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I never before saw a lady's sketch-book, in which all the towers did not resemble the leaning Tower of Pisa. I always tremble for the little men under them." "How absurd!" exclaimed Mary Ashburton, with a smile that passed through the misty air of Flemming's thoughts, like a sunbeam; "For one, I succeed much better in straight lines than in any others.
What could do away with that dreadful fact, the revelation of which now appalled him as if he had never suspected it. Ruth, Ruth the very name was significant of calamity! Flemming's words rang in his ears: "You would not marry her!" He had not replied to Flemming that night when the case was merely supposititious. But now it seemed to Lynde that he had never loved Ruth until this moment.
The treatment which has been found most successful in this country is as follows, all of which has been tested by the author upon various occasions: In the acute, inflammatory stage of the disease, give ten drops of Flemming's tincture of aconite in water, every four hours, until a change takes place; follow this with aqua ammonia, three drachms; nitric ether, one ounce; pulverized gentian-root, one half an ounce; water, one quart.
"This pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. My hearing is also unimpaired. For all which, I thank God." Then, directing Flemming's attention to a fine engraving, which hung on the opposite wall of the room, he continued; "That is an engraving of Canova's Religion. I love to sit here and look at it, for hours together.
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.
Every body read the book, and every body talked of it. It was a poem in prose, and none the less the work of a poet because professedly "a romance of travel." The young read it with enthusiasm, and it sent hundreds to follow Paul Flemming's footsteps in the distant Fatherland, where the "romance of travel" became their guidebook.
Berkley went with him, to see, he said, what kind of a nest his young friend was to sleep in. "The chamber is not what I could wish," said the landlord, as he led them across the street. "It is in the old cloister. But to-morrow or next day, you can no doubt have a room at the house." The name of the cloister struck Flemming's imagination pleasantly.
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