Once upon a time I crossed the city of Nuremberg after dark; the market cleared of all traces of its morning sale, the “Schöner Brunnen” at its edge, the narrow defile leading to the citadel, the climb at the top. And then I came to an open parade above the town—“except the Schlosskirche Weathercock no biped stands so high.” The night had swept away all details of buildings. Nuremberg lay below like a dark etching, the centuries folded and creased in its obscurities. Then from some gaunt tower came a peal of bells, the hour maybe, and then an answering peal. “Thus stands the night,” they said; “thus stand the stars.” I was in the presence of Time and its black wings were brushing past me. What star was in the ascendant, I knew not. And yet in me I felt a throb that came by blind, circuitous ways from some far-off Chaldean temple, seven-storied in the night. In me was the blood of the star-gazer, my emotions recalling the rejected beliefs, the signs and wonders of the heavens. The waves of old thought had but lately receded from the world; and I, but a chink and hollow on the beach, had caught my drop of the ebbing ocean.