account the scholar can make them profitable for encouragement,-consolation,-warning.” · "And after all," continued Flemming, "perhaps the greatest lesson which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word-Wait! Every man mist "patiently bide his time. He must wait. More particularly in lands like my native land, where the pulse of life beats with feverish and impatient throbs, is the lesson needful. Our national character wants the dignity of repose. We seem to live in the midst ofa battle, there is such a dim,-such a hurrying to ard fro. In the streets of a crowded city it is difficult o walk slowly. You feel the rushing of the crowd, anl rush with it onward. In the press of our life it is difficult to be calm. In this stress of wind and tide, all professions seem to drag their anchors, and are swept out into the main. The voices of the present saycome! But the voices of the past say-wait! calm and solemn footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing torrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying waters. With no less calm and solemn footsteps, nor less certainty, does a great mind bear up against public opinion, and push back its hurrying stream. Therefore should every man wait;-should bide his time. Not in listless idleness,-not in useless pastime, not in querulous dejection; but in constant, steady, cheerful endeavours, always willing and fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, when the occasion comes, he may be equal to the occasion. And if it never comes, what matters it to the world whether I or you, or another man, did such a deed, or wrote such a book, so be it the deed and book were well done! It With is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome ambition, to care too much about fame,-about what the world says of us. To be always looking into the faces of others for approval;-to be always anxious for the effect of what we do and say; to be always shouting to hear the echo of our own voices! If you look about you, you will see men, who are wearing life away in feverish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall ever hear of them will be the funeral bell, that tolls them to their early graves! Unhappy men, and unsuccessful; because their purpose is, not to accomplish well their task, but to clutch the 'trick and fantasy of fame;' and they go to their graves with purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled. Better for them, and for the world in their example, had they known how to wait! Believe me, the talent of success is nothing more than doing what you can do well; and doing well whatever you do, without a thought of fame. If it come at all, it will come because it is deserved, not because it is sought after. And, moreover, there will be no misgivings, no disappointment,-no hasty, feverish, exhausting excitement." Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion. I make no record of the winter. Paul Flemming buried himself in books; in old, dusty books. He studied diligently the ancient poetic lore of Germany, from Frankish Legends of Saint George, and Saxon RhymeChronicles, down through Nibelungen Lieds, and Helderbuchs, and Songs of the Minnesingers, Mastersingers, and Ships of Fools, and Reinecke Foxes, and Death-Darces, and Lamentations of Damned Souls, into the bright, sunny land of harvests, where, amid the golden grain and the blue corn flowers, walk the modern bards, and sing. 61 BOOK THE SECOND. "Something the heart must have to cherish, CHAPTER I. SPRING. It was a sweet carol which the Rhodian children sang of old, in Spring, bearing in their hands, from door to door, a swallow, as herald of the season "The Swallow is come! The swallow is come! O fair are the seasons and light And her bosom snowy white." A pretty carol, too, is that which the Hungarian boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to the returning stork in Spring "Stork! stork! poor stork! But what child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, where Spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the east wind nailed to the mast! Yet even here, and in the stormy month of March even, there are bright, warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale the balmy air. The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirring sound of wings. Old flies crawl out of the cracks to sun themselves, and think it is summer, They die in their conceit; and so do our hearts within us, when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern sea; and again, "The driving hail Upon the window beats with icy flail." The red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight before the leaves. The moose-wood follows, with rose-coloured buds and leaves; and the dog-wood robed in the white of its own pure blossoms. Then comes the sudden rain storm; and the birds fly to and fro and shriek. Where do they hide themselves in such storms? at what fire-sides dry their feathery cloaks? At the fire-side of the great hospitable sun, to-morrow, not before;-they must sit in wet garments until then. In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the south it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. The birds begin to sing :-they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make a holiday in the neighbouring marshes. They too, belong to the orchestra of Nature, whose vast theatre is again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost, like cob |