than those they had yet
passed opened before them, in the further extremity of which they saw a
human form sitting by a lamp, with a great book before him upon a slab,
in which he appeared to be reading.
The figure turned towards them, arose, and came forward. He was a man
whose age it were impossible to guess. He seemed neither old nor young,
and no traces of time were discoverable, except in his smooth silvery
hair, which was parted on his forehead. An indescribable air of
serenity dwelt in his eyes, as if he were looking down from a clear
mountain into an infinite spring.
He had sandals upon his feet, and wore no other dress except a large
mantle cast around him, which added dignity to his noble form. He
expressed no surprise at their unexpected arrival, and greeted them as
old acquaintances and expected guests.
"It is pleasant indeed," said he, "that you have sought me. You are the
first friends I have ever seen, though I have dwelt here a long season.
It seems that men are beginning to examine our spacious and wonderful
mansion a little more closely."
The old man answered, "We did not expect to find here so friendly a
host. We had been told of wild beasts and spectres, but we now find
ourselves most agreeably deceived. If we have disturbed your devotions
or deep meditations, pardon it to our curiosity."
"Can any sight be more delightful," said the unknown, "than the joyous
and speaking countenance of man? Think not that I am a misanthrope,
because you find me in this solitude. I have not shunned the world, but
have only sought a retirement, where I could apply myself to my
meditations undisturbed."
"Have you never grieved for your own desolation, and do not hours
sometimes come, when you are fearful, and long to hear a human voice?"
"Now, no more. There was a time in my youth, when a highly wrought
imagination induced me to become a hermit. Dark forebodings busied my
youthful fancy. I thought to find in solitude full nourishment for my
heart. The fountain of my inner life seemed inexhaustible. But I soon
learned that fulness of experience must be added to it, that a young
heart cannot dwell alone; nay, that man, by manifold intercourse with
his race, reaches a certain self-subsisting independence."
"I myself believe," said the old man, "that there is a certain natural
impulse to every mode of life; and that perhaps the experiences of
increasing age lead of themselves to a withdrawal from human society.
It then seems as if society were devoted to activity as much for gain
as for maintenance. It is powerfully impelled by a great hope, by a
common object, and children and the aged seem not at home. Helplessness
and ignorance exclude the first from it, while the latter, with every
hope fulfilled, every object attained, and new hopes and objects no
longer woven into their circle, turn back into themselves, and find
enough employment in preparing for a higher existence. But more
peculiar causes seem to have separated you entirely from men, and
influenced you to resign all the comforts of society. Methinks that the
tension of your mind must often relax, and give place to the most
disagreeable emotions."
"I have indeed felt that; but have learned to avoid it by a strict
regularity in my mode of living. For this purpose I endeavor by
exercise to preserve my health, and then there is no danger. Every day
I walk for several hours and enjoy the light and air as much as
possible; or I remain in these halls, and busy myself at certain times
with basket-braiding and carving. I exchange my ware at distant places
for provisions; I have brought many books with me, and thus time passes
like a moment. In these places I have acquaintances who know where I
live, and from whom I learn what is going on in the world. These will
bury me when I die, and take away my books."
He led them nearer his seat, which was against the wall of the cave.
They noticed several books and a guitar lying upon the ground, and upon
the wall hung a complete suit of armor apparently quite costly. The
table consisted of five great stone slabs, put together in the form of
a box. Upon the upper one were two sculptured male and female figures
large as life, holding a garland of lilies and roses. Upon the side was
inscribed,
"Frederick and Mary of Hohenzollern here returned to their native
dust."
The hermit inquired of his guests concerning their fatherland, and how
they had journeyed into these regions. He was kind and communicative,
and displayed great knowledge of the world.
The old man said, "I see you have been a warrior; the armor betrays
you."
"The dangers and vicissitudes of war, the deep, poetic spirit connected
with an armed host, tore me from my youthful solitude and determined
the destiny of my life. Perhaps the long tumult, the innumerable events
among which I have dwelt, awakened in me a yet stronger inclination for
solitude, where numberless recollections make pleasant companions; and
this the more, in proportion as our view of them is varied; a view
which now first discovers their true connexion, their significance, and
their occult tendency. The peculiar sense for the study of man's
history develops itself but tardily, and rather through the silent
influence of memory than by the more forcible impressions of the
present. The nearest events seem but loosely connected, yet they
sympathize so much the more curiously with the remote. And it is only
when one is able to comprehend in one view a lengthened series, neither
interpreting too literally, nor confounding the proper method with
capricious fancies, that he detects the secret chain which binds the
past to the future, and learns to rear the fabric of history from hope
and memory. Yet only he can succeed in discovering the simple laws of
history, to whom the whole past is present. We arrive only at
incomplete and cumbrous formulas, and are well content to find for
ourselves an available prescription, that may sufficiently expound the
riddle of our own short lives. But I can truly say that each rigorous
view of the events of life causes us deep and inexhaustible pleasure,
and raises us, of all speculations, the highest above earthly evils.
Youth reads history only from curiosity, as it cons a story; to
maturity it becomes a divinely consoling and edifying companion,
preparing it gently by its wise discourses for a higher and more
embracing sphere of action, and acquainting it through intelligible
images with the unknown world. The church is the dwelling-house of
history, the church-yard its symbolic flower-garden. History should
only be written by old and pious men, whose own is drawing to its
close, and who have nothing more to hope for, but transplantation to
the garden. Their descriptions will be neither obscure nor dull; on the
contrary a ray from the spire will exhibit everything in the most exact
and beautiful light, and the Holy Spirit will hover above these rarely
stirred waters."
"How true and obvious are your remarks," said the old man. "We ought
certainly to spend more labor in faithfully recording the occurrences
of our own times, and should leave our record as a devout bequest for
posterity. There are a thousand remoter matters to which care and labor
are devoted, while we trouble ourselves little with the nearer and
weightier, the occurrences of our lives, and those of our relatives and
generation, whose fleeting destiny we have comprehended in the idea of
a Providence. We heedlessly suffer all traces of these to escape from
our memories. Like consecrated relics, all facts of the past will be
sought for by a wiser future, not indifferent to the biography of the
most insignificant man, since in his life the lives of all his greater
contemporaries will be more or less reflected."
"It is also much to be regretted," said the count of Hohenzollern,
"that even the few, who have undertaken to report the deeds and events
of their times, have not carried out their designs, nor striven to give
order and completeness to their observations; but have proceeded almost
wholly at random in the choice and collection of their facts. Any one
may easily see that he only can describe plainly and perfectly, that
which he knows exactly, whose origin and consequences, object and use,
are present to his mind; for otherwise there will be no description,
but a bewildering mixture of imperfect statements. Let a child describe
an engine, or a farmer a ship, and no one can gain anything useful or
instructive from their words; and so is it with most historians, who
are perhaps able enough even to be wearisome in relating and collecting
facts; but who forget what is most note-worthy, what first makes
history historical, and connects so many varied events in an agreeable
and instructive whole. If I understand all this rightly, it appears to
me necessary that a historian should be also a poet; for poets alone
know the art of skilfully combining events. In their tales and fables I
have often noticed, with silent pleasure, a tender sympathy with the
mysterious spirit of life. There is more truth in their romances than
in learned chronicles. Though the heroes and their fates are
inventions, yet the spirit in which they are composed is true and
natural. In some degree it matters not whether those persons, in whose
fates we trace our own, ever did or did not exist. We seek to
contemplate the great and simple spirit of an age's phenomena; and if
this wish be gratified, we are not cumbered about the certainty of the
existence of their external forms."[See Note II.]
"I have also been much attached to the poets on that account," said the
old man. "Life and the world have become through them more clear and
perceptible to me. It has appeared to me that they must be in alliance
with the acute spirits of light, which penetrate and divide all
natures, and spread over each a peculiar, softly tinted veil. By their
songs I felt my own nature gently developed, and it could move, as it
were, more freely, enjoy its social disposition and desires, poise with
silent pleasure its limbs against each other, and in various forms
excite delight a thousand-fold."
"Were you so happy in your country as to have some poets?" asked the
hermit.
"There have been a few with us at times; but travelling seemed their
chief pleasure, and therefore they scarcely ever remained long with us.
But during my wanderings in Illyria, Saxony, and Sweden, I have met
some, the remembrance of whom is ever pleasant."
"You have, travelled far, and doubtless must have seen much during your
life, that is wonderful."
"Our art almost compels us to look industriously around the world, and
it is as if the miner were driven by a subterraneous fire. One mountain
sends him to another. He never ceases his scrutiny, and during his
whole life is gaining knowledge from that wonderful architecture, which
has so curiously floored and wainscotted the earth under our feet. Our
art is very ancient and extended. It may indeed, like our race, have
migrated with the sun from the East toward the West, from the middle to
the extremities. It has been obliged everywhere to combat with other
difficulties; and as necessity continually urges the human spirit to
wise inventions, so the miner can increase his knowledge and ability,
and enrich his home with youthful experience."
"You are well nigh inverted astrologers," said the hermit; "as they
ceaselessly regard the sky, wandering through its immeasurable spaces,
so do you turn your gaze to the earth, exploring its construction.
Astrologers study the forces and influences of the stars, while you are
discovering the forces of rocks and mountains, and the manifold
properties of earth and stone strata. To them the higher world is a
book of futurity; to you the earth is a memorial of the primeval
world."
"This connexion is not without its meaning," said the old man; "these
shining prophets play perhaps a chief part in that old history of the
wonderful creation. Men perhaps in the course of time will learn to
understand them better, and to explain them by their operations, and
inversely. Perhaps also the great mountain-chains exhibit the traces of
their former ways, and perhaps they desired to support themselves
without foreign aid, to take their own way to Heaven. Many raised
themselves boldly enough that they might become stars, and therefore
must now be deprived of the fair green vesture of the lower regions.
They have therefore gained nothing, except the power of influencing the
weather for their fathers, and of becoming prophets for the lower
world, which now they protect, and now deluge with tempests."
"Since I have dwelt in this cave," the hermit answered, "I have been
accustomed to reflect more on ancient times. I cannot describe how
attractive such meditations are, and I can imagine the love which a
miner must cherish for his trade. When I look upon these strange old
bones, which are collected in such great numbers here; when I picture
to myself the savage period when those strange and monstrous beasts
crowded in dense bands into these caves, driven thither perhaps by fear
and terror, and finding here their death; when again I go back to the
times when these caves were formed, and wide-spread floods covered the
land; then I seem to myself like a dream of futurity; like a child of
eternal peace. How quiet and peaceful, how mild and dear is out present
nature, when compared with violent and gigantic times! The mightiest
tempests, the most terrible earthquakes of our day, are but weak echoes
of the throes of that first birth. Perhaps also the animal and
vegetable kingdoms, and even the men who then existed, if any were
found on the different islands of the ocean, were of firmer and ruder
organization; at least we should not then be obliged to accuse the
traditions of a giant race of being mere poetic fancies."
"It is pleasant," said the old man, "to notice the gradual pacification
of nature. A concord ever becoming deeper, a more friendly intercourse,
reciprocal aid and encouragement, seem gradually to have been formed;
and we can look forward continually to better times. It may perhaps be
possible, that here and there a little of the old leaven is fermenting,
and that still more violent convulsions are to follow; yet these mighty
struggles for a free and harmonious existence are visible; and in this
spirit will every convulsion pass over and draw nearer to the great
goal. It may be that nature is no longer so fertile, that at present no
metals or precious stones, rocks or mountains are springing into
existence, that plants and animals do not increase to such an
astonishing size and strength; but the more that physical powers are
exhausted, the more have plastic, ennobling, and social powers
increased. The mind has become more susceptible and tender, the fancy
more varied and symbolical, the hand more free and artistic. Nature
approaches man; and if she were once an uncouthly teeming rock, then is
she now a quietly thriving plant, a silent human artist. And of what
service would be the multiplication of these treasures, of which there
are now enough for the most distant age? How small is the space I have
surveyed; and yet what mighty stores have I at a single glance
discovered, the use of which is left for future generations! What
riches are enclosed in the northern mountains, what favorable signs I
discovered throughout my native land, in Hungary, at the foot of the
Carpathian hills, and in the rocky vales of Tyrol, Austria, and
Bavaria. I might have been a rich man, if I had taken with me what I
might only have picked up and broken off. In many places I saw myself
as in a magic garden. On every side costly and skilfully framed metals
met my sight. From the beautiful tresses and branches of silver hung
glittering, ruby-red, transparent fruits; and the heavy-laden shrubs,
stood upon crystal ground of inimitable workmanship. One can scarcely
trust his senses in these wonderful regions, and can never grow weary
of rambling through these charming solitudes, or of gloating over their
jewels. I have seen much that is wonderful during my present journey,
and certainly in other lands the earth is equally plentiful and
fruitful."
"When," said the unknown, "one remembers the treasures which are hidden
in the East, he cannot doubt what you remark; and have not distant
India, Africa, and Spain been distinguished even from antiquity, by the
richness of their soil? Though a soldier is not apt to take very exact
notice of the veins and the clefts of mountains, yet at times I have
reflected upon these shining tracts of land, which, like rare birds,
indicate an unexpected bloom and fruit. How little did I imagine, when
I passed these dark dwellings joyously by the light of day, that I
should ever finish my life in the bosom of a mountain! My love carried
me proudly above the surface of the earth, and I hoped in later years
to fall asleep in her embrace. The war having ended, I returned home,
full of glad expectations of a refreshing harvest. But the spirit of
the war seemed to have become the spirit of my fortune. My Maria had
borne me two children in the East. They were the joy of our existence.
The voyage and the rough air of the West destroyed their bloom; they
were buried a few days after my arrival in Europe. Sorrowfully I
carried my disconsolate wife to our home. A silent grief weakened the
thread which bound her to life. During a journey which I was obliged to
take, and on which, as was her wont, she accompanied me, she gently but
suddenly expired in my arms. It was near this place, where her earthly
pilgrimage was finished. My resolution was taken in a moment; I found,
what I had never expected; a heavenly illumination came over me; and
from the day when I buried her here with my own hands, a divine hand
freed my heart from all sorrow. Since then I have caused this monument
to be erected. An event often seems to be ending, when in fact it is
beginning; and thus has it been with my life. May God grant you an old
age as happy, and a spirit as quiet as mine."
Henry and the merchants had listened attentively to the conversation;
and the first particularly was conscious of new developments in his
prophetic soul. Many words, many thoughts, fell like quickening seeds
into his breast, and soon drew him from the narrow circle of his youth
to the heights of the world. The hours just passed lay behind him like
long-revolving years; and it seemed as if he had always thought and
felt as now.
The hermit showed him his books. They consisted of old histories and
poems. Henry turned over the leaves of these huge and beautifully
illuminated works, and his curiosity was strongly excited by the short
lines of the verses, the titles, some of the passages, and the
beautiful pictures which appeared here and there, like embodied words,
to assist the imagination of the reader. The Hermit observed his inward
gratification and explained these singular pictures. All the varied
scenes of life were represented among them. Battles, funereal trains,
marriage ceremonies, shipwrecks, caves, and palaces, kings, heroes,
priests, men in singular costume, strange beasts, were delineated in
different alternations and connexions. Henry could not sate himself
with gazing at them, and wished nothing more than to remain with the
hermit, who irresistibly attracted him, and to be instructed by him in
these books. In the mean time the old man asked whether there were any
more caves; and the hermit told him, that there were some extensive
ones near, to which he would accompany him. The old man was ready; and
the hermit, who observed Henry's interest in the books, induced him to
remain, and to examine them more closely during their absence. Henry
was glad to stay where the books were, and thanked the hermit heartily
for his permission to do so. He turned over their leaves with
indescribable pleasure. At last a book fell into his hands, written in
a foreign tongue, which appeared to him somewhat like Latin or Italian.
He longed greatly to know the language, for the book pleased him
greatly, though he did not understand a syllable of it. It had no
title; but after a little search he found some engravings. They seemed
strangely familiar to him; and on examination, he discovered his own
form quite discernible among the figures. He was terrified, and thought
that he must be dreaming; but after having examined them again and
again, he could no longer doubt their perfect resemblance. He could
hardly trust his senses, when in one of the pictures he discovered the
cave, the hermit, and the old man by his side. By degrees he found
among the pictures the girl from the holy land, his parents, the count
and countess of Thuringia, his friend the court chaplain; and many
others of his acquaintance; yet their dress was changed, and seemed to
belong to another period. There were many forms he could not call by
name, but which nevertheless seemed known to him. He saw the exact
portraits of himself, in different situations. Towards the end he
appeared larger and nobler. The guitar rested in his arms, and the
countess handed him a wreath. He saw himself at the imperial court, on
shipboard, now in warm embrace with a beautifully formed and lovely
girl, now in battle with fierce-looking men, and again in friendly
conversation with Saracens and Moors. He was frequently accompanied by
a man of grave aspect. He felt a deep reverence for this august form,
and was glad to see himself arm in arm with him. The last pictures were
obscure and incomprehensible; yet some of the shapes of his dream
surprised him with the most intense rapture. The conclusion of the book
was wanting. Henry was very sorrowful, and wished for nothing more
earnestly than to be able to read and thoroughly understand the book.
He looked over the pictures repeatedly, and was almost abashed when the
company returned. A strange sort of shame overcame him. He did not
suffer himself to make known his discovery, and merely asked the Hermit
generally about its title and language. He learned that it was written
in the Provence tongue.
"It is long since I have read it," said the Hermit; "I do not now
remember its contents very distinctly. As far as I recollect, it is a
romance, relating the wonderful fortune of a poet's life, wherein the
art of poesy is represented and extolled in all its various relations.
The conclusion is wanting to the manuscript, which I brought with me
from Jerusalem, where I found it left with a friend, and took it, away,
as a memorial of him."
They now took leave of each other. Henry was moved to tears; the cave
had become so remarkable and the hermit so dear to him.
All embraced the hermit heartily, and he himself seemed to have become
attached to them. Henry thought that he noticed his kind and
penetrating gaze fixed upon him. His farewell words to him were full of
meaning. He seemed to know of his discovery and to have reference to
it. He followed them to the entrance of the cave, after having
requested them, and particularly the boy, not to tell the farmers
concerning him, as it would only expose him to their troublesome
acquaintance.
They all promised this. As they separated from him, and commended
themselves to his prayers, he said,
"But a short time and we shall see each other again, to smile at the
conversation of this day. A heavenly dawn will surround us, and we
shall rejoice that we greeted each other kindly in this vale of
probation, and were inspired with like sentiments and anticipations.
There are angels who guide us here in safety. If your eye is fixed upon
Heaven, you will never lose the way to your home."
They separated with a silent feeling of devotion, soon found their
timorous companions, and amid general conversation shortly reached the
village, where Henry's mother, who had been somewhat anxious about him,
received them with a thousand expressions of joy.