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and calm into the airy twilight of the upper sky, the massive tower of the huge Cathedral. And high upon the summit of that tall, dark tower-high, and still, and solitary, as some old wizard on the watch, stood the giant crane, which is ever the first object to greet the eye of the traveler who enters Cologne.

Lonely and aloof under the darkening sky it stood, with its long, gaunt arm stretched out, as though in wild appeal, toward the antique Dragon-stone, from whose venerable quarries had been hewn, age after age, and block by block, the vast pile on which it now stood-companionless between earth and heaven. To scale to the height of that supreme solitude had the heart of the Dragon rock been broken, and year by year his mighty limbs in massy morsels wrenched away; and now, alone under the melancholy stars, pillared upon piles of pillage, there stood the hoary robber, gazing sadly, as it seemed to me, at the wronged and ruined rock. As I lifted my eyes to that solitary image, so lifelike and so lonesome, with ever outstretched arm, and long-appealing gesture, seeming to look eternally in one direction, as though listening for an answer which will never come, I fancied that the old crane might be saying to the old rock, "Irrevocable is the Past, and sad and weary is the coming and the going of the endless years. And now, of the ancient time, are we two left alone upon the earth. Let us be reconciled to each other."

BOOK I I.

The Secret.

Mac. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;

And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
That weighs upon the heart?

Doct.

Therein the patient

Must minister to himself.

Mac. Throw physic to the dogs. I'll none of it.
Macbeth, Act V., Scene 4.

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BOOK I I.

CHAPTER I.

BIOGRAPHICAL AND PARENTHETICAL, CONTAINING SUNDRY REFLECTIONS UPON THE RELATIVE POSITION OF PHYSICIAN AND PATIENT.

As events are to be told quorum pars fui, it seems fitting that here, if any where, I should say something about myself. On this subject I have not much to

say.

It was a justifiable custom of the old masters to paint their own portraits in the foreground of their pictures; nay, even to represent themselves therein as saints and apostles. Saints and apostles they were in their pictures, if not out of them, and this no matter how well their tavern-doings may have been known to the pious public of their day.

But I have no such pretensions. Few men have hands strong or steady enough to hold up the mirror to their own nature, even in private. But to do this in public demands a courage which, happily, I am not called to evince, since I am writing only of others, non tam sagax observator, quam simplex recitator.

I lost my father when I was three years old. Perhaps the waters of the Beresina still roll over his unburied bones. My only knowledge of him was gath

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