"Oh! there's a dream of early youth,
And it never comes again;
'Tis a vision of joy, and light, and truth,
That flits across the brain;
And love is the theme of that early dream,
So wild, so warm, so new.
And oft I ween, in our after-years,
That early dream we rue."---Mrs. HEMANS.
The winter's eve had gathered o'er New Brunswick, and the snow was
falling, as in that clime it only knows how to fall. The atmosphere was
like the face of Sterne's monk, "calm, cold, and penetrating," and the
faint tinkling of the sleigh bells came mournfully on the ear as a knell
of sadness--so utterly cheerless was the scene. Another hour passed, and
our journey was ended. The open door of the hospitable dwelling was
ready to receive us, and in the light and heat of a happy home, toil and
trouble were alike forgotten.
There is always something picturesque in the interior of a New Brunswick
farm house, and this evening everything assumed an aspect of interest
and beauty. It might have been the comfortable contrast to the scene
without that threw its mellow tints around. Even the homely loom and
spinning-wheel lost their uncouthness, and recalled to the mind's
imagery the classic dreams of old romance--Hercules in the chambers of
Omphale the story of Arachne and Penelope, the faithful wife of brave
Ulysses; but there was other food for the spirit which required not the
aid of fancy to render palatable. On the large centre table, round which
were grouped the household band, with smiling brows and happy hearts,
lay the magazines and papers of the day, with their sweet tales and
poetic gems. The "Amulet" and "Keepsake" glittering in silk and gold,
and "Chambers," with plain, unwinning exterior, the ungarnished casket
of a mine of treasure, gave forth, like whisperings from a better land,
their gentle influence to soothe and cheer the heart, and teach the
spirit higher aspirations, while breathing the magic spells raised by
their fairy power--those sweet creators of a world unswayed by earth,
where hope and beauty live undimmed by time or tears--givers to all who
own their power, a solace 'mid the pining cares of life. Thus, with the
aid of these, and the joys of converse, sped the night; and as the wind
which had now arisen blew heavy gusts of frozen rain against the
windows, we rejoiced in our situation all the more, and looked
complacently on the great mainspring of our comfort, the glowing stove,
which imparted its grateful caloric through the apartment, and bore on
its polished surface shining evidence of the housewife's care. 'Twas
apparently already a favourite, and the storm without had enhanced its
value. Without dissent, all agreed in its perfection and superiority
over ordinary fire-places.
Twas a theme which called forth conversation, and when all had given
their opinion, uncle Ethel was asked for his.
The person so addressed was an aged man, who reclined in an arm chair
apart from the others, sharing not in words with their discourse or
mirth, but smiling like a benignant spirit on them. More than eighty
years of shade and sunshine had passed o'er him. The few snowy locks
which lingered yet around his brow were soft and silky as a
child's--time and sorrow had traced him but a gentle path, 'twould seem
by the light which yet beamed in his calm blue eye and placid smile, the
expression was far different from mirthful happiness, but breathed of
holy peace and spirit pure, tempered with love and kindness for
all--living in the past dreams of youth, he loved the present, when it
recalled their sweet memories in brighter beauty from the tomb of faded
years, and then it seemed as if a secret woe arose and dimmed the vision
when it glowed brightest. A deeper sorrow than for departed youth
flashed o'er his brow, brief but fearful, as though he once, and but
once only, had felt a pang of agony which had deadened all other lighter
woes, and, overcome by resignation, left the spirit calmer as its strong
feeling passed away. Such was what we knew of uncle Ethel, but ere the
night had worn we knew him better. Joining us in our conversation
regarding the stove, he smiled, and said he agreed not with us--our
favourite was more sightly, and more useful, but it bore not the
friendly face of the old hearthstone--one of memory's most treasured
spots was gone--the _fireside_ of our home--the thought of whose
hallowed precincts cheers the wanderer's heart, and has won many from
the path of error, to seek again its sinless welcome.
'Tis while sitting by the fireside at eve, said he, that the vanished
forms of other days gather round me--there where our happiest meetings
were in the holy sanctity of our _home_. Where peace and love hovered
o'er us, I see again kind faces lit by the ruddy gleam, and hear again
the evening hymn, as of old it used to rise from the loving band
assembled there. Alas! long years have passed since I missed them from
the earth, but there they meet me still--in the glowing fire's bright
light I trace their sweet names, and the vague fancies of childhood are
waked again from their dim repose to live in light and truth once more,
amid the fantastic visions and shadowy forms, flitting through the red
world of embers, on which I loved to gaze when thought and hope were
young. I love it even now--the sorrow that is written there makes it
more holy to my mind, telling me, as it does, of a clime where grief
comes not, and where the blighted hope and broken heart will be at rest.
But why, said the old man, do I talk so long--I weary you, my children,
for the fancies of age are not those of youth--hope's fairy flowers are
bright for you--the faded things of memory are mine alone--with them I
live, but rejoice ye in your happiness, and gather now, in the spring
time of your days, treasures to cheer you in the fall of life. As to
your favourite, the stove, although I love it not so well as the old
familiar fire-place, I can admire and value it as part of the spirit of
improvement which is spreading o'er our land--her early troubles are
passing away, and she is rising fast to take her place among the nations
of the earth--bitter has been her struggle for existence, but the clouds
are fading in the brightness of her coming years, and her past woes
will be forgotten.
He ceased, but we all loved to hear him talk, he was so kind and good,
and he was earnestly requested for one of those tales of the early times
of our own land, which had often thrilled us with their simple, yet
often woeful interest.
I am become an egotist to-night, for self is the only theme of which I
can discourse. My spirit, too, is like the minstrel harp of which you
have to-night been reading, 'twill "echo nought but sadness;" but if it
please you, you shall have uncle Ethel's love story--well may we say
alas! for time,
"For he taketh away the heart of youth,
And its gladness which hath been
Like the summer's sunshine on our path,
Making the desert green."
More than sixty years have elapsed since the time of which I now shall
speak. We lived then, a large and happy family, in the dwelling where
our fathers' sires had died--sons and daughters had married, but still
remained beneath the shadow of the parent roof tree, which seemed to
extend its wings like a guardian spirit, as they increased in number.
'Twas near the city of New York, and stood in the centre of sunny
fields, which had been won from the forest shade. Our parents were
natives of the soil, but theirs had come from the far land of Germany,
and the memories of that land were still fondly cherished by their
descendants. The low-roofed cottage, with its many-pointed gables and
narrow casement, was gay with the bright flowers of that home of their
hearts--cherished and guarded there with the tenderest care--all hues
of earth seemed blended in the bright parterre of tulips, over which the
magnificent dahlia towered, tall and stately as a queen--the rich scent
of the wallflower breathed around, and the jessamine went climbing
freely o'er the trellissed porch and arching eaves--each flower around
my home bore to me the face of a friend--they bore to me the poetry of
the earth, as the stars tell the sweet harmonies of heaven--but there is
a vision of fairer beauty than either star or flower comes with the
thought of these bye-gone days--the face of my orphan cousin Ella Werner
arises in the brightness of its young beauty, as it used to beam upon me
from the latticed window of my home: for her's, indeed,
"Was a form of life and light,
That seen became a part of sight,
And comes where'er I turn mine eye,
The morning star of memory."
Ella's mother was sister to my father: she lived but long enough to look
upon her child, and her husband died of a broken heart soon after her.
Thus the very existence of the fair girl was fatal to those who best
loved her--not best, for all living loved her. In after-years it seemed
as though it was her beauty, that fatal gift, which ne'er for good was
given to many, caused her woe. Ella's spirit was pure and bright as the
eyes through which it beamed--the gladness of her young heart's
happiness rung in the silvery music of her voice, and in the fairy magic
of her smile she looked as if sorrow could never dim the golden lustre
of her curls, or trace a cloud on her snowy brow--gentle and lovely she
was, and that was all. There was no depth of thought, no strength of
mind, to form the character of one so gifted. Her faculties for
reasoning were the impulses of her own heart: these were generally good,
and constituted her principle of action--but changeful as the summer sky
are the feelings of the human heart, unswayed by the deeper power of the
head. Such were Ella's, and their power destroyed her. Alas! how calmly
can I talk now of her faults; but who could think of them when they
looked upon her, and loved her as I did--'tis only since she is gone I
discover them.
Of the other members of the family I need not speak, as you already know
of them; but there is one whose name you have never heard, for crime and
sorrow rest with it, and oblivion shrouds his memory. Conrad Ernstein
was also my cousin, and an orphan--he was an inmate of our dwelling, and
my mother was to him as a parent. He was some years older, but his
delicate constitution and studious mind withdrew him from the others,
and made him the companion of Ella and myself. I have said that Ella's
mind was too volatile, so in like degree was Conrad's, in its deep
unchanging firmness and immutability of purpose. Nothing deterred him
from the pursuit of any object he engaged in--obstacles but increased
his energy to overcome and call forth stronger powers of mind--this was
observable in his learning. Science the most abstruse and difficult was
his favourite study, and in these he attained an excellence rarely
arrived at by one so situated.
Wondered at and admired by all, his pride which was great was amply
gratified, and what was evil in his nature was not yet called into
being--his disposition was melancholy, and showed none of the joyousness
of youth--yet that very sadness seemed to make us love him all the
more--his air of suffering asked for pity--'twas strange to see the
glad-hearted Ella leave my mother's side, while she sang to us the songs
of the blue Rhine, and bend her sunny brow with him over the ancient
page of some clasped volume, containing the terrific legends of the
"black forest," till the tales of the wild huntsmen filled her with
dread--then again would she spring to my mother, and burying her head in
her bosom, ask her once more to sing the songs of her native land, for
so we still called Germany; and, as you see, the romances and legends of
that country formed our childhood's lore, my early love for Ella grew
and increased with my years, and I fancied that she loved me.
On the first of May, or, as it was by us styled, "Walburga's eve," the
young German maidens have a custom of seeking a lonely stream, and
flinging on its waters a wreath of early flowers, as an offering to a
spirit which then has power. When, as the legend tells, the face of
their lover will glide along the water, and the name be borne on the
breeze, if the gift be pleasing to the spirit. Ella, I knew, had for
some time been preparing to keep this ancient relic of the pagan
rites--she had a treasured rose tree which bloomed, unexpectedly, early
in the season--these delicate things she fancied would be a fitting
offering to the spirit. She paused not to think of what she was about to
do--the thing itself was but a harmless folly--from aught of ill her
nature would have drawn instinctively; but evil there might have
been--she stayed not to weigh the result--at the last hour of sunset she
wreathed her roses, and set out. In the lightness of my heart I followed
in the same path, intending to surprize her. I heard her clear voice
floating on the air, as she sung the invocation to the spirit--the words
were these:--
Blue-eyed spirit of balmy spring,
Bright young flowers to thee I bring,
Wreaths all tinged with hues divine,
Meet to rest on thy fairy shrine.
With these I invoke thy gentle care,
Queen of the earth and ambient air,
Come with the light of thy radiant skies,
Trace on the stream my true love's eyes,
Show me the face in the silvery deep,
Whose image for aye my heart may keep;
Bid the waters echoing shell,
Whisper the name thy breezes tell.
And still on the feast of Walburga's eve,
Bright young flowers to thee I'll give;
Beautiful spirit I've spoken the spell,
And offered the gift thou lovest well."
The last notes died suddenly away, and Ella, greatly agitated, threw
herself into my arms. I enquired the cause of her terror, and forgetting
her secrecy, she said a face had appeared to her on the stream. Just
then we saw Conrad, who had followed on the same purpose I had, but had
fallen and hurt his ancle, and was unable to proceed. He joined not with
me when I laughed at Ella's fright, but a deeper paleness overspread his
countenance. Raising his eyes to the heavens, they rested on a star
beaming brightly in the blue--its mild radiance seemed to soothe him.
See ye yonder, said he, how clear and unclouded the lustre of that
shining orb--these words seemed irrelevant, but I knew their meaning.
His knowledge of German literature had led him into the mazes of its
mingled philosophy and wild romance. Astronomy and astrology were to him
the same; the star to which he pointed was what he called the planet of
his fate, and its brightness or obscurity were shadowed in his mind--its
aspect caused him either joy or woe. The incident of Ella's fright
agitated him much, for the occurrences of this real world were to him
all tinged with the supernatural; but he looked again at the heavens,
and the mild lustre of the star was reflected in his eyes; he leaned
upon my arm, and we passed onward. I knew not then that his dark spirit
felt the sunbeams which illumined mine own.
That same balmy evening I stood with Ella by the silver stream which
traced its shining path around our home, watching the clear moonbeams as
they flashed in the fairy foambells sparkling at our feet. There I first
told my love--her hand was clasped in mine--she heard me, and raising
her dewy eyes, said, "Dearest Ethel, I love you well; but not as she who
weds must love you--be still to me my own dear friend and brother, and
Ella will love you as she ever has. Ask not for more." She left me, and
I saw a tear-drop gem the silken braid on her cheek, and thus my dream
of beauty burst. My spirit's light grew dark as the treasured spell
which bound me broke. Some hours passed in agony, such as none could
feel but those who loved as I did--so deep, so fondly.
As I approached my home the warm evening light was streaming from the
windows, and I heard her rich voice thrilling its wild melody. Every
brow smiled upon her: even Conrad's was unbent. I looked upon her, and
prayed she might never know a grief like mine. The ringing music of her
laugh greeted my entrance, and ere the night had passed she charmed away
my woe.
While these things occurred with us, the aspect of the times without had
changed. America made war with England. What were her injuries we asked
not, but 'twas not likely that we, come of a race who loved so well
their "fatherland and king," would join with those who had risen against
theirs. As yet the crisis was not come, and in New York British power
was still triumphant.
Among the many festivities given by the officers, naval and military,
then in the country, was a splendid ball on board a British frigate then
in the harbour. To this scene of magic beauty and delight I accompanied
Ella--'twas but a few days after that unhappy first of May; but the
buoyant spirits of youth are soon rekindled, and Ella yet, I thought,
might love me. The scene was so new, and withal so splendid in its
details, that it comes before me now fresh and undimmed. The night was
one of summer's softest, earliest beauty: the moonlight slept upon the
still waters, and the tall masts, with all their graceful tracery of
spar and line, were bathed with rich radiance, mingled with the hundred
lights of coloured lamps, suspended from festoons of flowers; low
couches stood along the bulwarks of the noble ship, and the meteor flag
of England, which waved so oft amid the battle and the breeze, now
wafted its ruby cross o'er fair forms gliding through the dance, to the
rich strains of merry music--'twas an hour that sent glad feeling to the
heart. The gay dresses and noble bearing of the military officers, all
glistening in scarlet and gold, contrasted well with the white robes and
delicate beauty of the fair girls by their sides. But they had their
rivals in the gallant givers of the fete. Many a lady's heart was lost
that night. "What is it always makes a sailor so dangerous a rival?"
Ella used to say, when rallied on her partiality for a "bluejacket,"
that she loved it because it was the colour of so many things dear to
her: the sky was blue, the waves of the deep mysterious sea were blue,
and the wreaths of that fairy flower, which bears the magic name
forget-me-not, were of the same charmed hue. Some such reason, I
suppose, it is that makes every maiden love a sailor.
While we stood gazing on the scene, enchanted and delighted, one came
near and joined our group. Nobility of mind and birth was written on his
brow in beauty's brightest traits. He seemed hardly nineteen, but, young
as he was, many a wild breeze had parted the wavy ringlets of his hair,
and the salt spray of the ocean raised a deeper hue on his cheek. His
light and graceful figure was clad in the becoming costume of his rank,
and on his richly braided bosom rested three half blown roses. Ella's
eyes for an instant met his, they fell upon the flowers, and she dropped
fainting from my arm. The mystery was soon explained. De Clairville,
such was the stranger's name, had been walking on the cliffs when Ella
sought the stream--he heard her voice and approached to see from whence
it came--his was the face she had seen upon the waters; he heard her
scream, and descended to apologise, but she was gone, and he had found
and worn her rose buds--
"Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that instant caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then."
So sings the poet, and so seemed it with Ella and De Clairville; and
when the rosy morn, tinging the eastern sky, announced to the revellers
the hour of parting, that night of happiness was deemed too short.
To hasten on my story, I must merely say that they became fondly
attached, and when De Clairville departed for another station, he left
Ella as his betrothed bride. On love such as theirs 'twould seem to all
that heaven smiled; but inscrutable to human eyes are the ways of
Providence, for deadly was the blight thrown o'er them.
Meanwhile the events in which the country was engaged drew to a close.
England acknowledged the independence of America, and withdrew her
forces; but while she did so, offered a home and protection to those who
yet wished to claim it. We were among the first to embrace the proposal:
and though with sadness we left our sunny home with all its fond
remembrances, yet integrity of mind was dearer still. We might not stay
in the land with whose institutions we concurred not. Conrad, with his
learning and talents, 'twas thought, might remain to seek the path of
fame already opening to him; but what to him were the dreams of
ambition, compared to the all-engrossing thought which now bound each
faculty of his mind beneath its power. Ella, my mother also wished to
stay, nor attempt with us the perils of our new life; for here her
betrothed, when he returned, expected to meet her; but she flung her
arms around my mother, saying in the language of Ruth, "thy home,
dearest, shall be mine," and there shall De Clairville join us. Suffice
it, then, to say, that after bidding farewell to scenes we loved, our
wearisome voyage was ended, and we landed on these sterile and dreary
shores. We dared not venture from the coast, and our abode was chosen in
what appeared to us the best of this bleak and barren soil. 'Twas a sad
change, but those were the days of strong hearts and trusting hopes.
Our settlement was formed of six or eight different households, all
connected, and all from the neighbourhood of the beautiful Bowery. Each
knew what the other had left, and tried to cheer each other with
brighter hopes than they hardly dared to feel; but sympathy and kindness
were among us.
Why need I tell you of our blighted crops and scanty harvests, and all
the toil and trouble which we then endured. I must go on with what I
commenced--the story of my own love. Shall I say that when Ella
accompanied us I hoped De Clairville might never join us. 'Tis true, but
what were my feelings to discover the love of Conrad for the gem of my
heart, and that he cherished it with all the deep strength of his
nature. I saw Ella's manner was not such as became a betrothed maiden,
but she feared Conrad, and trembled beneath the dark glance of his eye.
A feeling more of fear and pity than of love was her's; but I was
fearful for the result, for I knew he was one not to be trifled with.
The last dreary days of the autumn were gathered round us--the earth
was already bound in her frozen sleep, and all nature stilled in her
silent trance--all, save the restless waves, dashing on the rocky shore;
or the wind, which first curled their crests, and then went sweeping
through the wiry foliage of the pines--when, at the close of the short
twilight, we were all gathered on the highest point which overlooked the
sea, earnestly gazing o'er the dim horizon, where night was coming fast.
Ere the sun had set a barque had been seen, and her appearance caused
unwonted excitement in our solitudes. Ships in those days were strange
but welcome visitants. Not merely the necessaries of life, but kind
letters and tidings from distant friends were borne by them. As the
darkness increased, signal fires were raised along the beach, and ere
long a gun came booming o'er the waters; soon after came the noble ship
herself; her white sails gleaming through the night, and the glittering
spray flashing in diamond sparkles from her prow. She came to, some
distance from the shore, and, as if by magic, every sail was furled. A
boat came glancing from her side; a few minutes sent it to the beach,
and a gallant form sprung out upon the strand. It was De Clairville come
to claim his affianced bride; and with a blushing cheek and tearful eye
Ella was once more folded to his faithful heart.
A pang of jealous feeling for an instant darted through me, but Conrad's
face met mine, and its dark expression drove the demon power from me. I
saw the withering scowl of hate he cast upon De Clairville, and I
inwardly determined to shield the noble youth from the malice of that
dark one; for, bright as was to me the hope of Ella's love, I loved her
too well to be ought but rejoiced in her happiness. Although it brought
sorrow to myself, yet she was blessed. Mirth and joy, now for a while
cheered our lonely homes; we knew we were to lose our flower; but love
like theirs is a gladsome thing to look at. Many were the gifts De
Clairville brought his bride from the rich shore of England. Bracelets,
radiant as her own bright eyes, and pearls as pure as the neck they
twined. Among other things was a fairy case of gold, in the form of a
locket, which he himself wore. Ella wished to see what it contained, and
laughingly he unclosed it before us: 'twas the faded rose leaves of her
offerings to the love spirit on Walburga's eve. They had rested on his
heart, he said, in the hours of absence; and there, in death, should
they be still. Ella blushed and hid her face upon his bosom. I sighed at
the memory of that day, but Conrad's gloomy frown recalled me to the
present--this was their bridal eve. Our pastor was with us, and the
lowly building where we worshipped was decorated with simple state for
the occasion.
It stood on an eminence some distance from the other houses. That night
I was awakened from sleep by a sudden light shining through the room--a
wild dream' was yet before me, and a death snriek seemed ringing in my
ears. I looked from the window; our little church was all in flames;
'twas built of rough logs, and was of little value, save that it was
hallowed by its use. A fire had-probably been left on to prepare it for
the morrow, and from this the mischief had arisen. I thought little
about it, and none knew of its destruction till the morn.
The sun rose round and red, and sparkled o'er the glittering sheen of
the frost king's gems, flung in wild symmetry o'er the earth, till all
that before looked dark and drear was wreathed with a veil of dazzling
beauty; even the blackened logs where the fire had been had their
delicate tracery of pearly fringe. The guests assembled in our dwelling,
and the pastor stood before the humble altar, raised for the occasion.
The walls were rude, but the bride in her young beauty might have graced
a palace. She leaned on Conrad's arm, according to our custom, as her
oldest unmarried relative. The tables were spread with the bridal cheer,
and the blazing fire crackled merrily on the wide hearth-stone. The
bridegroom's presence alone was waited for. Gaily hung with flags was
the ship, and cheers rung loudly from her crew as a boat left her side.
It came, but bore but the officers invited to the wedding. Where was De
Clairville? None knew! We had expected he passed the night on board; but
there he had not been. 'Twas most strange! The day passed away, and
others like it, and still he came not. He was gone for ever. Had he
proved false and forsaken his love? Such was the imputation thrown on
his absence by Conrad.
The sailors joined us; a band of Indian hunters led the way, and for
miles around the woods were searched, but trace of human footsteps, save
our own, we saw not. Long did the vessel's crew linger by the shore,
hoping each day for tidings of their loved commander's fate, but of him
they heard no more, and it was deemed he had met his death by drowning.
Conrad, whose morose manner suddenly disappeared for a bold and forward
tone, so utterly at variance from his usual that all were surprized,
still persisted in asserting that he had but proceeded along the coast,
and would join his vessel as she passed onward. One of the sailors, an
old and grey-haired man, who loved De Clairville as a son, indignantly
denied the charge. He was incapable of such an action. "God grant," said
he, "he may have been fairly dealt with." "You would not say he had been
murdered," said Conrad. "No," said the old man, "I thought not of that:
if he were, not a leaflet in your woods but would bear witness to the
crime."
We were standing then by the ruined church--a slender beech tree grew
beside it--one faded leaf yet hovered on its stem--for an instant it
trembled in the blast, then fell at Conrad's feet, brushing his cheek as
it passed. If the blow of a giant had struck him he could not have
fallen more heavily to the ground. An inward loathing, such as may
mortal man never feel to his fellow, forbade me to assist him. He had
fainted; but the cold air soon revived him, and he arose, complaining of
sudden illness. The sailors left us, and the ship sailed slowly from our
waters, with her colours floating sadly half-mast high.
Ella thus suddenly bereaved, mourned in wild and bitter grief, but
woman's pride, at times her guardian angel, at others her destroyer,
took up its stronghold in her heart. The tempter Conrad awoke its
tones--with specious wile he recalled De Clairville's lofty ideas of
name and birth--how proudly he spoke of his lady mother and the castled
state of his father's hall. Was it not likely that, at the last, this
pride had rallied its strength around him, and bade him seek a nobler
bride than the lowly maiden of the "Refugees?" Too readily she heard
him, for love the fondest is nearest allied to hate the deepest, and De
Clairville's name became a thing for scorn and hate. 'Twas vain for me
to speak--what could I say? A species of fascination seemed to be
obtained by Conrad o'er her--a witching spell was in his words--'twas
but the power, swayed by his strong and ill-formed mind, over her weak
but gentle one--which, if rightly guided, would have echoed such sweet
music--and, ere the summer passed, she had forgotten her lost lover, and
was to wed him.
To others there was nothing strange in this, but to me it brought a wild
and dreary feeling; not that my early dreams were unchanged, for I had
learned to think a love like her's, so lightly lost and won, was not the
thing to be prized. Alas! I knew not the blackness of the spirit that
beguiled her, and wrought such woe. Still she had done wrong--the
affections of man's heart may not be idly dealt with--the woman who
feigns what she feels not, has her hand on the lion's mane. Ella at one
time had done this, and she reaped a dark guerdon for her falsehood. Yet
in her it might have been excused, for the very weakness of her nature
led her to it. Let those who are more strongly gifted beware of her
fate.
The earth was in the richest flush of her green beauty. On the morn,
Ella was again to be a bride--the golden light streamed through the glad
blue sky, and all looked bright and fair--the remains of the church,
which had long looked black and dreary, were gay with the richness of
vegetation--the bracken waved its green plumes, and the tall mullen
plant, with its broad white leaves, raised its pale crest above the
charred walls. While the dew was shining bright I had gone
forth--surprise and consternation greeted my solitary approach when I
returned. Again the holy book had been opened--the priest stood ready
with the bride, and tarried for the lover--they thought he was with me,
but I had not seen him--daylight passed away, night came, but brought
him not--the moon arose, and her shadowy light gave to familiar things
of day the spectral forms of mystery.
While we sat in silence, thinking of Conrad's absence, a dog's mournful
whine sounded near--it grew louder, and attracted our attention. We
followed the sound--it came from the ruins of the church, and there,
among the weeds and flowers lay Conrad stiff and cold--he was dead, and,
oh the horrible expression of that face, the demoniac look of despair
was never written in such fearful lines on human face before. All felt
relief when 'twas covered from the sight. One hand had 'twined in the
death grasp round the reed-like stem of the mullen plant--we unclosed
it, and it sprung back, tall and straight as before; something glittered
in the other--'twas the half of De Clairville's golden locket--how it
came to be in his possession was strange, but we thought not of it then.
Events like these have a saddening influence on the mind, and the gloom
for Conrad's sudden death hung heavy o'er us--Ella's mourning was long
and deep. I was not grieved to see it, for sorrow makes the spirit
wiser.
Three years passed away--little change had been among us, save that some
of our aged were gone, and the young had risen around us. Once more it
was the first of May--the night was dark and still, but the silvery
sounds of the waging earth came like balm o'er the soul--there was a
murmur in the forest, as though one heard the song of the young leaves
bursting into life, and the glad gushing of the springing streams rose
with them. The memory of other days was floating o'er my mind, when a
soft voice broke on my reverie. Her thoughts had been with
mine--"Ethel," said she, "remember you, how on such a night as this, you
once sought my love. Alas! how little knew I then of my own
heart--your's it should then have been--you know the shades that have
passed over it. Is Ella's love a worthless gift, or will you accept it
now as freely as 'tis offered. How long and sternly must we be trained
e'er love's young dream can be forgotten." The events that intervened
all passed away, and Ella was again the same maiden that stood with me
so long ago by the streamlet's side on Walburga's eve. My heart's long
silenced music once more rung forth its melody at her sweet words, and
life again was bright with the gems of hope and fond affection.
In places so lone as that in which we lived, the fancies of superstition
have ample scope to range. It had long been whispered through the
settlement that the spirit of Conrad appeared on the spot where he had
died at certain times. When the moon beamed, a shadowy form was seen to
wave its pale arms among the ruins of the church, which yet remained
unchanged. So strongly was the story believed, that after night-fall
none dared to pass the spot alone. Ella, too, had heard it, and trembled
whilst she disbelieved its truth. Our marriage morning came, and Ella
was for the third time arrayed in her bridal dress. A wreath of pearl
gleamed through her hair, and lace and satin robed her peerless
form--the tinge upon her cheek might not have been so bright as once it
was, but to me she was lovely--more of mind was blended with the
feelings of the heart, and gave a higher tone to her beauty. The holy
words were said, and my fondest hopes made truth. Is it, that because in
our most blissful hours the spirits are most ready fall, or was it the
sense of coming ill that threw its dreary shade of sadness o'er me all
that day? The glorious sun sunk brightly to his rest, but the rose cloud
round his path seemed deepened to the hue of blood. A wailing sound came
o'er the waters, and a whispering, as of woe, sighed through the leafy
trees. This feeling of despondency I tried in vain to banish; as the
evening came, it grew deeper, but Ella was more joyous than ever, for a
long time, she had been. All the fairy wiles of her winning youth seemed
bright as of old--glad faces were around us, and she was the gayest of
them all; when, suddenly, something from the open door met her eyes--one
loud shriek broke from her, and she rushed wildly from among us. I saw
her speed madly up the hill, where stood the church. I was hastening
after, when strong arms held me back, and fingers, trembling with awe
and dread, pointed to the object of their terror--there among the ruins
stood a tall and ghost-like form, whose spectral head seemed to move
with a threatening motion--for an instant I was paralysed, but Ella's
white robes flashed before me, and I broke from their grasp. Again I
heard her shriek--she vanished from me, but the phantom form still
stood. I reached it, and that thing of fear was but a gigantic weed--a
tall mullen that had outgrown the others on the very spot where we had
found the body of Conrad; the waving of its flexile head and long pale
leaves, shining with moonlight, were the motions we had seen--but where
was Ella? The decaying logs gave way beneath her, and she had fallen
into a vault or cellar beneath the building. Meanwhile those at the
house recovered their courage, and came towards us, bearing lights. We
entered the vault, and, on her knees before a figure, was Ella--the form
and dress were De Clairville's, such as we had seen him in last, but the
face, oh! heaven, the face showed but the white bones of a skeleton. The
rich brown curls still clung to the fleshless skull, and on the finger
glittered the ring with which Ella was to have been wed. The half of the
golden locket was clasped to his breast--the ribbon by which it hung
seemed to have been torn rudely from its place, but the hand had kept
its hold till the motion caused by our descent--it fell at Ella's feet,
a sad memento of other days, and recalled her to sensation. Horror paled
the brows of all, but to me was given a deeper woe, to think and know
what Ella must have felt.
Every feeling was deepened to intensity of agony in the passing of that
night--that dreary closing of my bridal day. How came the morning's
light I know not, but when it did, the fresh breeze blew on my brow, and
I saw the remains of De Clairville lying on the grass before me--they
had borne him from below, and it showed more plainly the crime which had
been among us. The deep blue of the dress was changed to a darker hue
where the red life blood had flowed, and from the back was drawn the
treacherous implement of death. The hearts of all readily whispered the
murderer's name, and fuller proof was given in that ancient dagger that
had long been an heir-loom in the family of Conrad--a relic of the old
Teutonic race from whence they sprung--well was it known, and we had
often wondered at its disappearance. He, Conrad, was the murderer--he
had slain De Clairville, and fired the building to conceal his crime.
God was the avenger of the dark deed--the mighty hand of conscience
struck him in his proudest hour--the humblest things of earth, brought
deathly terror to his soul. 'Twas evident the appearance of the mullen
plant, which drew us to the spot, had been the cause of his death. The
words of the old sailor seemed true. The lowly herb had brought the
crime to light, and in the hand of heaven had punished the murderer.
We buried De Clairville beneath a mossy mound, where the lofty pine and
spicy cedar waved above, and hallowed words were said o'er his rest. A
blight seemed to hover o'er our lonely settlement by the deed which had
been done within it. Nothing bound us to the spot; but hues of sadness
rested with it, and ever would. 'Twas an unhallowed spot, and we
prepared to leave it, and seek another resting place.
Our boats lay ready by the beach, and some were already embarked. I
took a last look around--something white gleamed among the trees around
De Clairville's grave--'twas Ella, who lay there dead. She always
accused herself as the cause of De Clairville's death, and indirectly,
too, she had been--but restitution now was made. We laid her by his
side, and thus I lost my early, only love.
Here then was it where we chose our heritage, and here we have since
remained, but everything is changed since then. Many an aged brow has
passed from earth, and many a bright eye closed in death. Every trace of
old is passing away, save where their shadows glide in the memory. Even
the grave where Ella slept is gone from earth.
Twenty years after her death I made a pilgrimage to the place--the young
sapling pines which shaded it had grown to lofty trees--human voice
seemed never to have broken in tones of joy or woe the deep solitude
around--the long grass waved rank and dark above the walls we had
raised, and the red berries hung rich and ripe by the ruined
hearthstone. Again, when another twenty years passed, I came to it once
more--the weight of age had gathered o'er me, but there lay the buried
sunlight of my youth, and the spirit thoughts of other days drew me to
it. Again there was a change--a change which told me my own time drew
near. The woods were gone long since--the reaper had passed o'er the
lowly graves, and knew them not. The last record of my love and of my
woe, was gone. Dwellings were raised along the lonely beach, and laden
ships floated on the long silent waters. I bade the place farewell for
ever, and returned to await in peace and hope my summons to the promised
rest.
The old man paused--the dreams of the past had weakened him, and he
retired for the night. Next morn we waited long for his presence, but he
came not. We sought his chamber, and found him dead. The soul had passed
away--one hand was folded on his heart, and oh! the might of earthly
love. It clasped a shining braid of silken hair, and something, of which
their faint perfume told to be the faded rose leaves--frail memorials of
his fondly loved Ella, but lasting after the warm heart which cherished
them was cold. He was gone where, if it be not in heaven "a crime to
love too well," his spirit may yet meet with her's, in that holy light,
whose purity of bliss may not be broken by the vain turmoil of earthly
feelings. So ends the story of uncle Ethel.
* * * * *
Well, said Grace, after we had discussed Ethel's melancholy story,
although I don't believe in ghosts, I cannot do away with my faith in
dreams, and last night I had a most disagreeable one, which disturbed me
much. I thought I had engaged my passage, and when I unclosed my purse
to pay down the money, nothing was in it but a plain gold ring and a
ruby heart. My money was gone, and, oh! the grief I felt was deeper than
waking language can describe. Then, Grace, said I, you must receive
consolation for your disagreeable dream, in the words of your own
favourite song, "Rory o'More," that dreams always go by contrary you
know, and so I shall read your dream. The plain gold ring means that
tie, which, like it, has no ending. The heart has, in all ages, been
held symbolical of its holiest feeling, and thus unite love and
marriage, and your sorrow will be turned to joy. So I prognosticate your
dream to mean. And time told I had foretold aright--for soon after we
had arrived in St. John's, the entrance to which, from the main river,
is extremely beautiful, showing every variety of scenery, from the green
meadows of rich intervale, where stand white dwellings and orchard
trees, to the grey and barren rocks, with cedary plumage towering to the
sky.
Grace having engaged her passage home, we were turning from the office,
when a stranger bounded to us, and caught her by the hand. Grace Marley,
he exclaimed--my own, my beautiful. I felt her lean heavily on my arm;
she had fainted. And so deep was that trance, we fancied she was
gone--but joy rarely kills, and she awoke to the passionate exclamations
of her lover--for such he was, come o'er the deep sea to seek her. An
explanation ensued. Their letters to each other had all miscarried. None
had been received by either. (All this bitter disappointment, however,
happened before the establishment of our post.) So Grace, instead of
returning to Ireland, was wedded next day, her husband having brought
means with him to settle in the country. The magician, Love, flung his
rose-light o'er her path, and, when I saw her last, she fancied the
emerald glades of Oromot, where her home now lay, almost as beautiful as
those by the blue lakes of Killarney, in the land of her birth.
With the end of September commence the night frosts. The woods now lose
their greenness; and the most brilliant hues of crimson, and gold, and
purple, are flung in gorgeous flakes of beauty over their boughs, as
though each leaf were crystal, and reflected and retained the light of
some glorious sunset. In this lovely season, which is most appropriately
termed the fall, we wished to _get along_ with our church, and have it
enclosed before the winter. This was rather an arduous undertaking in
young settlement like ours; but there were those here who loved
"Old England's holy church,
And loved her form of prayer right well."
And liberally they came forward to raise a temple to their faith in the
wilderness. The "Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign
Lands" had promised assistance; but the frame must first be erected and
enclosed ere it could be claimed. In this country cash is a most scarce
commodity, and many species of speculation are made with the aid of
little real specie. Large sums are spoken of, but rarely appear bodily:
and our church got on in the same way. The owner of the saw-mill signed
twenty pounds as his subscription towards it, and paid it in boards--the
carpenters who did the work received from the subscribers pork and flour
for their pay--and our neighbour, the embarrassed lumber-man, who was
still wooden-headed enough to like anything of a _timber spec_, got out
the frame by contract, himself giving most generously five pounds worth
of work towards it. And thus the church was raised, and now it stands,
with white spire, pointing heavenward, above the ancient forest trees.
As winter was now approaching, how to pass its long evenings agreeably
and rationally was a question which was agitated. The dwellers of
America are more enlightened now than in those old times when dancing
and feasting were the sole amusements, so a library was instituted and
formed by the same means as the church had been--a load of potatoes, or
a barrel of buckwheat, being given by each party to purchase books with.
The selection of these, to suit all tastes, was a matter of some
difficulty, the grave and serious declaiming against light reading, and
regarding a novel as the climax of human wickedness. One old lady, who
by the way was fond of reading, and had studied the ancient tale of
Pamela regularly, at her leisure, for the last forty years, was the
strongest against these, and, on being told that her favourite tome was
no less than a novel, she consigned it to oblivion, and seemed, for a
time, to have lost all faith in sublunary things. After some little
trouble, however, the thing was satisfactorily arranged. Even here, to
this lone nook of the western world, had reached the fame of the Caxtons
of modern times. Aught that bore the name of Chambers, had a place in
our collection, and the busy fingers of the little Edinburgh 'devils'
have brightened the solitude of many a home on the banks of the
Washedemoak.
The Indian summer, which, in November, comes like breathing space, ere
the mighty power of winter sweeps o'er the earth, is beautiful, with its
balmy airs and soft bright skies, yet melancholy in its loveliness as a
fair face in death--'tis the last smile of summer, and when the last
wreath of crimson leaves fall to earth, the erratic birds take their
flight to warmer lands--the bear retires to his hollow tree--the
squirrel to his winter stores--and man calls forth all his genius to
make him independent of the storm king's power. In this country we have
a specimen of every climate at its utmost boundary of endurance; in
summer we have breathless days of burning heat shining on in shadowless
splendour of sunlight; but it is in the getting up of a winter's scene
that New Brunswick is perfect. True, a considerable tall sample of a
snow-storm can sometimes be enjoyed in England, but nothing to compare
with the free and easy sweep with which the monarch of clouds flings his
boons over this portion of his dominions. After the first snow-storm the
woods have a grand and beautiful appearance, festooned with their
garlands of feathery pearls--the raindrops which fall with the earlier
snows hang like diamond pendants, and flash in the sun, "As if gems were
the fruitage of every bough."
I remember once coming from St. John's by water. The frost set in rather
earlier than we expected. The farther from the sea the sooner it
commences; so as we proceeded up the river our boat was stopped by the
crystal barrier across the stream, not strong enough yet to admit of
teaming, and we had nothing for it but a walk of seven miles through the
forest,--home we must proceed, though evening was closing in and
darkness would soon be around us, the heavy atmosphere told of a coming
storm, and ere to-morrow our path would be blocked up. America is the
land of invention; and here we were, on the dreary shore, in the dusky
twilight--a situation which requires the aid of philosophy. We were
something in the predicament of the Russian sailors in Spitzbergen, we
wanted light to guide us on the "blaze," without which we could not keep
it; but beyond the gleam of a patent congreve, our means extended not.
One of our company, however, a native of the country, took the matter
easy. Some birch trees were growing near, from which he stripped a
portion of the silvery bark, which being rolled into torches, were
ignited; each carried a store, and by their brilliant light we set out
on our pilgrimage. The effect of our most original Bude on the
snow-wreathed forest was magical--we seemed to traverse the palace
gardens of enchantment, so strange yet splendid was the scene--the snow
shining pure in the distance, and the thousand ice gems gleaming ruby
red in the rays of our torches. They are wondrous to walk through, those
boundless forests, when one thinks that by a slight deviation from the
track the path would be lost; and, ere it could be found again, the
spirit grow weary in its wanderings, and, taking its flight, leave the
unshrouded brows to bleach on summer flowers or winter snows, in the
path where the graceful carraboo bounds past, or the bear comes guided
by the tainted breeze to where it lies.
It was on this midnight ramble that the facts of the following lines
were related to me, ending not, as such tales generally do, in death,
but in what perchance was worse,--civilisation lost in barbarism.
Many years ago two children, daughters of a person residing in this
province, were lost in the woods. What had been their fate none knew
--no trace of them could be found until, after a long period of time
had elapsed, one of them was discovered among some Indians, by whom they
had been taken, and with whom this one had remained, the other having
joined another tribe. She appeared an Indian squaw in every respect--her
complexion had been stained as dark as theirs--her costume was the same,
but she had blue eyes. This excited suspicion, which proved to be
correct. The story of the lost children was remembered, which event
occurred thirty years before. With some difficulty she was induced to
meet her mother, her only remaining parent. The tide of time swept back
from the mother's mind, and she hastened to embrace the child of her
memory, but, alas! the change. There existed for her no love in the
bosom of the lost one. Her relatives wishing to reclaim her from her
savage life, earnestly besought her to remain with them, but their ways
were not as her's--she felt as a stranger with them, and rejoined the
Indian band, with whom she still remains.