Lore. All his longings were
for her.

At eve he would hear the same nightingale singing. He would long to
follow the voice. It inflamed his love. His will, his senses, all
that made life desirable, were yielding to the fatal passion.

He went to a good priest for advice.

"Father Walter, what shall I do?"

"Shake off the spell, or it will end in your ruin."

One day Herman and the priest went fishing on the Rhine. The boat
drifted near the Lei. The moon rose in full splendor in the clear
sky, strewing the water with countless gems.

Herman took a lute and filled the air with music.

It was answered from the Lei. Oh, how wonderful! The air seemed
entranced with the spiritual melody. Herman was beside himself with
delight. The priest also heard it.

"The Lore! In the name of the Virgin, let us make for the shore!"

[Illustration: HERMAN'S EYES WERE FIXED ON THE ROCK.]

Herman's eyes were fixed on the rock. There she sat, the siren!

The priest plied the oar, to turn the boat back.

But nearer, nearer drifted the boat to the rock.

Nearer and nearer!

The moon poured her white light upon the crags.

Nearer and nearer!

There was a shock.

The boat was shivered like glass.

Walter crossed himself, and floated on the waves to the shore.

But Herman--he was never seen again!

Mr. Beal's narrative nearly filled the evening. A few stories were
told by other members of the Club, but they were chiefly from Grimm,
and hence are somewhat familiar.

Charlie Leland closed the meeting with a free translation of a poem
from Kerner.

Justinus Kerner was born in Ludwigsburg, in 1786. He was a physician
and a poet. He belonged to the spiritualistic school of poets, and
his illustrations of the power of mind over matter, in both prose
and poetry, are often very forcible. The following poem will give
you a view of his estimate of physical as compared with mental
power:--

IN THE OLD CATHEDRAL.

In the vaults of the dim cathedral,
In the gloaming, weird and cold,
Are the coffins of old King Ottmar,
And a poet, renowned of old.

The king once sat in power,
Enthroned in pomp and pride,
And his crown still rests upon him,
And his falchion rusts beside.

And near to the king the poet
Has slumbered in darkness long,
But he holds in his hands, as an emblem,
The harp of immortal song.