it was a bright sunday morning when flemming and berkley left behind them the cloud-capped hills of salzburg, and journeyed eastward towards the lakes. the landscape around them was one to attune their souls to holy musings. field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the perfume of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birds singing, and the sound of village bells, and the moving breeze among the branches,--no laborers in the fields, but peasants on their way to church, coming across the green pastures, with roses in their hats,--the beauty and quiet of the holy day of rest,--all, all in earth and air, breathed upon the soul like a benediction.

they stopped to change horses at hof, a handfulof houses on the brow of a breezy hill, the church and tavern standing opposite to each other, and nothing between them but the dusty road, and the churchyard, with its iron crosses, and the fluttering tinsel of the funeral garlands. in the churchyard and at the tavern-door, were groups of peasants, waiting for divine service to begin. they were clothed in their holiday dresses. the men wore breeches and long boots, and frock-coats with large metal buttons; the women, straw hats, and gay calico gowns, with short waists and scant folds. they were adorned with a profusion of great, trumpery ornaments, and reminded flemming of the indians in the frontier villages of america. near the churchyard-gate was a booth, filled with flaunting calicos; and opposite sat an old woman behind a table, which was loaded with ginger-bread. she had a roulette at her elbow, where the peasants risked a kreutzer for a cake. on other tables, cases of knives, scythes, reaping-hooks, and other implements of husbandry were offered for sale.

the travellers continued their journey, without stopping to hear mass. in the course of the forenoon they came suddenly in sight of the beautiful lake of saint wolfgang, lying deep beneath them in the valley. on its shore, under them, sat the white village of saint gilgen, like a swan upon its reedy nest. they seemed to have taken it unawares, and as it were clapped their hands upon it in its sleep, and almost expected to see it spread its broad, snow-white wings, and fly away. the whole scene was one of surpassing beauty.

they drove leisurely down the steep hill, and stopped at the village inn. before the door was a magnificent, broad-armed tree, with benches and tables beneath its shadow. on the front of the house was written in large letters, "post-tavern by franz schoendorfer"; and over this was a large sun-dial, and a half-effaced painting of a bear-hunt, covering the whole side of the house, and mostly red. just as they drove up, a procession of priests with banners, and peasants with their hats in their hands, passed by towards the church. they were singing a solemn psalm. at the same moment, a smart servant girl, with a black straw hat, set coquettishly on her flaxen hair, and a large silver spoon stuck in her girdle, came out of the tavern, and asked flemming what he would please to order for breakfast.

breakfast was soon ready, and was served up at the head of the stairs, on an old-fashioned oaken table in the great hall, into which the chambers opened. berkley ordered at the same time a tub of cold water, in which he seated himself, with his coat on, and a bed-quilt thrown round his knees. thus he sat for an hour; ate his breakfast, and smoked a pipe, and laughed a good deal. he then went to bed and slept till dinner time. meanwhile flemming sat in his chamber and read. it was a large room in the front of the house, looking upon the village and the lake. the windows were latticed, with small panes, and the window-sills filled with fragrant flowers.

at length the heat of the noon was over. day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the westerngate of heaven, and evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon. flemming and berkley sallied forth to ramble by the borders of the lake. down the cool, green glades and alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of the forest, over the rising grounds, in the glimmering fretwork of sunshine and leaf-shadow,--an exhilarating walk! the cool evening air by the lake was like a bath. they drank the freshness of the hour in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long confinement of the sultry summer day. and there, too, lay the lake, so beautiful and still! did it not recall, think ye, the lake of thun?

on their return homeward they passed near the village churchyard.

"let us go in and see how the dead rest," said flemming, as they passed beneath the belfry of the church; and they went in, and lingered among the tombs and the evening shadows.

how peaceful is the dwelling-place of those who inhabit the green hamlets, and populous cities of the dead! they need no antidote for care,--nor armour against fate. no morning sun shines in at the closed windows, and awakens them, nor shall until the last great day. at most a straggling sunbeam creeps in through the crumbling wall of an old neglected tomb,--a strange visiter, that stays not long. and there they all sleep, the holy ones, with their arms crossed upon their breasts, or lying motionless by their sides,--not carved in marble by the hand of man, but formed in dust, by the hand of god. god's peace be with them. no one comes to them now, to hold them by the hand, and with delicate fingers smooth their hair. they heed no more the blandishments of earthly friendship. they need us not, however much we may need them. and yet they silently await our coming.

beautiful is that season of life, when we can say, in the language of scripture, "thou hast the dew of thy youth." but of these flowers death gathers many. he places them upon his bosom, and his form becomes transformed into somethingless terrific than before. we learn to gaze and shudder not; for he carries in his arms the sweet blossoms of our earthly hopes. we shall see them all again, blooming in a happier land.

yes, death brings us again to our friends. they are waiting for us, and we shall not live long. they have gone before us, and are like the angels in heaven. they stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us, with the countenance of affection, which they wore on earth; yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual! o, he spake well who said, that graves are the foot-prints of angels.

death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the dew of thy youth. he has placed thee upon his bosom, and his stern countenance wears a smile. the far country, toward which we journey, seems nearer to us, and the way less dark; for thou hast gone before, passing so quietly to thy rest, that day itself dies not more calmly!

it was in an hour of blessed communion with the souls of the departed, that the sweet poet henry vaughan wrote those few lines, whichhave made death lovely, and his own name immortal!

"they are all gone into a world of light,

and i alone sit lingering here!

their very memory is fair and bright,

and my sad thoughts doth clear.

"it glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

like stars upon some gloomy grove,

or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed,

after the sun's remove.

"i see them walking in an air of glory,

whose light doth trample on my days,

my days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

mere glimmerings and decays.

"o holy hope, and high humility,

high as the heavens above!

these are your walks, and ye have showed them me,

to kindle my cold love.

"dear, beauteous death! the jewel of the just!

shining nowhere but in the dark!

what mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

could man outlook that mark!

"he that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know,

at first sight, if the bird be flown;

but what fair field or grove he sings in now,

that is to him unknown.

"and yet as angels, in some brighter dreams,

call to the soul, when man doth sleep,

so some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

and into glory peep!"

such were flemming's thoughts, as he stood among the tombs at evening in the churchyard of saint gilgen. a holy calm stole over him. the fever of his heart was allayed. he had a moment's rest from pain; and went back to his chamber in peace. whence came this holy calm, this long-desired tranquillity? he knew not; yet the place seemed consecrated. he resolved to linger there, beside the lake, which was a pool of bethesda for him; and let berkley go on alone to the baths of ischel. he would wait for him there in the solitude of saint gilgen. long after they had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber, and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyedthe silence within and without. hour after hour, slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie. at length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one flickering gleam, and expired with a sob. this aroused him.

he went to the window, and peered out into the dark night. it was very late. twice already since midnight had the great pulpit-orator time, like a preacher in the days of the puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry, and still went on with his sermon, thundering downward to the congregation in the churchyard and in the village. but they heard him not. they were all asleep in their narrow pews, namely, in their beds and in their graves. soon afterward the cock crew; and the cloudy heaven, like the apostle, who denied his lord, wept bitterly.