“Hundert tausand!” he exclaimed, “the lad is an Encyclopædia. Let us see

what you can do;” and immediately he poured forth a passage of

Euripides, with which I was quite familiar. I rendered it at once into

German, and he then made me give it him in French, which I did as well

as I could, in that meagre tongue. He rubbed his hands all the time,

saying—“Ha—ha.” He spoke to me in English, too, such as it was, and

though his pronunciation would have made a dry salmon laugh, yet I found

that he had a very thorough acquaintance with all the works of the best

authors of England. The conversation soon became interesting to us both,

and we went on chatting and discussing till we reached the gates of the

town. There he suddenly paused, and looking at me from head to foot,

exclaimed—

“So you want employment—you are poor, I dare say—very poor?”

I replied, that it was hardly possible to be poorer.

“Well, then, you must not lodge in dear inns,” he said.

I told him I did not know where to lodge, as I was a stranger in the

town.

“I’ll tell you,” he answered, “I’ll tell you. You must lodge in the

lower town—in the Hardt-Gasse—number five—with Widow Steinberger.” He

repeated the direction over three times, and then added—“She should

board you for two dollars a week—don’t give her more. Everybody asks

too much, in expectation of being beaten down—a bad system, but

universal.”

All this time he had been continually turning himself round upon his

right leg, between each two or three words, as if intending to go away,

and I perceived no inclination upon his part to help me to employment;

but when he came to the end of his directions, he drew out a little

note-book, wrote something in it with his usual rapidity, tore out the

leaf, and gave it to me saying—

“Come to see me—come to see me. I’ll think of what can be done. We’ll

find you employment, Polyglot,” and away he turned and left me. I then,

with better hope than I had hitherto had, inquired my way to the street

which he had indicated, without having curiosity enough to look at any

thing but his name, which I found to be “Herman Haas.” I was a long time

in finding the Hardt-Gasse, and before I did so, I plunged into many a

dark and gloomy street of tall, old houses, and warehouses. At length,

the end of a little lane was pointed out to me, the appearance of which

was more in harmony with the state of my finances, than my desires. But

I found, on walking up it, that the houses must, at one time, have been

of some importance, judging by the size of the doors, and the ornaments

which clustered round them. At number five, I stopped; and finding

neither knocker or bell, opened the door and went in.

“Who’s there?” screamed a voice from the right, and entering a large,

dim, old-fashioned room, I found myself in the presence of a stately

dame, engaged in the dignified occupation of cooking, who instantly

demanded what I wanted. I found that this was no other than Madame

Steinberger, herself, but before she would enter into any negociations

in regard to boarding and lodging me, she insisted upon knowing who had

sent me there. When I showed her the paper, however, she

exclaimed—“Professor Haas! Oh! that is another matter;” and our

arrangements were soon effected. As the professor had anticipated, she

asked more at first than she was inclined to take, but his dictum was

all powerful with her, and I was soon installed in a comfortable little

room, with the advantage of a large sitting-room besides, when I chose

to use it, for which accommodation, with three meals in the day, I was

to pay two dollars a week.

On the following morning, at the hour which my landlady told me would be

most convenient, I went to call upon the professor, whom I found in his

study; though how he contrived to study at all, I cannot make out; for

he was in a state of continual movement—the most excitable German I

ever saw. During the greater part of the time he was talking to me, he

was taking down one book and putting up another, turning over papers

upon the table, dipping a pen in the ink and wiping it again, with other

operations to carry off his superfluous activity. He must have been

quiet at some time; for he certainly was a very learned man; but I never

could discover when it was. At length, after having asked a great number

of questions, he said—“I have got one pupil for you, to make a

beginning—Come, I’ll show her to you;” and leading me into another

room, on the same floor, he presented me to a young lady, who sat there

embroidering, as his daughter. “There,” he said, “teach her English, and

any thing else you can. I have no time—she is a good girl, but slow.”

The young lady looked up in his face with a calm, placid smile, saying,

“If there were two such quick people as you in the house, my father,

they would always be running against each other.”

“True,” replied the old man, “true, and philosophical. Nature loves

contrasts as well as harmonies. Opposing forces counteract each other.

You, my Louise, are my _vis inertiæ_. Without you I should get on too

fast. But come, young gentleman—what is your name?”

“Louis de Lacy,” I replied.

“I like that, I like that,” answered the old man “The _De_, speaks blood

and good political principles—but come—we will settle the terms in my

own room, and will try to get you something more to do by and bye.”

I found the good professor had as accurate a knowledge of making a

bargain, as he had of Greek or Latin. He calculated the worth of my

services to a pfennig, and, as I found afterward, if I had made the

slightest opposition, would have beaten me down still lower; for he had

a pleasure in such sort of triumphs. I let him arrange it all his own

way, however, and left to his own generosity, he probably added a little

to the sum which he had intended to give. It was agreed that I was to

teach his daughter two hours during the day, and as soon as all this was

settled, he pushed me by the shoulders toward the door, saying, “There,

go, begin at once. You have three hours before dinner. I must go to my

recitations.”

I found the way back to the room where Louise Haas was seated, and where

I passed two hours of every day, for nearly nine months, and generally

the greater part of every Sunday. She was a pretty creature, with small,

well-shaped features, a very graceful form, though plump and rounded,

and a bright, clear complexion, which varied a good deal under different

emotions. Her mother had died, I found, some four or five years before,

of that pest of northern countries, consumption. There was nobody in the

house but herself, her father, and two women servants: hardly any

society was admitted within the doors, but grave old professors, with

long hair, not very well combed; and thus tutor and pupil, like Abelard

and Heloise, were left alone together for many an hour—I having her

father’s commands to teach her English, and any thing else I could.

Father Bonneville’s good lessons, however, some knowledge of the world,

and many hard experiences, together with other feelings, which I cannot

well describe, prevented me from even thinking of taking any unfair

advantage of my situation. It was natural, however, that in such

circumstances, young acquaintance should speedily ripen into intimacy,

and intimacy into friendship. Nay, it was not unnatural that little

marks of kindness and tenderness should pass between us; for though very

calm and gentle, she was of a loving and caressing disposition. I found

her far from dull—a very apt scholar; but sometimes there were things

she could not comprehend, and then she would look smiling in my face,

and ask if she was not very stupid, and let her hand drop into mine and

rest there, as a messenger sent to beseech forbearance.

We were both very young; she not more than eighteen, and I about twenty,

and strange new feelings began to come over my heart toward her. I will

not even now say that it was love; and then, I would not inquire what it

was, at all. It was a tenderness—a feeling of gentle, quiet

affection—a fondness for her society—a pleasure in seeing those soft

eyes, look into mine, and a gratitude for the kindness she ever showed,

and took every opportunity of showing. What she felt, I learned

afterward; but let me turn once more to the course of my life in

Hamburgh.

By the kind offices of the good old professor, I obtained several other

pupils, and I had the great happiness of finding my income exceed my

expenditure. I threw off my traveling garb; I brought out from my

knapsack the clothing which I had so carefully saved: I gained

admittance into some of the society of the town, and though I do not

think I was ever very vain, whatever vanity I had, received some

encouragement. But my favorite resort was still the professor’s house.

He and his daughter were my first friends in the city, and I became more

and more intimate with him every day. He was pleased with the progress

his daughter made, and he was also pleased with the little assistance

which I gave him, from time to time, in different works he was

compiling. While I wrote for him, or looked out passages for him, he

could fidget about the room at his case, and get into every corner of it

in five minutes. At the end of a month, I had a general invitation to

spend my evenings there whenever I pleased—and I did please very often.

Then, after a while, I was sent with Louise to church; for she went

regularly, although I can’t say that the professor ever wore out the

steps of any religious edifice, and I took care not to allow my Roman

Catholic education to prevent my joining a Protestant congregation, with

my pretty little pupil. Indeed I was hanging at this time very slightly

by the skirts of the garments of Rome. I had been reading the Bible a

great deal lately. I read some Romanist books also, but I found that the

two did not agree, and I liked the Bible best. Besides all this, as

spring succeeded to winter, and days lengthened, and suns grew warm,

there was every now and then a moment of very sweet, spring-like

happiness, when after attending the church, Louise and I took a farther

walk, till the hour of the good professor’s dinner. Sometimes we had

another walk, too, in the evening, and sometimes he accompanied us to

his little garden with the summer-house, near the gate of which I had

first met him. It was all very delightful; and my ambition, which had

once been strong and wide, had by this time shrunk to very small

proportions. I could have been contented to linger on there, with every

thing just as it was, for an indefinite period of time. But it must be

remembered, that not one word, regarding love, ever passed between

Louise and myself, except when it occurred in passages of books. I am

afraid, however, that those passages, about this time, occurred very

often. Louise was fond of them, and I turned them up easily for her.

Thus it went on—for I must not dwell upon details—for about eight

months, when it so miserably happened that an aunt of the professor’s,

somewhat younger than himself in years, but screwed up by ancient

maidenhood to the sharpest and very highest tone of the human

instrument, arrived. She was all eyes, ears and understanding. God

knows, she might have heard every word that passed between Louise and

myself, and seen all that we did too—if looks were excepted. But it so

happened that at this time the influence which France exerted over

Prussia was so great, that the Protectorate of the latter power over the

northern circles became a mere tyranny exercised for the purposes of the

French Republic, principally for the persecution of emigrants. The

position of such persons as myself became very dangerous; and the

necessity of my removal from Hamburgh was more than once talked of at

the professor’s table, where I now dined frequently. It was even

suggested that I should engage a passage in a vessel which was about to

sail in a couple of months for the United States of America.

I could not help remarking that Louise turned very pale when these

things formed the subject of conversation, and during six weeks of

fluctuating anxiety, I saw with sincere apprehension that she lost

health and spirits. I dared not, I could not venture to take the idea to

my heart that that dear, amiable little creature suffered on my account;

but still I did my best to cheer and comfort her, and perhaps became a

little more tender in manner and fond in words, than I had ever dared to

be before. It was now always, “dear Louis” and “dear Louise;” but I do

not think we went any further than that. Often, often would she ask me

questions regarding my past history, and as much was told her as I knew

myself. She seemed to take a deep interest in it; but as it was a

subject of deep interest to me, that I looked upon as natural. However,

things had gone on in this way for some time, my pretty Louise still

failing in health, not losing, but rather increasing her beauty by the

daily walks which she now forced herself to take.

One day, at length, the explosion came. I met the old professor at the

top of the stairs, and instead of turning me over at once to Louise, he

beckoned me into his own study, and then in a very excited state flew

from corner to corner of the room, glancing at me angrily, but saying

nothing. This conduct, became so painful, that I at length broke

silence, saying, “You wish to speak with me, Herr Haas.”

“Ay, sir, ay!” he replied with vivacious sharpness, “Have I not cause to

speak?—have I not cause to feel anger? Here, I took you in as a beggar,

and trusted you as a friend, and you have betrayed my trust by winning

my daughter’s affections under the pretence of giving her instructions.

Answer it how you may, sir, it is a bad case.”

“As to winning your daughter’s affections, my dear sir,” I replied, “I

think you must be mistaken; for I can boldly appeal to her to say,

whether I have once spoken on the subject of love toward her, or on any

other to justify the imputation you cast upon me. I have always

respected your hospitality, and owing you so much as I do, I should have

conceived myself base indeed to seek her affection without your consent.

We have been thrown much together and—”

But nothing would satisfy the old man. He interrupted me hastily,

catching at my words, and saying, “that the only way of proving my

sincerity was to quit Hamburgh at once; that his aunt, who inhabited a

country-mansion, not many miles distant, had pointed out to him—in the

course of a morning lecture which she gave him, before her departure

that day—all that was going on between Louise and myself; that a ship

would soon sail for America, and that if I really entertained the

honorable sentiments I expressed, I would take my passage in her, and

leave his household to recover its peace.” He asked me, in a taunting

tone, if I knew that his daughter was his heiress, and ended by

forbidding me the house.

I retired gloomy and desponding, and although he had said nothing to

lead me to such a conclusion, I felt almost certain that he had spoken

to Louise, before his conversation with myself. There was a sort of

gloomy consolation in this conviction, and I hesitated as to whether I

should quit Hamburgh, or remain in the hope of some change of feeling

upon his part. There is such a thing as half-love, and I knew—I

felt—that I could make the dear girl happy, and could be very happy

with her myself. The remembrance, however, that I had nothing on

earth—that I was an outcast—a beggar, in reality, and that she was

probably rich, decided me. I went down to the wharf. I took my passage.

I paid a part of my passage-money, but I learned—with a strange mixture

of feelings—that the sailing of the packet was put off for a whole

month, which made nearly seven weeks from that day. The master took

pains to inform me, that this delay was occasioned by apprehension on

the part of his owners, of the English cruisers, which, at that time,

were behaving as ill to neutral vessels, as they were behaving well in

combats with the enemy. I cared little for the reasons, however, but

went away, not knowing whether to be pleased or sorry for this respite.

I could not quit Hamburgh without feelings of regret—I could not leave

Louise without a bitter pang—I had done what was right—my conscience

approved; and if accident kept me in the town, and fortune favored me

with any change of circumstances, Hope might plume her wings without any

self-reproach.

I little knew with how much anguish that period of delay was to be

filled.

Good Madame Steinberger had evidently heard something of what had

occurred at the professor’s house. She had been very kind to me, and was

kind still; but her reverence for Professor Haas somewhat jostled with

her regard for her young lodger. I would sit for hours in the evening,

dreaming of the past, thinking of Louise, dwelling upon happy hours that

were never to return. And then Madame Steinberger would come and attempt

to comfort me, saying, that it was mere boy and girl’s love, and would

soon pass away: that I and the young lady would both soon forget, and

that she doubted not to see us both happy parents.

If she had taken up a red-hot skewer, and thrust it into my heart, she

would not have produced more wretchedness than she did by her mode of

consolation.

No consolation—no thought—no philosophy was of any avail. It was a

period of intense bitterness, filled with many varied emotions, but all

of them most painful. Had my love been more ardent, more vehement than

it was, my condition would probably have been less sad. I should have

striven—I should have resisted—but a dark and gloomy feeling took

possession of my mind, that all who loved me, all who felt an interest

in me were destined to be lost to me, almost as soon as I felt the

blessing of their sympathy and kindness. I was more miserable than I can

describe: there was nothing to stimulate: to spur on endeavor: to rouse

up dormant energy. It was all dull, blank, monotonous, melancholy

inactivity.

Three weeks had passed in this manner, when one evening, as I was

sitting in the larger room, where good Frau Steinberger had kindled a

fire, with my feet upon the andirons, my head leaning on my hand, and a

book which I had vainly endeavored to read, fallen on the floor by my

side, there was a step in the passage and the door opened. I took no

notice: I cared for nothing: I was without hope or expectation: I was

once more cast upon the world—the fragment of a wreck upon the wide

ocean.

Suddenly a voice sounded near me, which I knew right well. “Louis,” it

said. “Louis, can you forgive me? Louis, will you save me—will you save

my child?”

I started up, and gazed upon the figure before me. I could hardly

believe it was my old friend the professor, so pale, so worn, so

sorrow-stricken was his look.

I instantly clasped his extended hand in mine. “My dear, good friend,” I

said, “what have I to forgive? I never sought to bring sorrow or

discomfort to your door—I would rather have died. That is all I have to

say. Tell me what I have to do—tell me what you would wish, and I am

ready to do it.”

“Come to Louise,” he said, wringing my hand hard. “Come to Louise—I

have been a fool—a madman—a mercenary wretch. You only can save

her—Come to her—come to her at once!”

I trembled violently, but I snatched up my hat, exclaiming, “let us go,”

and rushed out of the house before him.

We flew along the streets, running against every body—seeing

nobody—heeding nobody. I asked no questions. I knew there was something

terrible; but I was going to Louise, and felt that I should soon know

all. All houses stood upon the latch in Hamburgh in those days. I opened

the door—I went in—I rushed up the stairs—I heard him cry “stop,

stop”—but the trumpet of an angel would not have called me back. I

entered her sitting-room. She was not there. I heeded not. I knew her

bed-room lay beyond. I passed on and opened the door.

She was seated in a chair, with all the bright color gone from her

cheek, except at one point. A physician stood beside her, with a glass

in his hand. One old maid-servant was kneeling at her feet, wrapping

them in flannel. A handkerchief, dyed with blood, was at her lips. Could

I pause? No, had it killed both her and myself. In an instant I was

across the room, at her feet, and my arms around her.

“Louise, my own Louise,” I cried.

She looked at me with surprise—then gazed beyond me to her father, who

followed close—then cast her arms round my neck, and leaned her head

upon my shoulder, saying in a faint voice, “Louis, dear Louis, you have

saved me—I feel—I am sure, I shall live to be your wife.”

“Hush, hush,” said the physician. “You must not speak at all.”

“You shall be his wife; you shall be his wife!” cried her father

eagerly.

“I am very happy,” said Louise.

“I must have perfect silence,” said the physician, “all will go well

now; but every one must quit the room.”

“No one shall tend her but myself,” I said; “but I will be as still as

night. She is mine—mine by the deepest and the holiest ties, and I will

not leave her till this is staid.”

Nor did I; but through the live-long night, with the physician and the

fond old servant, I remained silently watching, aiding, comforting,

supporting her. From time to time the spitting of blood returned; but,

at length, ice was thought of and procured. That checked it effectually.

Two hours passed without the slightest return of that direful symptom,

and lifting her in my arms, as a father might a child, I placed her in

her bed. Then seating myself on a little footstool at the side, I laid

my head upon the same pillow. I thought she would sleep more happily so.

Her heavy eyes closed quietly; her breathing became calm and gentle; she

slept; and ere many minutes had passed, I slept beside her.

THE FADING OF THE FLOWER.

The hemorrhage returned no more. Louise and I awoke at nearly the same

moment, just as the morning light was streaming in through the windows,

and she smiled sweetly to see me there, with my head upon her pillow,

and the good old servant sitting fast asleep at the foot of her bed.

Poor girl, she fancied that all danger was passed; that she would soon

be well, and that we should be very, very happy. But, alas! grief and

disappointment too frequently shoot with poisoned arrows, and the venom

remains in the wound, after the shaft has been extracted. She was not

suffered to rise that day, and was forbidden to speak more than a

monosyllable at a time. The good physician quoted the Bible to her,

saying—“Let your communication be yea, yea, nay, nay, for of more

cometh evil.” On the following day, however, she rose, and gradually was

permitted to talk more and more, without any evil effect being produced.

Then for a short time we were very happy. The good, old professor did

all that he could to make up for his previous harshness, consented to

any thing that we wished. Spontaneously promised two thousand dollars to

set Louise and myself off in life, although we were to make our abode

with him, and talked of obtaining a professorship for me in the

university. Luckily his avocations kept him from home a good deal each

day, otherwise his daughter’s health would have suffered more, from his

continually running in and out of the room. She made some progress

during the first week after I returned, regained strength in a certain

degree, and I was full of hope for her, although she had an unpleasant

cough, very frequent, though not violent. We talked of the coming days,

and of our marriage, as soon as she was quite well, and I measured her

finger for the ring, and kissed the little hand on which it was to be

placed. Oh, they were very, very pleasant dreams, those; and I felt that

I could be exceedingly happy with that dear, gentle girl—nay, I fancied

that our happiness was quite assured; for when I looked into her eyes,

they were so full of light and life, that one could hardly fancy they

would ever be extinguished in death and darkness. Her bright color did

not come back into the cheek indeed, except at night, and then it was

not so generally diffused. Nevertheless, she felt herself so well—we

all thought she was so well—that our wedding-day was fixed for about

three weeks afterward. As the time approached, however, she was not

quite so well again. The weather changed, and two or three days of cold,

damp wind succeeded, which seemed to affect her very much. It was judged

expedient that our marriage should be delayed for a fortnight; for she

felt the least breath of air. Nevertheless, we kept up our spirits well

for a little while, and she talked confidently of regaining health, and

being just as well as ever. But as the days went on, I perceived with

anxiety and alarm, that she grew weaker. I used to take her out whenever

the air was soft, and the sun shone warmly, for a little walk, in the

hope that it would restore her strength, and I soon found that she could

not go so far, without fatigue, as at first; that to climb even the

little slopes which exist in Hamburgh, rendered her breathing short, and

increased her cough. Our walks became less and less, till, at length,

she went out no more. A change, hardly perceptible in its progress, was

gradually wrought in her. I saw little difference between one day and

that which preceded; but when I looked back to a week or a fortnight

before, and compared the present with the past, I could not close my

eyes to the conviction that she was worse—much worse.

After a while, she took her breakfast in bed; but made an effort to rise

as early as she could, in order to come and join me in the sitting-room.

She ever spoke cheerfully, too, and seemed to have no thought of danger.

But her father was in a terrible state; for he couldn’t close his eyes

to her situation, and I do believe, that if the sacrifice of his life by

the most painful kind of death would have purchased his child’s

recovery, he would have made it without a hesitation. I deceived myself

more than he did. I had heard of the effect of change of air, and I had

talked to Louise so often about her recovering strength, and going with

me for a short time, to some milder climate, that I had almost persuaded

myself, against conviction, that it would be so. I fancied, too, that I

could make her so happy, she must needs recover; for I knew what a

blessed balm happiness is, and thought it must be all-effectual.

As she could no longer go to church, the good minister of the parish

came several times to see her, and as he had a friendship for me, he

would often talk with me afterward—not that I liked his conversation

now as much as formerly; for it was very gloomy, and he strove evidently

to fill my mind with the dark anticipations which occupied his own. The

rays of religious hope, he endeavored to pour in too; but it was earthly

hopes I then clung to, and I did not like to have them taken away.

One morning, after he had been with Louise, I found some tears upon her

cheek, when I went in to see her; for by this time she did not rise till

very late in the day, and all painful restraint being removed, I used to

go and sit by her bedside, and read to her for some hours each morning.

I was half angry with the old man for depressing her spirits; but she

soon recovered her cheerfulness, and it was not till two days afterward,

that I learned he had told her she must die.

I was sitting beside her, with my arm fondly cast round her, as she sat

propped up by pillows, and I was indulging in those dreamy hopes of the

future, which I still entertained, and thought she entertained likewise.

I talked of our proposed journey to the South, and of escaping the cold,

winter weather of Hamburgh, and of myself and her father—for he was to

go with us in this dream—nursing her like a tender plant, till the

bright summer came back again to restore her to perfect health.

She turned her sweet eyes upon me, with a gentle but melancholy smile.

“Do you know, dear Louis,” she said, “I begin to think that time will

never be?”

I looked aghast, and laying her hand tenderly in mine, she added—

“Nay, more, love, I fear I shall never be your wife, unless—unless you

can make up your mind to take me as I am now, and part with me very

soon.”

“O, Louise, Louise!” I cried, pressing her to my heart, with the

dreadful conviction first fully forced upon me, by words such as she had

never used before. “Do not, do not entertain such sad fears. Be mine at

once, dear girl, and let me take you away from this bleak place—by

slow, easy journeys—by sea—any how.”

A single large tear rose in her eyes, and leaning her head upon my

shoulder, she said in a low, hesitating voice—

“I will own, it would be very sweet to be your wife, were it but for a

day—yet what right have I,” she added, “to ask you to make me so, in

such a state as this—to leave you so soon, so young a widower?”

“Let not such thoughts stop you for a moment, Louise,” I answered. “It

will be a blessing and a comfort to me. I can then be with you

always—never leave you—nurse you by night and day, and if the fondest

cure can save you, still keep my little jewel for my life’s happiness.”

She pressed her lips fondly upon my cheek, and asked—“Do you really

feel so, Louis?”

“From my heart,” I answered. “There is no blessing—no comfort I desire

so much. Let it be this very day—may I speak to your father?”

“If you will,” she answered with a bright smile, and I know not that I

ever in life felt such satisfaction as in seeing the happiness and

relief I had bestowed upon that dear girl.

The old professor was ready to grant every thing we could desire. He was

now the complete slave of her will; but the marriage could not take

place that day, for some few formalities had to be gone through and

arrangements to be made. It was appointed for the next evening, however,

and when Louise awoke upon her wedding-day, she sent the maid to tell me

that she felt much better.

She knew what happiness that news would give me, and I was soon by her

side to confirm the assurance with my own eyes.

She was better. She looked better. She had rested well, and she was able

to rise an hour earlier than she had done before. The incorrigible liar,

Hope, whispered her false promises in the ears of both, I believe, and

the hours passed more brightly during that afternoon, than they had done

for many a day before.

At eight o’clock the Protestant minister came, and with him a notary.

The physician was the only other person present, except Louise, her

father, and myself. The irrevocable words were soon spoken, the contract

signed, and the ring upon her finger; but as I put it on, a cold, sad

feeling came upon my heart. It had been somewhat tight when I first

bought it, and now it was very loose. We were even obliged to wind some

silk round it the next day, to prevent it from falling off.

For three days, happiness seemed to have all the effect that I had ever

attributed to it in my brightest fancies. Louise was certainly better,

and she looked so happy, so cheerful, walked up and down the passage

hanging on my arm, with a step so much lightened, that even the old

professor caught the infection of our hopes, and began to talk of future

days.

The medicine soon lost its power over the invincible enemy. We had been

married just six days, and during the three last, Louise had been

feebler again, and very restless at night. The sixth day was a warm,

sunny one. The light shone cheerfully into our room, and she talked to

me of the sweet aspect of the summer, and made me open the window to let

in the gentle air.

One room of the old professor’s house looked out upon the ramparts,

planted with trees. It was a large room, seldom used; but Louise asked

me to go in there, and open the windows before she rose, saying, that

she should like to sit and look at the green leaves.

Her father came in before she was dressed, and when she was ready, we

took her out of her room, with a hand resting on the arm of each, and

led her into that saloon. I had placed an arm-chair for her near the

window, and she approached feebly and seated herself in it. The air was

very balmy: a clear, sparkling sunshine brightened the foliage: the sky

beyond, was as deep and blue as her own eyes, and she gazed for an

instant, with a look of intense thought upon the scene before her. Then

looking up in my face as I stood beside her, she placed her hand in

mine, and said—“Very beautiful!”

They were her last words. The next instant, a strange, vacant expression

came into those deep thoughtful eyes, a slight shudder passed over her:

she leaned more and more toward me; and I had just time to kneel by her

side, and catch her head upon my shoulder. I felt one faint breath fan

my cheek—and Louise was gone.

(_End of part first._)

* * * * *

FADED AND GONE.

BY MISS S. J. C. WHITTLESEY.

Faded and gone are the Summer’s sweet flowers,

Strewn by the wintry winds o’er the dark mould!

Smilers, when sunlight stole through the soft hours,

Down from yon azure their leaves to unfold.

Bright were their beauties when breezes swept on

O’er the blue waters to gather perfume;

Whisperers lovely, now faded and gone!

Slumberers lonely ’mid dullness and gloom!

Oh! but the Spring-time will come o’er the plain

Wooing the whispering blossoms again,

With its soft tread o’er the emerald lawn—

Then we’ll not mourn for the faded and gone!

Faded and gone are the ones that we cherished,

Fondly and true, in our bosoms of yore!

Slumbering buds may awake o’er the perished,

_Their_ faded hearts shall unfold here no more!

Sweet is the music that Memory flings

O’er the oasis of Life’s early love,

Where flew the Angel on fluttering wings,

Bearing our lost through the starlight above;

Oh! there’s a land where the perished ones bloom,

Where cometh never a shadow of gloom!

Fadeless and fair is that glorious dawn—

Then we’ll not mourn for the faded and gone!

Faded and gone are the sweet dreams of childhood,

When the young wings of the Spirit were free,

Folded or furled ’mid the shadowy wildwood—

Sweeping the surface of life’s sunny sea.

Time’s fading finger hath sullied the leaf,

Stainless and lovely in childhood’s pure years;

Pages of beauty once brilliant, yet brief,

Wear its deep impress of changes and tears!

Oh! but the blossoms of childhood will bloom

Brightly again, o’er the shadowy Tomb!

Infinite gladness flow endlessly on—

Then we’ll not murmur for the faded and gone!

* * * * *

THE BOWER OF CASTLE MOUNT.

A REMINISCENCE OF HEIDELBERG.

BY AELDRIC.

It was early in the June of 184-. I had been sitting in a German

railroad-car since early morning, vainly trying to amuse myself in

discovering a degree of singularity in some one of the many passengers

that were picked up at the different stations between Kehl and

Heidelberg. I had taken a seat in the third class car, expecting there

to find a miscellaneous mingling of the busy classes of Germans; but,

alas, for my entertainment! it was one class too high—I should have

taken the fourth. After I had chosen a seat as near comfortable as the

wooden benches would admit of, I perceived, to my disappointment, that I

was surrounded by that class of people, neither high enough nor low

enough to be interesting; every one seemed completely wrapped up in

himself. There was scarcely any conversation, and each face soon settled

in the repose of quiet German thoughtfulness. Meerschaums ere long made

their appearance out of the depths of profound side-pockets; and, as far

as dependence on my fellow-passengers was concerned, there was none, to

beguile the tedium of a long journey. A long, heart-felt pull, a quiet

wink of satisfaction thereat, a somewhat varied fingering of the

pipe-bowl to press the ashes—that was all. Diagonally across the car

and nearly facing me, sat a very pretty girl whom, from the timid

wandering of her deep-blue eyes, I judged to be unmarried. I watched her

some time to observe where she recognized a protector, but her eye

rested nowhere particularly; it seemed uneasy, searching, and I

concluded she was going but a short distance, and alone. Just as the

train was moving, a handsome young man stepped in the door, looked

around the car, was recognized by a calming of the uneasy eyes, and took

his seat before them, in the middle row, turning his back toward me. As

he bent toward her and whispered, she did not smile, her face seemed too

thoughtful; she only gazed in his eyes and spoke not a word. Ha! thought

I, I see how it is, and settled myself to enjoy a morsel of

sentimentality. My gentleman soon finished his first course, and then

leaned back in his seat to chew the cud at his leisure. I thought he

relished it very much, for it was full twenty minutes before he made

another motion; during all which time the young lady did little but gaze

at him, it appeared to me, with perfect satisfaction. After a time the

gaze of satisfaction changed to a look of concern, and finally of marked

uneasiness. She leaned forward, spoke to him, yet he heeded her not. She

arose suddenly, and I was so absorbed in anxiety that I almost arose

with her. He started as from a lethargy, and darted to the vacated

corner, whilst she quietly took his seat and I saw her face no more. I

still saw the same blue eyes in the corner, “yet I saw them but a

moment,” for the lids soon closed over them, and I knew that the kind

sister had given up her corner for the lazy brother to sleep in.

“Corn-cobs twist his hair,” said I, for I was doubly provoked, first, at

his deception, and then, I saw the pretty face no more. I did not

indulge in romance again, but turned my eyes and my thoughts to the

outer world. The monotony of the company made me stupid; the prolonged,

premeditated winks over the smoking bowls made me drowsy, and the

flitting lights and shadows of the varied scenery seemed to beckon me to

dreamy lands of wine and song and ghosts and chivalry. Beyond the green

slopes to the eastward, the Black Forest stretched afar to an

immeasurable distance; mysterious outlines swelled and dwindled in the

darkness; a huge head peered over the tree-tops; another and another;

the ghouls stared at us, it seemed to me, “more in sorrow than in

anger.” I could not tell why, but their malignity seemed forgotten in

fear and wonder. There was a scream, a terrific scream—of the

locomotive—and pell-mell, helter-skelter, heels up, head down, away

they darted like a squad of frogs before a bouncing poodle. I was fully

awakened to the surprising loveliness of the landscape around me, but I

had little time to enjoy it—another scream, a rumble, a series of

jerks, and we were at the—terminus, in Heidelberg.

I was soon in the good care of mine host of the Hoff, who certainly

possesses one of the most desirable locations and establishments for

entertainment in the world. Close by the railroad depot, it is about a

mile from the town, and a beautiful avenue leading all the way, is lined

with elms and lindens on either side. On the ascent of a steep hill

which rises abruptly from the town, and about mid-way to the summit, is

the celebrated ruined castle of Heidelberg, whose lords once swayed the

feudal sceptre over all the surrounding country. The gay conversation at

the _table d’hôte_ was in strong contrast with the, not moodiness but

apathy, of the railroad car. A large _musical-box_, upon the plan of our

pocket toy of that name, but as large as a good-sized

wardrobe—discoursed sweet music the while. The company which I found

introduction to, was sufficiently entertaining to withhold me from my

contemplated walk toward the ruins that evening, and the beautiful

promenades in front of the hotel were quite gay. Early next morning with

an agreeable English party I set out for the castle. As we neared it

along the straight avenue, we advanced farther and farther from a flank

view. The front came slowly out with its red towers and crumbling

battlements, and the vast structure grew in the majesty of its ruins. As

we approached the foot of the mount, a road crossed the avenue, leading

toward the river to the left, to the right leading up the mountain. We

ascended a considerable time after having lost sight of the castle, and

as yet, so early was the hour, we had seen no one astir. No habitation

of any kind was along this road, which, before us, appeared to descend

from the solitude of the hills. We clambered up, up, up, until at last,

said one:

“We surely are as high as the castle, and I do believe we ought to have

taken this left-hand road just below us.”

“No, no!” said another, “let us go on and trust to fortune; for in so

beautiful and romantic a place we cannot go amiss—maybe that we shall

make some grand discovery, too, and then we will jointly write a book to

put it before the world.”

The conversation was cut short by a noise up the road; we looked, and

there stood a man leaning against a tree by the road-side, waiting for

his oxen and cart which were moving slowly down the road above him. He

called to his cattle in a loud voice, and hummed an air as he leaned

back against the tree again. Just at that moment the piping cry of a

lark rang through the wood, and ere it died away he peeled forth in

boisterous answer—

“Ho! for the deep where the sea-bird sings!

Ho! for the bowers where his merry voice rings!”

Here, as he perceived us, he halted in his strain and walked demurely by

his cart. In a few words it was determined among us that we should

inquire of him the road to the castle; but as each one declined the

honor of gaining the information, upon the plea that perhaps his style

of German might be unintelligible to the unpolite ears of the rustic, I

volunteered the undertaking.

“Good morning, my friend?” I hailed him. “Be so good as to tell us the

way to the castle.”

“Do you wish to see the castle?”

“That is what we have come especially for.”

“O, ’tis a magnificent sight!” (and he gazed fixedly on one of the

ladies, a gay young beauty, as he spoke.) “O ’tis a magnificent sight!

No one can tell better than I how beautiful it is. I have seen it in the

morning when the sun was rising on it, making its red walls look like

gold. I have seen it in the day, in the evening, and (I’ll tell you) I

have seen it by the bright moonlight when—O, I have loved every old

stone of it dearer than I do my life! But if you wish to see it, keep

the right-hand road at the first fork, and follow it as far as you can,

and when you come to the bower—Ah, I’ve seen it in the dark nights,

too, curse it! curses on it!

“Ho! for the bowers where his merry voice rings!

Ho! for the billows where——”

Here I lost the words of the boisterous music as he swung off and

hurried to overtake his cart, leaving us all not a little astonished.

“What an eccentric person!” whispered Miss Thornton to me, the lady who

had attracted his gaze in so marked a manner, and the only lady in the

company who understood German.

“Ah! I see,” said I, “that admiration is never lost upon a lady, no

matter from how humble a source it come. He was put beside himself, poor

fellow! no wonder he appeared eccentric.”

“It was not that,” she said. “Did you not see how he changed when he

spoke of the arbor, as if some remembrance associated with it excited

him? No—I think there is or was some one that I look like. I _would_

like to see any one that looks like me, no matter who she be. It’s so

unusual, is it not?”

“Vain puss!”

“Then how merry he got again,” she continued, unheeding me. “No, I don’t

understand such sudden changes—without any cause, too. He’s remarkably

fine-looking for one in his condition—I beg pardon, sir, I wonder what

bower he can mean; I never heard of any on the way to the castle.”

“Nor I, but we shall surely find one; and when we do, I fear this little

incident will engage my imagination more than the historic associations

of the castle.”

We journeyed on higher and higher, until we came to the fork of the

road. Here nearly all were inclined to bear away to the left, around the

mountain, fully satisfied that we were high enough. I explained that the

young German had been very precise in his directions to keep to the

right, and all yielded to him, rather to banter fortune than from

persuasion that we were going the right road. On we toiled, and the road

at last came to an abrupt termination upon the very summit. A high-road

bore off to the right, that we could trace a mile or two over the hills,

and only a tangled path led toward the west. Leaving the company to

await the result, I proceeded to explore the path, and soon came in view

of the town lying in the plain below. I stood enchanted with the scene.

A gently sloping country receded several miles to the Rhine; meandering

all the way through fields and forests, the legend-consecrated Neckar

glistened in the morning sun, and beyond, the vine-clad hills of France,

the country of the Moselle, crowned the horizon. Far away to the south

could be traced the winding Rhine almost to its native mountains, and to

the north it was lost among the hills of the Odenwald, as it widened and

straightened onward toward the plains of Holland. I hailed the party as

it came up, all were amazed at the magnificent landscape, and each

avowed he was well repaid for the toilsome journey. A few steps farther

brought us to a rugged stair of broken stones, and some ten or twelve

feet below, on a small natural terrace, was an over-grown _bower_.

“O, the bower! the bower!” exclaimed every one. There it was; and as we

reached it, a full view of the dismantled towers and crumbled walls of

the castle opened below us, almost beneath our feet. The German was

right. He thought we wished to _see_ the castle, not to go to it, and we

had gained the finest view of the finest ruin in the North of Europe. It

is not my intention that my pen shall wander among those most

interesting testimonies of grandeur passed away. Suffice it to say, we

returned home well sated with pleasure, to recruit our humanity by a

very late breakfast at twelve o’clock. We had walked fasting from six.

From that day the bower became one of my favorite haunts during the few

weeks of my stay in Heidelberg. One day, with a view to further

exploration of the heights to the eastward of the bower, a region I had

often tried to get a view of from the Castle Mount, I set out on

horseback, and after reaching the summit, took the road that we had seen

over the hills on our first visit to the castle. For two or three miles

it was nothing but steep hills and narrow valleys. Not a sound was heard

save the twittering of birds and the tumbling of waters; not a particle

of verdure was to be seen but the dark, distant forests, and near, the

quivering foliage of the vine as it climbed up, up to the very pinnacles

of the terraced heights. Beyond, the country spread out into fields and

meadows and grass and waving grain. Farm-houses and villages were

clustered about. Vineyards lingered upon the knolls, and scarce ventured

a distance down the sunny slopes. After a long day’s ride I was

approaching the bower by another road: the sun was about setting; I was

tired and thirsty; when I was tempted to dismount by a little streamlet

that fell into and ran down the road-side. An orchard extended from a

small cottage to the road, and the gate was only upon the other side of

the way. I led my horse over, and after hitching him to the gate-post,

was about reaching a harvest-apple that hung near me, when my attention

was drawn by a small group in front of the cottage door. An old

gray-haired man was sitting upon a bench watching a young child that was

rolling on the grass, when my appearance put an end to his occupation.

He looked at me with no expression of pleasure, evidently not relishing

so unceremonious an attempt upon his orchard. I resigned my thieving

intention, and covered the manœuvre by an advance straight up to the

door. A young woman arose and picked up the child, and then resumed her

seat upon the grass-plat.

“Good evening, my friend,” said I, for his silence was awkward—“I am

very tired and warm with a long ride, and was tempted by that cool

spring and your shady trees to dismount and take a moment’s rest. I am

glad to take my rest in such good company.”

“You are welcome,” said he. “I perceive you are a stranger; an

Englishman I suppose?”

“No, I am not an Englishman; I am come from a land much farther off than

England, and have seen a great many Germans in my country. I am an

American.”

“What’s that he says, Mary?” cried a voice from within the house. “Tell

him Roderick is not at home; tell him he wont be at home till

to-morrow.”

“Hush! do, mother! The gentleman has not come for Roderick.”

“O, yes he has. He knows Roderick has got money and wants to spend it.

You know—”

“Do hush, mother! It’s a stranger, and what’s more, it’s an American.”

“What does he say about Karl? Ask him when Karl is coming back.”

The tears started to the young woman’s eyes; and as I saw her press her

babe to her bosom, I knew who Karl was. She seemed to struggle with the

question that rose to her lips:

“You said, sir, that you have seen many Germans in America: did you ever

see anybody there from Heidelberg? Did you ever see Karl Wagner there?”

I told her, I never saw Karl Wagner there, and asked her if Karl might

be her husband; which fact I knew, however, before I asked. She

answered, that he was; that he was living at a place called Buffalo, and

had lately sent her money to take her to another place called New York,

where she would meet him. Her father was anxious that she should go, but

her mother, who was now doating, would resent the very mention of it,

and was always expecting Karl to _come home_. Her brother Roderick, she

said, had been unfortunate, and was bent on going with her; but of this,

her mother knew nothing. They were afraid to tell her, her reason was so

weak that they feared she would sink into utter imbecility.

The sun was set, and night was drawing on. I arose to resume my journey,

for I was anxious to reach the foot of the mount before dark; but the

old man offered me a plate of the harvest-apples that had tempted me,

and pressed me to take some supper with them. If I would only be so

kind—they wished to ask me so many questions about America. I am not

sure that I should have accepted their invitation had not my eye, as I

arose, fallen upon a picture hanging against the opposite wall of the

little room. A second glance showed the marked and benevolent features

of the old man, looking out from the canvas.

“Ha—ha!” said he, “that is a fine picture. Step in the door, and you

will see more of them.”

I did so, and to my surprise, beheld four others hanging wherever space

enough could be found to contain them. One was the portrait of the old

woman whom I now saw for the first time; another of Mary, and the

remaining two were, a young man apparently thirty years of age, and a

boy of sixteen. The old man followed me with his eyes.

“Ha—ha!” said he. “I see you admire them. Poor Roderick! There are few

who can beat him in his art—but you would not think so to see him now.

These are the last he ever made. He paid his last tribute to those he

loved best.”

The old man spoke in a very sorrowful tone. I began to feel a deep

interest in Roderick, whatever his misfortunes might be.

“Is not Roderick your son?” I asked, supposing that I must have made a

mistake.

“Yes—that one I suppose you don’t know; that’s Karl Wagner, that’s

Mary’s husband—a good son he is. And that’s Tommy, that’s our

Tommy—sturdy Tommy, as they call him. That’s the last one Roderick ever

made.” And the old man brushed his eyes with his shriveled hands as he

spoke.

“Where does Roderick live?” I asked. “Is he married?”

“Hush—here!”

“Why is it, that a young man of such talent gives up a glorious art,

when it opens a field to him to enable him to rise above his condition,

to gain wealth, honor, fame?”

“Hush!”

“Go, ask Count Reisach!” cried the old woman, starting up. She was in a

frenzy. Her eyes glared, her bent form trembled from head to foot, her

hands were clenched, but hung dangling at her side, and she seemed to

make superhuman efforts to raise them. They were paralyzed. Tears

coursed each other down her cheeks as she cried—“Go ask Count Reisach!

Go find him! Go ask poor Father Klaus! Go down and ask Almighty God why

he let—oh!” she cried, sinking on her knees—her voice choked; sobs,

spasms convulsed her frame; still her face was raised, it seemed to me

in prayer, but her hands clasped not, they seemed to weigh her to the

earth, as they hung lifeless beside her.

“Mein Got! O, mein Got!” cried the old man, as he took her in his arms.

“O, my poor frau—would to God thy poor spark of reason would go out,

that I might see this heavy burden off thy soul!”

He raised her tenderly as a child, repelling my assistance, and when he

had placed her in her arm-chair, left her to Mary’s care, and came to

resume his seat upon the bench, outside the door.

“She never grieved so for herself, and she has had her own troubles too.

But she knows not all yet—O, mein Got! mein Got! who will tell her—for

he must, he must, he must!”

He closed his eyes—as it were—to shut out so near a view of misery. A

loud voice was heard approaching in the road, and as it became more

distinct, I started as I recognized the words—

“Ho for the deep where the sea-bird sings!

Ho for the bowers where his merry voice rings,

Ho for the billows, the billows, the billows!”

Here the gate flew open, and my acquaintance of castle memory stalked up

the path, followed by a sturdy lad.

“Father, it’s all arranged,” he bawled. “It’s all arranged. I’ve made up

my mind. There are three in Heidelberg—”

“Ho for the billows where the storm-king dwells!”

“Stop, Roderick. You know your mother. See, too, here is a stranger.” He

paused, saluted me as though he had never seen me before, and turned to

the youth who followed him.

“Where are the cattle, Tommy? That’s right—you must be smart, you know;

remember what’s on your shoulders!”

Tommy said he knew, and was going to be smart. Mary appeared at the door

and invited us to supper. The mother was gone, and the old man seemed

relieved when he missed her, for he looked around the room, and the

cloud left his brow, ere he asked a blessing on his humble table. After

supper he lighted his pipe; Tommy took his hat and disappeared, and

Roderick touched my arm as he moved toward the door. His boisterous

humor was gone, and he calmly and mannerly asked me to be seated.

“She is worse to-night,” he said. “They have sent Tommy for _him_.”

After a moment, he continued; “I recognized you at first, and for my

rudeness I must plead the state of mind I was in. The truth is, I have

this day arranged my departure for America, to take my sister to her

husband; and the relief from the burden of suspense I had long been in

made me quite forgetful of myself.”

“I do not know,” said I, “that you are doing best in taking this course.

You are an artist, and I must bear witness to the promise of success you

make in your art; but, as I begin to feel a deep interest in yourself,

your family, and—I think I may say with truth—in your sorrows, for

some strange misfortune seems to brood over this house, I feel at

liberty to remonstrate with you for abandoning what seems to me your

duty to yourself, and your father’s family. I could not give you hope of

better success where you purpose going than you would probably meet with

here. The best of our own artists reside in Europe, for we have no

models at home. Have you always lived here with your parents?”

“Until within the last few weeks I spent most of my time in the town; my

occupation kept me very much from home. Of late, I have done nothing but

assist my father here.”

“It seems to me that you might assist him more with your brush than with

your ox-goad.”

“If I could use it perhaps I might; but I can paint no more here. I am

going, and Tommy and I have trimmed his vines and sown his crops, and

when Tommy shall be able to take care of the vines himself, I shall be

gone.”

“That is where I cannot excuse you. You are not suffering from poverty;

you are not driven to emigrate; and it is in leaving your infirm parents

when they are bowed down by affliction that I think you do not do your

duty by them. They both seem proud of you, and still—you appear to love

them as you ought.”

“The affliction is mine! You were at the bower?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I could go there with you, and tell you a tale of sorrow that you

would never forget. You cannot judge. I know that my father and my poor,

fond mother grieve—it is for me; but what is their grief to mine? It is

but the reflection of mine; it is like the cold, borrowed light of the

moon—mine, the scorching sun. I am plunged from heaven into hell! This

spot is to me, now, of all the world, like the deepest abyss of infernal

misery; and, but for Father Klaus, our good old priest, this shadow of

hell had, ere this, been bartered for the reality. He has kept alive a

spark of reason in me, that I hope may yet guide me through the world.

Here he is—I see they have sent Tommy for him. She always forgets her

own sorrow, when she sees him.”

“Well Roderick, my son,” said the old priest, as he paused at the door,

“I fear you have been imprudent again. These outbursts of yours will

bring the poor old mother to the grave. You have heard something since,

and it has set you beside yourself, poor boy.”

“No, Father, I have heard nothing since I told you Count Reisach was in

Cologne; that is three weeks ago, and from that time I have sought no

news but for your sake. The only news I have to tell you is, that my

departure for America is determined upon; I have made up my mind to go.”

“That’s right; that’s right!”

“You will tell her?”

“Leave it to me. God will surely temper the wind; but not to-night, not

to-night!” And he sighed as he entered the house and left us alone

again.

The moon was just rising, and as I pressed the poor fellow’s hand (_poor

fellow_, I knew he was a _poor fellow_. I pitied him sincerely, but I

knew not why), he returned the pressure warmly, and asked permission to

visit me the following day. I appointed an hour, and galloped over the

hilly road toward home. As I approached the end of the path that led off

to the bower, I could not help turning my eyes thither, my mind was full

of Roderick, and I could not disconnect the idea of him from the idea of

the bower. Had I known his story then as I do now, I could have sighed

with the sighing trees, that shook and sighed all night on the gloomy

Castle Mount.

I knew that I had a treat in store for Miss Thornton. I knew what fresh

interest I would awaken, when I should tell her that the rough peasant

was an accomplished artist. That evening and the next morning, it was a

subject she always recurred to when we were alone, she would talk of

nothing else, and frequently sought opportunities of conversing apart.

The next day, Roderick appeared at the appointed hour, but his garb was

changed. He wore no longer the coarse clothes of a peasant, and I could

not but observe that his altered exterior harmonized much better with

his bearing, and his intellectual features. Several of the party who had

made with me the morning excursion to the Castle Mount were still at

Heidelberg, and as we frequently met on our rounds upon the promenade,

_she_ was the only one, of all, who recognized my companion. His object

seemed to be to learn, as far as my judgment extended, the probable

prospects that awaited him in the United States, in the prosecution of

his art. He dwelt upon the subject calmly, and was perfectly

self-possessed until we approached Miss T., when he stopped, and

regarded her with the same fixed gaze that I had remarked upon our first

interview. From that moment he was a changed person. A strange

uneasiness seemed to take possession of him. His face was pale, and at

last he turned abruptly down the avenue. I followed him, and cast one

look back at her, ere I started. She and her companion had paused; he

was speaking to unheeding ears, for her gaze was fixed on us, her face

was pale, and wore the expression of sudden alarm. He led me hastily

along the avenue; I followed, I scarce knew why: but he could have led

me anywhere. After a while—

“I cannot tell you,” said he, “until we reach the bower.”

And we began to ascend the mountain. At last, we pushed aside the briars

that blockaded the little, descending path that led to the bower. The

magnificent ruins appeared spread out below us, and I half forgot the

sorrows of my eccentric friend in lively feelings of pleasure. After a

pause, which I was unwilling to interrupt (for I saw in his countenance,

in his whole bearing, evidence of a severe interior struggle), he said—

“When I am able to reflect, I know that I am imposing on your generosity

in some way, but I scarce know how. It is only your goodness which has

prompted you to undergo all this fatigue and trouble; and now I feel

bound, I wish to open my heart to you, but it seems as though all I can

tell you cannot compensate you. At any rate, it will be a relief to me,

and hereafter it may help the vividness of your recollections of

Heidelberg. I thought I should never tell this story, or speak this name

again; but that lady recalled, in so many ways, so lively an image of my

lost Ella, that I _must_ unburden my heart of its excess. She was the

niece of Father Klaus. Her parents died when she was very young, and the

good old man took her into his own charge. No parent could have loved

her more, or watched over her with more tender solicitude than he did.

As she grew up, he taught her many things which, but for him, would have

been entirely beyond her reach; but she repaid him, for an apter scholar

never learned, and never had man a child who loved him more. She grew to

be very beautiful, and was talked of for her beauty all the country

round; but I had won her heart when it was a child’s, and as we grew up

my only fear in life was for that, and all my efforts were only for

_that_. Father Klaus knew how matters stood nearly as soon as we, and

was contented. When we grew up, he ratified and blessed our betrothal,

and turned his attention to my own prospects. Through his influence with

the old Count Reisach, I was enabled to enter the academy of Heidelberg,

and, thanks to the count’s generosity and patronage, I had laid up

nearly enough to gain Father Klaus’s consent to our marriage. The day

was fixed; but nearly a year distant, and the good old man was to

perform the ceremony himself. Often, and often, as I returned home from

town have I turned down this path, and here was Ella waiting for me, to

sit a while, and then stroll home together. Here we built this very

bower, when we were children, with our own hands. She chose the place.

Here we would sit and watch the setting sun; and I, as a proud young

artist, would descant to her upon the harmony of the glowing colors,

scarce brighter than her own bright eyes and glowing cheeks. Here would

we come and spend hours together—she would bring her needle, and I

would sketch the castle, the mountain, the town, the plain, the forest,

and every object that could afford a pretext for remaining. Sometimes,

when she was very busy, I would gaze, and gaze into her sweet face and

forget every thing but that. Then she would look up and smile, and come

and bend her head over my shoulder to see the progress of my sketching,

and find the whole sheet covered over with images of herself, and Ella,

Ella, Ella, scribbled in every form, and ornamented with every possible

device. Then she would steal her little hand over my eyes, and say I was

a ‘lazy, lazy boy.’ Perhaps, sir, you cannot know why I speak of these

little things, and you may deem them trifling; but, sir, it is a true

saying that life is made up of trifles. It was so that she wound about

me a web that could not be unwound; all these endearing trifles cannot

be reversed, one by one, and the web uncoiled. There is but one method

of release, and that is, by a mighty effort to burst the whole

fabric—even then, the shreds will hang about, and float in every breath

of memory. Here, time after time, we repeated our vows of love and

fidelity, and eagerly looked forward to the day that would crown our

happiness.

“In the meantime Count Reisach died, and his son, a youth of some twenty

years, succeeded to the estates. He was known ere that time, through all

the land, for his boldness, courtliness and generosity, courted and

sought by all the nobility and gentry—for he was handsome and rich.

Moreover, he was a connoisseur in almost all the fine arts. I was often

employed by him in copying his paintings for presents to his friends.

Once he induced me to part with a portrait of Ella, which I was very

proud of, and which he had seen at Father Klaus’s. I often saw him

there. One evening last April, as I was returning from town, I turned

down the path, for I knew I should meet Ella here. I was startled by a

shriek. I cried, Ella! Ella! In a moment I was here upon the spot, and

she rushed into my arms, weeping and frightened. To all my questions as

to what had alarmed her, she only sobbed. I seated her, and examined all

about the bower; I thought of serpents, and searched under rocks, peered

over the bushy precipice, but could discover nothing. We could not sit

and enjoy that evening—she was agitated, and I led her home. She did

not go often to the bower after that. One evening, it might be a

fortnight after, upon appointment, I came here again to meet her, and I

found her weeping. As before, I took her home. Another time, she was not

weeping, but seemed silent, thoughtful, depressed. We went home again. I

was puzzled, pained; I knew not what to think or do, and she revealed

nothing to all my entreaties. She would not go to the bower any more. At

times she wore a deadly paleness for days, and again she would glow with

a flush, as though a fresh impulse were given to her life. She was

evidently declining. All the neighbors watched and pitied “poor Ella;”

they pitied Father Klaus, but none knew the extent of the agony I nursed

in secret. When I would beg her to walk with me to the bower that her

and my childish hands had built, and where we always were so happy, she

would turn pale and tremble—I dared not speak to her of the bower any

more. Frequently I would detect her eye resting upon me as if in pain,

as though _she_ pitied _me_; a starting tear would glisten in her eye

for a moment, and she would turn away; immediately she would be as

composed as before. I was pained, shocked; and a presentiment of some

awful calamity seized me. One evening I was detained in town later than

usual. I had been for several days employed in restoring a painting for

Count Reisach, and the next day would see it finished. ‘It is not

finished yet,’ he whispered. The count had hurried me to work early and

late. It was a relief to be so busily employed. As I wended my way up

the mountain, I thought of Ella all the way—I must go to her that

evening, tired as I was. When I came to the end of the path, I could not

resist a moment’s visit to the bower; for since pleasure there seemed to

be henceforth forbidden fruit to me, I longed for a moment even of its

pain. It was growing dark, and as I brushed past yonder bush, I thought

I saw something move, just where you sit. I stopped, and distinctly saw

the cloaked figure of a man disappear down that precipice. I rushed

forward, for thoughts of some dark crime crowded upon me, and I nearly

fell upon the prostrate form of a woman at my feet. I knelt, and raised

the head upon my knees; it was bare, and the dark locks uncoiled upon

the ground.”

Here he paused. I never before or since beheld such a mute picture of

agony. He lowered his head upon his hands, and the big drops fell fast

upon the ground. He tried not to restrain them. At length he raised his

eyes inquiringly, and I feared not to say,

“_It was Ella._”

He nodded. After a few minutes, which I indulged him in without a

question or remark, he continued—

“I bounded, as if stung by a serpent, and I hurried to Father Klaus. I

told him, I know not what. Then I hurried home; and for days, they told

me, I raved. When I recovered I learned that they were gone.”

“Who?”

“Count Reisach. No traces of them could be found until within three

weeks, when we learned that they had been in Cologne.”

“Were they—” I could not finish; he gave me an inquiring look, and I

thought his severe part was going to be acted again. I had not the heart

to _think_ of it more.

“From that time my poor mother has been a paralytic, and now we fear her

reason is almost gone. Father Klaus is an older man, but his feelings

are all for others; he is constantly with _her_. Now, do you wonder that

I hate this spot, and all that I can see from here? Here have I known my

happiest and bitterest moments. From this day I see you no more!”

exclaimed he, starting to his feet, and gazing on the work of his hands:

“Here I bid _an eternal_, an eternal farewell to you and—” He took his

pencil and wrote (he would not speak it)—I looked—“Ella Corbyn.”

“Her father was an Englishman,” he said.

I pressed his hand—“Adieu!”

“Adieu!”

“To meet again?”

“To meet again,” said I; and we parted. As he disappeared over the brow

of the hill, I could hear the poor fellow trying to lighten his crushed

heart with his boisterous sea-song. The next morning Mr. Thornton and

his daughter left for England.

A few weeks after that I was in Paris. Months rolled by; September was

come, and Roderick’s story had nearly slipped from my mind. One fine

evening I was sauntering along the Champs Elysées, where one is sure to

see at that time, all the notables that may be luxuriating in the French

capital; when I recognized in a gay equipage the beautiful features of

Miss Thornton. She was paler than when I had seen her last, but still

very beautiful. I watched her some moments, to catch her eye; and when

she did look toward me, I took the liberty of saluting her. She flushed,

and turned her head aside, but did not acknowledge the salutation.

“So much for my impudence,” said I; and I saluted no one else that

evening.

A day or two after, I was dining with some friends at Vantini’s.

Opposite us at the table d’hôte, were two vacant chairs.

“We are unfortunate to-day,” said my friend, “for I was anxious you

should see a very pretty English girl who sits opposite. Clara,” said

he, turning to his wife, “what is the name of our little beauty across

the table? I never can think of it, for I can’t help calling her Miss

Mary.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. F., “I wish you to know them—so agreeable; and going on

a tour through the United States. They are a Mr. and Miss

Thornton—father and daughter; and as you are going soon, I do wish you

could go together.”

“So, so!” thought I; “here is a little bit of adventure if they only

come in.” And I consoled myself with the thought that I could not come

out of it worst. Soon a couple of servants ushered a lady and gentleman

along the hall, and Mr. and Miss Thornton appeared before me, she

glowing with health and beauty. They both greeted me warmly, which

somewhat astonished my friends as well as myself. I was taken aback, but

I had been not a little nettled, and was determined not to be outdone,

so said as little as I could.

“Why!” said Mrs. F., “you are old friends, then! All my anxiety was

thrown away!”

“I supposed we were,” said I, “until last Tuesday evening.”

“Last Tuesday evening!” exclaimed Miss T. “Why, what happened? You

puzzle me.”

“Merely that I took the liberty of recognizing _an old friend_, and was

_cut_—that’s all.”

“You puzzle me still more. Where were you at the time?”

“Below the place d’étoile.”

“Are you sure it was on Tuesday?”

“Perfectly sure.”

She burst into a laugh, and her father smiled.

“It must have been the longest cut I ever gave in my life. I only wish I

_could_ cut that far off—I know some who should suffer”—and she

laughed again. “It’s the first time I ever heard of a sane gentleman,

standing in the Champs Elysées, to take off his hat to a lady in

Brussels.”

The laugh was decidedly against me, and we were soon on the best of

terms.

That night a new train of thoughts engaged me. Poor Roderick’s story

returned, and the memory of his grief with all its thrilling intensity.

_Had I seen Ella?_ It must be. That pale, thoughtful, _hiding_

countenance could be only hers. Poor Roderick! I feel for you deeply! I

wonder if your sorrow feels any alleviation in your new country! I fear

not.

The next day I made sufficient inquiry to certify me that I had seen

Count Reisach, and with him, Ella. I saw them once again, it was for a

moment, and she seemed paler still; as I gazed, again she turned her

face away. Poor Ella! how she shrank from the eyes of men! There was a

deep remorse preying upon that wasting beauty; a secret sorrow and shame

blighting every bud of pleasure and of hope. How bitter will thy end

soon be, poor trusting, fragile daughter of Eve!

I saw them no more. I walked every day with Miss Thornton to show her

the lady that she so closely resembled; but we did not see them. They

were probably seeking new scenes to beguile her short life of its

fleeting days.

A few weeks after, we were in Havre, awaiting the sailing of the first

packet ship for New York. We had determined to “go together,” as Mrs. F.

had desired, and our rooms were taken in the Zurich, one of the fleetest

of the line. At that time, a line of French government steamships was

plying between Havre and New York; and one, which was advertised to sail

on the day we arrived, was to be detained some ten days, to undergo a

repairing of machinery. Havre is the great port of emigration for the

French, German, and Swiss emigrants; and the French steamships, offering

low fares and speedy passage, generally sailed with their between-decks

well filled with emigrant passengers. On this occasion, some two hundred

poor creatures had engaged passage upon the detained vessel, and few had

the means to await in Havre her postponed day of departure; consequently

there was a rush upon the office of the sailing packets. We went aboard

about 3 o’clock, P. M. The lower deck was crowded with

steerage-passengers; and a single glance sufficed to show that they were

three-fourths Germans. I could not help wondering how many of the two

hundred poor emigrants below me, I might have seen before, as I

journeyed through their country a few months ago. Many a one, I thought,

I might have seen before his cottage door, or through the window of his

work-shop, ere poverty had _at last_ decreed, that he _must_ go to the

land beyond the seas, far from his fatherland.

The ship was moving from the dock. The crowds upon the piers cheered us

on. The stars and stripes sprung into the breeze. O, how my heart

bounded to feel again the protection of my country’s flag! The first

time, for years, did the feeling of _home_ thrill through my bosom: and

tears of patriotic love and pride rushed to my eyes. _I_ was going

_home_;—there _they_ stood in melancholy groups, gazing their last on

land contiguous to their own, upon the receding shores of the old world.

The tri-colors in the distance soon faded into one indefinable hue. The

green hills of Normandy came forth once again; but “twilight gray soon

in her sable livery all things clad;” and we were away, away upon the

sea. After tea, we all came upon deck. The last loom of the land was

fading away; and my thoughts and feelings, memory and fancy, were busy

with home before, and the friends and associations I was leaving

behind—perhaps forever. I was overflowing with expectation and regret.

Miss T. stood beside me, kindly hearkening to my outpouring feelings.

The emigrants were all below, save a few scattered ones, and a larger

group gathered about the fore-mast. They were leaving country, home,

kindred, all, to seek a refuge in a foreign land: I was leaving friends

that I had made in many lands; countries and scenes made dear to me by

long and intimate association; returning to a home wherein death had

made sad changes during my long sojourn: she was going on a trip of

pleasure, and present enjoyment was her occupation. Suddenly I heard an

exclamation—“Oh!” and I thought she was taken ill. I looked, and she

was pointing to the group around the mast; I saw and recognized a face I

could never forget. We continued to gaze in astonishment. The few women

who were there were all in tears; one, whose head was bowed upon her

knees, sobbed violently. The men were drinking farewell to Fatherland,

and many an absent friend and fair, was pledged by name. Then there was

a cry for “a song!” “a song!”—“Let’s have a song from Roderick!”

Immediately there pealed out those boisterous but musical tones that I

had heard before, far away from there. My heart thrilled as I listened.

Every voice hushed. Even the sailor, as he trod the deck, paused to

listen to that fine, deep voice, as it rang through the ship.

THE EMIGRANT’S SONG.

Ho for the deep where the sea-bird sings!

Ho for the bowers where his merry voice rings!

Ho for the billows where the storm-king dwells!

Ho for the winding of the merry-maids’ shells!

Ho for the storm where the lightning’s flash!

Ho for the fury of the merry waves’ dash!

The spray and the roar and the thunder’s crash!

Ho for the breeze that shall cling to the mast!

Ho for the day when the storms shall be past!

Then hail to the home that the outcast sighs for!

Hail to the liberty the patriot dies for!

Hail to the great who will ne’er cast scorn to us!

Hail to the land where the free shall be born to us!

But alas for the friends that we leave far away!

And alas for the tears when there breaks another day!

Alas for the wo that shall bow the hoary heads!

And alas for the home where another step treads!

Alas for the murmuring hill-side rills!

And alas for the shadow on the ever-green hills!

Alas for the weeping of the purple-crowned vine!

And alas for the glory of the golden-rimmed wine!

Farewell to the land where our forefather’s sleep!

And we’ll hie to our rest on the wide-spread deep.

Farewell to the vine, to the home, and the tears!

And we’ll dream of the land where the good ship steers!

As the last sound died away upon the water, the singer caught sight of

me, and the fair girl beside me, and disappeared from the deck. The

listeners, as they dispersed to their several meditations, took up the

words of the song; each one whatever best suited his feelings at the

time. It was strange to read the various echoes as they rebounded

spontaneously from the hearts of the emigrants. When the air of the song

was forgotten the words were not, and each sang or mumbled them to music

of his own—sometimes wild and pretty, sometimes discordant enough. One

would long for

“The deep where the sea-bird sings,”

and I knew he had not many regrets for what he left behind. Another, a

drunken wretch, yelled

“For the fury of the merry waves’ dash,

The spray and the roar and the thunder’s crash.”

An old man, as he stole away, uttered a plaintive moan

“For the home that the outcast sighs for;”

and I thought I could read in his furrowed face traces of a life of

penury and suffering. He was going with a lightened heart, transplanted

in his decaying age. But by far the greater part dwelt upon the memory

of their forsaken homes and kindred; their thoughts were gazing afar

upon “the shadow on the ever-green hills.” Ere long they had nearly all

disappeared, gone to their crowded chamber to be rocked asleep. Only a

few women remained beneath the suspended lantern, seated by the mast.

The one I had noticed weeping, had not raised her head during all this

time. When she did raise it, she looked up to heaven and her face shone

with religious fervor. The tears still flowed as she breathed her

heart-felt prayer. I could see every movement of her lips, and I alone

perhaps, of all who saw, could tell the source of every tear that

flowed. I felt awed, unconscious of myself. My whole being seemed merged

in the intensity of hers. A supplication sprang unbidden to my lips for

the paralytic mother, for the gray-haired father, in their utter, utter

loneliness; for it was Mary with her baby on her bosom. She spoke

calmly, slowly, solemnly.

“THE WOMAN’S PRAYER.

Let us bow, lowly now, ere we seek forgetfulness

In the blest balm of rest, of trial-worn spirit’s fretfulness,

Let us call, first of all, pity on our parents’ age,

For they’re chastened, for they’re hastened on their ending

pilgrimage.

O be mild to them, child to them, gentle son of Bethlehem!

Never suffer that their rougher path bring sooner death to them!

O remember that December passes cheerlessly away—

Let their sorrow, on the morrow, mind thee of its Christmas day!

And leave us not, grieve us not, Father of the wandering!

Care for us, spare for us, now while time is squandering!

We are going, far, unknowing, strangers into stranger land—

But with thee only we’re not lonely, resting in thy hollow hand!”

This was the woman’s prayer—and I devoutly responded “Amen,” as I wiped

my eyes and went below. I thought of the poor old man, the helpless

mother, Tommy, the bower, all, and I became unconsciously an actor in

the scene before me, as I prayed—

“O remember that December passes cheerlessly away!

Let their sorrow, on the morrow, mind thee of its Christmas day!”

The next day Roderick did not appear upon the deck; in truth there were

very few who did. After indulging him a few days, which I charged to

account of sea-sickness, and still not seeing him, I found my way into

the steerage, and found the poor fellow more sick in mind than in body.

He had spent the greater part of his money in trying to drown his grief;

and now that he thought he had nearly succeeded, he looked none the

better for the success. That face, he said, so like _hers_, he could not

escape from now; he must remain near it for days, weeks. He could almost

curse the ill-favored steamship, whose delay had not only doomed him to

the crowded steerage of the packet, but to weeks of torture he could not

escape from. He would not appear at all upon deck, and the air of the

between-decks was almost poisonous. In a few days he was confined to his

berth with a burning fever. I had confided to Miss Thornton every thing,

except the history of Ella, which I disguised in such a way as not to

diminish her sympathies for the invalid. One day, to my great

astonishment, she had, with her father, gone to minister to him, and

spoke with gladness of the better condition she had left him in. He

talked to her very tenderly of Ella. They went, she and her kind father,

to visit him every day. I saw how the fire was consuming him, and

endeavored to interpose. I told Mr. Thornton every thing, all; but they

did not see his condition as I did. Whenever I would go, strange! he

would always beg me not to let them delay coming; but he was so

exhausted with fever, that I attributed this wonderful change, rather to

imbecility or delirium, than to a change of resolution. Poor Mary was

always by her brother’s side: even her poor babe lay neglected for him.

More than a fortnight he lay in this miserable condition; yet I was more

than sorry when I felt in his pulse the returning slow beat of health,

and saw his eye calm into quiet enjoyment of the congratulations which

poured in upon him. I was shocked. It is true a mountain of misery was

moved away, but his _reason was gone_. Miss Thornton went once again to

visit him, only once: and I shall never forget her look of agony and

self-reproach as she returned rather hastily to her room. I never knew

what passed at that interview. Perhaps she saw for the first time, that

while she deemed she was soothing his misery by her presence, she had

fed it to madness. He rapidly recovered and seemed happy, for he always

smiled when he asked me why the captain kept Ella locked up in the cabin

and sent her tender messages—_which I dared not give_. The last I ever

saw of him was in New York, when I was about to leave the ship. A young

man came aboard as we hauled up to the wharf, and I knew from the

portrait I had seen _in the cottage in Germany_, that it was Karl

Wagner. He soon found them; and the last I saw of poor Roderick, as I

went ashore, he was unfolding to the astonished Karl a scheme he had to

get Ella away from the captain, whilst poor Mary hung upon her husband’s

arm, her heart bursting with joy and grief.

ELLA CORBYN.

Be it remembered that Roderick, in speaking to me on the Mount of

Heidelberg Castle, said—“Her father was an Englishman.” It was true. He

was the younger son of a noble English house, though Ella lived until

her twentieth year unconscious of the fact. She knew he was an

Englishman, she knew he had been a soldier, but of his family she knew

nothing. Better far had it been for her had she remained forever in

ignorance of every circumstance of her ancestral distinction, or had she

had some other instructor than he who craftily sowed the seeds of pride

and discontent, that he might reap a glowing harvest of the charms of a

lovely woman, to her soul’s utter desolation. By night and by stealth,

like the Evil One, did he sow tares among the richest grain, among a

perfect luxuriance of womanly virtues; by day, too, like the husbandman

when the time of the harvest comes, did he pluck up weed and fruit, did

he trample on pride and virtue, and cast them forth together to wither

under the scorching solstice of remorse and shame. He tore away the

flower and left the stem to die. Poor, poor Ella! the only jewel of both

soul’s and body’s inheritance was charmed away—what wonder then that

both should droop in poverty, or that, making common friendship from

common desolation, these mutual foes, the only ones religion ever made,

should compromise to each other the loss of both health and principle,

in fatal reconciliation and despair!

The father of Ella Corbyn, an officer in the British army, was disabled

in action during the Peninsular war, and after the peace of 1815,

retired to the continent, where he married the beautiful Katrina Klaus,

supported himself and Katrina many years on his half-pay, until about

the period of Ella’s birth, when he and the half-pay departed together.

His daughter, of course, had no recollection of him, and never possessed

more than the one single article of his property, a miniature on ivory,

of a lady, young, but by no means beautiful. She never knew who it was;

her mother could not tell her when she first gave it into little Ella’s

tiny hands, but supposed it was some one of Mr. Corbyn’s family,

probably a sister—and so the matter rested for the while. The neighbors

could tell her scarcely any thing of her father; they had seen him when

he first came into the neighborhood, but his marriage with his beautiful

wife, and subsequent removal to a neighboring village, followed so

quickly, that they could give no account of him, nor further description

than that of his personal appearance. Of the circumstances attending his

death all they knew was, that two strangers stopped one afternoon at the

public-house, that Mr. Corbyn spent part of the evening with them and

went home early; the next morning he was shot in a duel, but the old

captain who stood his friend in the affair, thought it no business of

his to inquire what the difficulty was about. He left no property of any

value, and his widow supported herself and Ella on her little patrimony

four years longer, when she, too, died and left the child a helpless

orphan. This was the time for her uncle, the priest, to come to her

assistance. He took her into his care and provided for her early

education by consigning her to the Sisters of Charity in Cologne. Here

she remained five years; and when her good uncle, deeming that he could,

with better justice to his finances, superintend her further progress at

home, took her back, she displayed so much ability and judgment that she

soon reigned, a little queen, over his modest household.

Ella was in truth a lovely child. In her earlier days, when she played

alone by the road-side, before the priest’s lawn, not a stranger passed

but stopped to take a second look at that bright, spiritual little face,

gazing half-smilingly, half-pensively, half-hidden beneath dark ribbons

of straying locks. Her complexion was exceedingly fair, not blonde; her

features, not classical, were _petits_ and regular; her face

sufficiently full, but playful every where—a pretty child: but from

almost infancy the striking characteristic of her face was _soul_; never

did it appear inanimate, never did it lack character—even in her sleep

the marked corners of the softly-closed lips and little, dimpled brow,

betokened self-possession; but when she smiled, a perfect sunshine of

thought and feeling overspread her countenance, and she was irresistibly

beautiful. As might be expected, the five years’ tuition she had enjoyed

had developed the intellectuality of her beauty apace with the

cultivation of her mind, and wherever and whenever a childish passion

lay suppressed by growing religious principle, its disappearance gave

place upon her countenance to the sublime, triumphant sentiment that

crushed it. Mr. Klaus, or as he was termed by his parishioners, Father

Klaus, was passably skilled in music; and under his systematic

instruction Ella soon became the most accomplished vocalist in his

country-choir. The old Count Reisach had, in church, frequently heard

and appreciated the superior qualities of her voice, and after a few

Sundays, called at the parsonage to pay his compliments in person to the

young singer whom fame had already made so conspicuous. Little Ella,

when summoned into the presence of the count, made her courtesy modestly

but not diffidently, and he, charmed with the graces of her person and

behavior, took pains immediately to win upon her confidence, so that she

soon sang to him all her prettiest songs; whilst Father Klaus sat

smiling by, perfectly happy in the joy of his triumph. When the old

nobleman arose to depart, he stood with his hand upon the child’s glossy

head, and declared he never _saw_ such a singer; then, as he turned up

to his gaze that little face so beaming with beauty and intelligence, he

promised by the faith of his knighthood that next Sunday should see her

talent well rewarded. Next Sunday afternoon arrived a large case for

Ella. How she danced to see it opened! and when it was opened, how she

danced and clapped her hands around one of the prettiest harps that ever

was seen! This was an era in her life. Every day would see her and her

uncle before the parlor window blundering over the harp-strings, often

in vain attempts to puzzle out an accompaniment. It was a new instrument

to him as well as to her. Time, however, and perseverance can conquer

all things, and ere two months were past, Ella might be seen every

evening seated beneath a linden that shaded the cottage door, gracefully

sweeping her harp in accompaniment of the wildest songs of her

Fatherland; anon would she lift her melting eyes to heaven as she

touched the trembling chords to the softer melody of a Virgin’s evening

hymn. The old priest would be absorbed in his breviary, as he paced the

graveled walk; he had long since given up the race, and the little

scholar had left him immeasurably behind. It was not wonderful that Ella

became the admired of all the country around even at that early age: but

she bore her honors so becomingly, with so much modesty and simplicity,

that—wonderful to say—there was not one among her companions who did

not love her. She was so gentle and so good.

In the _Bower of Castle Mount_, I said that Roderick told me that Father

Klaus was aware of the growing attachment between him and Ella, almost

as soon as themselves. In this, two circumstances may seem

strange—first, that she, educated, accomplished, admired, courted,

should fancy a poor, plain, hardy country-lad like Roderick; and

secondly, that her uncle should approve and encourage her in such a

fancy. Roderick’s family was very humble, scarcely above a peasant’s

condition; but in this regard she placed herself upon a perfect equality

with him, and never gave the matter much consideration. The truth is,

she had loved him with a childish love before she knew that there

existed any other. The first summer after she returned from Cologne,

regularly every Saturday afternoon or festival eve, would he come to

help her gather flowers for the altar. This office of decking the altar

is only performed by the hands of virgins, and when one enters into the

state of matrimony she no longer takes her place among the servants of

the sanctuary. Our young pair (he was but four years older than she)

would wander off to the woods together, and Roderick would climb the

highest rocks for moss, or some stray flower blooming alone; and carry

the heavy basket. At times he would strip off his shoes, and, Paul and

Virginia-like, stagger with his beloved burden across the streams. When

evening approached, he would mock the squirrels, the partridges, the

wood-robins and the katy-dids, and put the whole forest in tune before

its time, to Ella’s ineffable delight. Often, when he had doffed his

jacket and thrown it down for her to sit upon, would he recline upon his

arm, his hat drawn over his brow, pensive and melancholy; and sometimes

a tear would trickle down, as the truth forced itself upon him, that,

despite their intimacy, fortune, and fortune only, had placed an

insurmountable barrier between him and the idol of his thoughts and

dreams. He would beg her to love him, and she would readily answer that

she did love him.

“Better than all the other boys?”

“Yes, better than all the other boys.”

Still he was not satisfied. He felt that she did not mean the same kind

of love that he did; he was doubtful even if she knew any thing about

it. How should he ascertain? He could not ask her if she would marry

him: no, that would be breaking the ice of a new and unfathomable

current, and he might lose the tenure of the ground he then possessed;

besides, he felt a secret, indefinable shame, and could not proffer the

words. He looked very wo-begone. Ah! he had it at last.

He did not mean _like_, he meant, did she _love_ him better than all the

other boys?

Yes, she loved him better; she said so before.

The secret of his new discovery was burning; he blushed. At last it

came.

Did she love him better than all the _girls_?

The poor boy was breathless.

Yes, she thought she loved him better than all the _girls_?

The mighty weight had turned out a feather; he knew no more than he did

before. Many a time did the poor fellow try to hit the mark from afar

off, but always with the same success. He persevered with the same

affectionate devotion, her very slave; and it was not until several

years after, when he became assured of more than one suitor’s rejection,

that he summoned courage to address her plainly, and received an answer

to his heart’s content.

That Father Klaus approved the betrothal of Roderick and his niece, may

not seem wonderful. He knew him to be the son of pious parents, a boy of

good principle and good capacity. He had often seen at his father’s

house, pasteboard horses, cows, cottages, and even pencil sketches, that

he amused himself with, when once recovering from a severe illness. When

the boy recovered he frequently brought into request his

newly-discovered capacity, and improved very much in his rough

sketching. He had no idea of prosecuting his ability any further. All

this was not lost on the priest, who felt assured that he could command

the necessary influence to enter Roderick in the academy of Heidelberg,

and enable him to become the master of an honorable and lucrative art.

He knew that capacity is more unfailing, and possesses more resources

than wealth; he knew Roderick’s substantial worth and undoubted probity,

and felt that he had neither right nor inclination to thwart his niece’s

predilection.

It was during one of these flower-hunting excursions that Roderick and

Ella first conceived the idea of weaving the bower on the Castle Mount.

They were accustomed frequently to extend their rambling to the ruined

castle, in the old garden of which a variety of flowers were still

cultivated by the guardian of the place; and by the time they had

clambered up to the terrace on their return, were fain to sit down and

repose awhile. They soon began to feel a partiality for the place; and

no wonder, for there was not so fine a view, even to childhood’s eyes,

to be found in the whole country. Their childish hands there twined the

bower whose strange demolition I, in after years, witnessed. There they

spent many of their happiest hours; there they first plighted their

troth; there they renewed it over and over again; and there poor

Roderick first saw the—beginning of the end.

It were useless to attempt to say how proud the poor boy was of his

betrothed, and of her accomplishments. The fact that he never felt a

pang of jealousy during four long years, frequently under most trying

circumstances, that his trust in his beloved never for a moment wavered

till his heart was wrung, and his brain was crazed that eventful evening

at the bower, loudly testifies to his ingenuousness, and the priest’s

correct estimate of the man. A neighboring Curé, who had in former years

been a fellow-student of Father Klaus in Italy, frequently rode over to

spend half a day. On such occasions Ella was entertained with

metaphysical disquisitions, which, unknown to her entertainers, her

deep, psychological nature eagerly drank in, in draughts as great as her

capacity would admit. To their theological discussions she was a silent,

attentive listener; subjects which her uncle never upon any other

occasion spoke of in her presence, were argued with an earnestness that

made him forgetful of the indirect injury they might work upon her mind.

She began to propound questions to herself, and to attempt the solution

of them, of herself. She remembered many delicate cases of morality

determined by learned heads; pondered over the principles upon which

those decisions were based; constructed new cases for the application of

similar principles; in short, became a blundering casuist before she

knew it. A new light was dawning upon her mind; she saw, for the first

time, that laws can be stretched to very tension, and not broken. She

did not reflect that principle is firm as a rock, and lasting and

unchanging as eternity itself—that there is no going and returning

there. She knew not that he who ranges about to strain the utmost limits

of law, has wandered far from the moral centre of gravity—principle.

She knew not that we do not always stand guiltless in the forum of our

own conscience, though no other living being dare censure us, even in

his inmost mind. The world may judge a man for what he does and dares;

he alone, for what he does _not fear_. Ella was precisely in that

unfortunate state of mind, in which one knows just too much or too

little; in which a certain degree of knowledge necessarily requires more

to prevent its running astray. There is a degree of pride which renders

one ridiculous, contemptible; a greater degree checks its

manifestation—governs it. One is vanity; the other despises vanity.

Such a relation did Ella’s science bear to true philosophy as vanity

does to pride;—_and she played with it_. One must, one will destroy the

other. Had her uncle known her infatuation, one word would have

dispelled every shadow of it.

Oftentimes the college friends would turn their conversation to days

long past, to reminiscences of their sojourn in Italy. The lore of

classic and romantic associations of that wonderful country; the graphic

illustrations of life, and scenes, and elegance, and delights, in that

delicious clime, enchanted their young listener. Dissertations on the

political changes there enacting; surmises of changes impending,

necessarily drew forth a detail of social, historic and scenic minutiæ,

that expanded her young mind to poetic conceptions; distance lent its

enchantment to the view, and her rich fancy glowed with the beauty of

its imaginings. A longing, secret and subtle at first, then craving and

irrepressible, to taste the sweets of forbidden fruit, took possession

of her. She was betrothed at that time; she knew that with Roderick she

could not enjoy those pleasures; she ought and did know that this

longing would breed discontent;—hence the subtle manner of its entering

on possession of her heart. Long she repelled it; principle forbade it;

her reasonings were very nice; and lax as she may have become

speculatively, she nourished a high-minded honor that would have done

credit to any child of Adam. Soon she thought it no harm to enjoy the

victory she had, with so great an effort, gained over herself;

frequently she did so. Then her sophistry came to the attack; she might

have regrets in secret, she thought, and they might not be at all

detrimental to her husband’s happiness; hers would be the only loss, the

only pain, if pain there were;—and she let her longing take its way.

Still, she loved her betrothed as much as ever, none the less on that

account; it is true she became a shade more thoughtful, not quite so

light-hearted as she was, but she did not notice any change. If her

heart lost any of its feeling, her harp did not. She took it more

rarely; her touch was bolder, and still more delicate; a beautiful

originality undulated more in her modulations, and she played more

without the words than she ever did before. Her spirit was more

self-dependent. There was something of the wild energy of insidious

despair.

About this time the younger Reisach was summoned from England to attend

his father, who was very ill. Soon the good old count died, and his heir

entered upon the title and estates, in a manner so becoming and

consistent with filial affliction, that every one said the young count

was quite equal to the old one. The rougher field sports he had been

accustomed to in England were now abandoned, and he lent his mind to the

more quiet and refined German tastes. Study, poetry, music, painting,

sculpture, divided his attention; he aimed at conciliating and winning

all, the little as well as the great, and no undue ostentation had place

in the details of his establishment. Regular and attentive at church, he

gained the confidence and esteem of pastor as well as flock. Refined and

delicate in his speech, no virtuous peasant-girl shrunk from his

attention whenever he thought proper to bestow it. To the _reunions_ at

the mansion the Curé had a standing invitation; and in return, the young

nobleman strolled out upon many a welcome call at the parsonage. It

would be harsh, it would be unjust, to say that Count Frederick

commenced his attentions there with any deliberate design of wrong.

Ella’s harp and voice were frequently brought into request for his

passing entertainment, and he was not sparing of his eulogiums upon

them. He soon began to experience deeper and more lasting sensations

than the momentary pleasure she intended; no one could do otherwise. In

his presence Ella conversed little, but that little was full of

refinement, of thought and taste. He felt it difficult to smother his

feelings or restrain them; and although he strictly maintained the

distinction in their conditions, in his intercourse with her, and knew

that a violent death must await all his more tender sentiments toward

her, still he was unwilling to deprive himself of the pleasure he

enjoyed in her presence. He was deeply in love with her, and he knew it;

yet supposed that, like many other impressions he had experienced, it

would soon pass away, that he might as well enjoy it whilst it

lasted;—no one would ever be the wiser in the end.

It was before, and about this time, that Roderick and Ella were

accustomed to spend their hours, and almost days together, at the bower.

She had grown into womanhood, had entered into her twentieth year; and

it was on her last birth-day, that she and Roderick had knelt before her

uncle, to receive his blessing on their betrothal. Roderick had finished

his course in the academy, and had already acquired his quota, both of

fame and money, in painting. Ella sincerely loved him; and despite the

admiration she felt for the young count, would have been supremely happy

could she have been promised the realization of her imaginary enjoyments

by his side. She loved him more when in his presence than when away.

Absence threw no enchantment around him; it was in the sunshine of his

tenderness and devotion that she felt the full glow of her affection for

him; at other times she would feel the chilly mingling of her regrets.

Had they been married then, they would have been very happy.

I said, Count Frederick deemed his love for Ella to be harmless, and

that he felt no scruples in giving full play to it. It was only when, in

his frequent rides, he caught a glimpse of the lovers enjoying their

honest happiness under their own vine and fig-tree, as one might say,

that the demon of envy, then of jealousy, took possession of him. There

are few who can look unmoved on the unalloyed happiness of others, nor

feel one pang of envy; that can see the appropriation by another of a

secretly-coveted object, even an object one has no right or title to, or

expectation of, and feel no sting of jealousy. Thus was it with Count

Frederick: from the window of a mansion he frequently visited in

Heidelberg, he could look right up to the bower. In the recess of that

window he frequently sat; and with glass in hand, following with his eye

every movement of the doomed pair, he conjured up a host of demons to

torment him. He knew that her faith was given to another; he was aware

and resolved that he could not marry her; yet, the long and constant

dwelling of his thoughts upon her, the enlistment of his feelings and

affections for her, seemed, in his disordered mind, to invest him with

an indefinable title; he felt the outrage done to it, and casting full

rein to both anger and passion, vowed to wreak his vengeance on what he

thenceforward dreamed to be his mistress, and her lover.