'If you are not ashamed of wearing the boys' clothes,' said he, 'why

should you not keep them on?'

'That is a capital idea,' we both replied, and thanking him for the

offer, as we shook hands with him cordially, we asked him where we

could find a guide.

'I will myself be your guide,' he said, as he took from a corner a

juniper-stick for each of us. We then lost no time in commencing our

journey, and still more gaily than before, for we were much amused at

our masquerade, especially my cousin, who seemed to feel no small

admiration for himself in the rustic blue frock-coat, ornamented

with silver buttons--the jack-boots--and the head surmounted by a

high-crowned hat.

'I sincerely wish,' said he, 'that we could fall in with some other

travellers up yonder; that would be great fun.'

Our guide laughed, and hinted that he would not be able to talk like

the peasantry.

'Yes, I can though,' said my cousin, who immediately began to speak in

the Jutland dialect, to the infinite diversion of the worthy Peder

Andersen who, however, found still another stumbling-block to the

perfections of the pretended peasant--namely, that his nice white hands

would betray him.

'I can put them in my pocket' ('A ka put em i e Lomm),' cried my gay

cousin, who was determined to admit of no drawback to his assumed

character.

Presently we reached the river Gudenade, which is here tolerably wide,

and has rather a swift current. We crossed in a boat something like a

canoe, and then entered on quite another kind of a country; for here

commenced the moorlands, covered with heather whose dark tints formed

a strong contrast to the bright green on the east of the river. We

had yet a good way to walk, and as the heather, which almost reached up

to our knees, was still wet with rain, we had good reason to be

grateful to our long boots. We approached the wood--a wood of

magnificent beech-trees--which appeared to me here doubly beautiful,

standing out, as it did, against so dark a background. Amidst sloping

dales the path wound always upward; but the thickness of the foliage

for a time deprived us of any view. At last we emerged from the wood,

and found ourselves upon the open summit of the mountain.

When I hear delightful music, or witness an interesting theatrical

representation, I always like to enjoy it for a time in silence.

Nothing acts more unpleasantly, jars more on my feelings, than when any

one attempts to call my attention to either. The moment the remark is

made to me, 'How beautiful that is!' it becomes less beautiful to me

These audible outbursts of admiration are to me like cold shower-baths,

they quite chill me. After a time, when I have been left undisturbed,

and by degrees have cooled in my excitement, I am willing to exchange

thoughts and mingle feelings with those of a friend, or of many

friends; indeed, I find desire growing within me to unburden, if I may

so express it, my overladen mind. It is thus that a poet utters his

inspirations: at the sweet moment when he conceives his ideas, they

glow within him, but he is silent; afterwards he feels constrained to

give them utterance; the voice or the pen _must_ afford the full heart

relief. Our guide's anxiety to please was a dreadful drawback to my

comfort, for, with the usual loquacity of a cicerone, he began to point

out and describe all the churches that could be described from the

place where we were standing, invariably commencing with, 'Yonder you

see.' I left my cousin to his elucidation of the country round, and,

wandering to some little distance, I sat down where I could _see_,

without being compelled to _hear_.

When Stolberg had finished translating Homer into German, he threw down

his pen, and exclaimed, despondingly, 'Reader, learn Greek, and burn my

translation!' What is a description of scenery but a translation? Yet

the most successful one must be as much inferior to the original as the

highest hill in Jutland is lower than the highest mountain in Thibet.

Therefore, kind reader, pardon my not describing to you all I saw.

_What_ I saw I might, perhaps, be able to relate to you, but scarcely

_how_ I saw it. My pen is no artist's pencil; go yourself and take a

view of it! But you, who perhaps have stood on the summit of the

Brochen, or of St. Bernard, smile not that I think so much of our

little mountain! It is the loftiest that I, or perhaps many of my

readers, have beheld; therefore, what is diminutive to you is grand to

us.

I was startled in my meditations by a thump on my shoulder--it was from

my cousin, who was standing behind me. He informed me that our guide

had gone home at least half-an-hour, and that I had been sitting for a

long time perfectly motionless, without giving the slightest sign of

life. He told me, moreover, that he was tired of such solemn silence,

and I must really awaken from my fit of abstraction.

'And at what have you been looking that has engrossed your thoughts so

much?' he added.

'The same as you have been looking at,' I replied: 'Air, and earth, and

water.'

'Well, cast your eyes down now towards the lake,' said he, handing me

his spy-glass, 'and you will see that there are some strangers coming

over this way.'

I took the glass and perceived a boat a little way from the shore,

which seemed to be steering straight across the water; it was full of

people, and three straw bonnets indicated that there were women among

them. My cousin proposed that we should await their coming, although it

would be late before we should reach our quarters for the night at

Alling. As the evening was so charming, I willingly consented; we could

not have wished a finer one. The sun was about to set, but it seemed to

us to sink more slowly than usual, as if it lingered to behold longer

the beauty of earth when tinged with its own golden rays. The winds

were hushed, not a blade of grass, not a leaf was stirring. The lake

was as a mirror, wherein were reflected the fields, the groves, the

houses that lay on its surrounding sides, while here and there, in the

valleys towards the west, arose a thin column of smoke from dwellings

that were concealed by trees. But if in the air all was silence, sounds

enough proceeded from the earth. Feathered songsters carolled in the

woods behind us, and before us the heath-lark's love-strains swelled,

answering each other from the juniper-bushes. From the bulrushes which

grew on the margin of the lake was heard the quacking of the wild

ducks; and from a greater distance came the plashing of the fisherman's

oar, as he was returning to his home, and the soothing tones of his

vesper hymn.

The sun had now sunk below the horizon, and the bells that rang from

many a church for evening prayer, summoned the weary labourer to rest

and sleep. The heavy dews of night were already moistening the ground,

and its mist was veiling the woods, the lake, and the sloping banks.

Now broke upon the ear the cheering yet plaintive music of wind

instruments. It seemed to come nearer and nearer, and must undoubtedly

have proceeded from the boat we had observed putting off from the

opposite shore. When the music ceased, we could distinctly hear the

voices of the party in the boat, and presently after the slight noise

made by their landing. We stood still for a few minutes, expecting to

see them ascending the hill, but soon perceived that, on the contrary,

they were going in another direction, for the sound of the voices

became fainter and fainter, and was lost at last apparently among the

woods to the west. Had it not been that the airs they had played were

of the newest fashion, we might have fancied it a fairy adventure--a

procession of woodland elves, or the bridal of the elf king himself.

The shades of night were falling around. Here and there a star

glimmered faintly in the pale-blue skies. In the north-west was visible

a red segment over the horizon, where the king of day was wandering

beneath, on his way to lighten another hemisphere. Now, all was still;

only at a distance on the heath we heard the plover's melancholy note,

and beneath us, on the lake, the whizzing of the water-fowls' wings as

they skimmed its darkened surface. 'Let us go homewards now!' cried my

cousin. 'Yes, home!' I replied. But we had not gone far before we both

stopped at once with a 'Hush! hark!' From the margin of the wood,

through which we had just come, issued suddenly the sound of harmonious

voices, singing as a duet a Tyrolese air. There is something

indescribably charming and touching in this unison of voices,

especially in the open air, when the sweet tones seem to float upon the

gentle breeze; and now, at the calm evening hour, when the surrounding

hills were awakened from the deep repose into which they had just

subsided, the sweet tones had the effect of the nightingale's

delightful song. My cousin seized my hand and pressed it, as if to

entreat that I should not, by any exclamation, disturb his auricular

treat. When the vocalists ceased, he sighed deeply. I gazed in

astonishment on him; he was in general so gay, and yet at that moment

tears actually stood in his eyes! I attributed to the mighty

enchantment of music, the power of softening and agitating the hardest

and the lightest heart, and I remarked this to him.

'Ah, well!' he replied, 'the human breast is like a sounding-board,

which, although untouched, yet gives an echo when certain chords are

struck.'

'You are right,' I said; 'as, for instance, the story of the tarantula

dance.'

He sighed again, and said gravely,--

'But such chords must be connected with peculiar events--must awaken

certain recollections--yes'--he took my hand, and pointing to the trunk

of a tree which had fallen, we placed ourselves on it--'yes, my friend,

yon air recalls to me a souvenir which I have in vain tried to forget.

Will you listen to the story?'

'Tell it,' I said, 'though I can partly guess what it must be.'

It was on such an evening as this (he continued), about two years ago,

that, accompanied by a friend, I had gone on a little tour of pleasure

to Lake Esrom. We remained sitting a long time on a fallen tree before

we could prevail on ourselves to wend our way homewards, so charmed

were we with the beauty of the scenery and of the evening. We had

just arisen when a Tyrolese air--the very one you and I have recently

heard--sung delightfully as a duet, attracted our attention. It came

from the side of the lake, but the sounds appeared to be gradually

approaching nearer. We soon heard the plashing of oars, which kept time

to the music, and shortly after we saw a boat making for the part of

the shore where we were. When the song was ended, there was a great

deal of talking and laughing in the boat, and the noise seemed to

increase the nearer they came to the shore. We now saw distinctly the

little skiff and its merry freight. 'Lay aside your oars!' said one; 'I

will steer you straight in to the land.' They did so. 'I know a quicker

way of making the land,' cried another, as he sprang up, and striding

from gunwale to gunwale, set the boat rocking frightfully. 'Be quiet!

be quiet!' roared a third; 'are you mad? The fool will upset the boat!'

'You shall have a good ducking for that,' said the madcap, swaying the

boat still more violently. Then came shouts of laughter mingled with

oaths; in the midst of the uproar a loud voice called out, 'Be done. I

tell you! Fritz cannot swim.' But it was too late--the boat was full of

water--it upset. Happily it was only a short way from the shore. In one

moment they were all silent; we heard only the splashing and hard

breathing of those who were swimming. There were six of them. Presently

one of them cried, 'Fritz! Fritz! come here! take hold of me!' Then

cried another, 'Fritz, come to me!' And then several voices shouted,

'Fritz! Fritz! where are you?' Two of them had by this time reached the

shore, and they stood looking anxiously at those who were still

swimming in the lake. One of them began counting, 'Three, four!' Then

crying in a voice of extreme consternation, '_One_ is wanting!' he

sprang again into the water, and the other instantly followed his

example!

My friend and I could no longer remain mere spectators of this scene;

we threw off our coats and were speedily in the water, searching with

the party for their lost friend. We thought he must be under the boat;

therefore we all gathered round the spot where it lay keel upwards,

and the best swimmer dived beneath it. In vain! he was not there. But

at a little distance, amidst the reeds, one of us observed something

dark--it was the missing Fritz! He was brought on shore; but he was

lifeless. Zealously, anxiously, did we try all means of restoring him;

they were of no avail. It was decided that he should be carried to the

nearest house. A plank, which had formed one of the seats of the boat,

and which had floated to the shore, was taken up; he was placed upon

it, and they carried him towards the road. We followed them

mechanically. What a contrast to their late boisterous mirth was their

present profound silence! We had not proceeded far, when one of the

foremost of the bearers turned round and exclaimed, 'Where is Sund?' We

all looked back, and beheld the unfortunate madcap who had caused the

accident half-hidden behind a tall bush, stuffing his pockets with

pebbles.

'He will drown himself,' said the person who had just spoken; 'we must

take him with us.'

They stopped, and my companion and I offered our assistance to carry

the body, whilst two of the party went to their repentant friend. The

way to the house to which the drowned man was to be carried lay through

a wood. It was so dark amidst the trees that we were close upon two

female figures, dressed in white, before we observed them,

'Good Heavens!' cried the foremost of the party; 'if it should be

Fritz's betrothed! She said she would probably come to meet us.'

It was indeed herself. You may imagine the painful scene: first, her

horror at meeting us carrying a drowned man, and then her agony when

she found out that the unfortunate victim was the one dearest to her on

earth; for she could not be deceived, as she knew them all. She

fainted, and her companion caught her in her arms as she was falling to

the ground. What was to be done? My friend and I hastened to the

assistance of the ladies, while the other gentlemen hurried on with the

inanimate body to the house, which was at no great distance. I ran to

the lake, and brought back some water in my hat; we threw a little on

her face, when she soon came to herself again, poor thing!

'Where is he?' she screamed; 'oh! where is he? He is not dead--let me

go to him--let me go!' She strove to rise and rush forward.

'Leave her, kind gentlemen,' said her companion, as she threw one arm

round her waist, and with the other pressed her hand to her heart.

'Thanks--thanks for your assistance, but do not trouble yourselves

further; I know the way well.'

We bowed and stood still, while she hastened on with her poor friend;

and as they went we could hear the sorrowful wailing of the one, and

the sweet soothing tones of the other. Having received no invitation we

had no right to follow them, and we sought our carriage, both deeply

impressed by the melancholy catastrophe which we had involuntarily

witnessed.

We were not acquainted with any member of the party, nor were we able

to hear anything of them. In vain we searched all the newspapers, and

conned over all the announcements of deaths in their columns; there

never appeared the slightest reference to the unfortunate event I have

just mentioned, nor did we ever hear it alluded to in society. We

should certainly, after the lapse of some time, have looked upon the

whole affair as a freak of the imagination--a phantom scene--had we not

played a part in it ourselves. It did not make so light an impression

on me, however; you will think it strange, perhaps absurd, but I

actually was partially in love! Love has generally but one pathway to

the heart--the eyes; it took a by-path with me--through the ears. It

was so dark that I had not seen the young lady's features; I had only

heard her voice. But, ah! what a voice it was! So soft--_that_ does not

describe it; so melodious--neither does that convey an idea of what it

was. I can compare it to nothing but the echo of tones from celestial

regions, or to the angel-voices which we hear in dreams. Her figure was

as beautiful as her voice--graceful and sylph-like. If you have ever

been bewitched in a night vision, you will be able to comprehend my

feelings. I saw her, and I did not see her. Her slight form with its

white drapery looked quite spiritual in the dim light, and reminded me

of Dido in Elysium, floating past AEneas, who was still clothed in the

garb of mortality.

'Of whom are you speaking?' I asked. 'Of the friend?'

'Of course,' he replied; 'not of the widowed girl, as I may call the

other.'

'I do not see anything so very extraordinary in what you have been

telling me,' I said. 'When it is almost dark, fancy is more easily

awakened; everything wears a different aspect from what it does in the

glare of day--objects become idealized, and sweet sounds make more

impression on the mind, while imagination is thus excited. But is this

the end of your drama?'

'No; only the first act,' he replied. 'Now comes the second.'

The summer passed away; winter came, and it too had almost gone, when I

happened to attend a masquerade at one of the clubs. For about an hour

I had been jostled among the caricaturists, and was becoming very

tired,--and falling into sombre reflections upon the illusions of life,

and the masks worn in society to conceal people's real characters from

each other, when my attention was attracted by twelve shepherds and

shepherdesses in the pretty costume of Languedoc, who came dancing in,

hand in hand. The orchestra immediately struck up a French quadrille,

and the French group danced so gracefully that a large and admiring

circle was formed round them. When the quadrille was over, the circle

opened, and the shepherds and shepherdesses mingled with the rest of

the company. One of the shepherdesses, whose charming figure and

elegance of motion had riveted my attention, as if by a magic power

drew me after her. I followed wherever she went, until at last I got so

near to her that I was able to address her.

'Beautiful shepherdess!' I said in French, 'how is it that our northern

clime is so fortunate as to be favoured by a visit from you and your

lovely sisters?'

She turned quickly towards me, and after remaining silent a few

moments, during which time a pair of dark eyes gazed searchingly at me,

'Monsieur,' she replied in French, 'we thought that fidelity had its

true home in this northern clime.'

'You have each brought your lover with you,' I said.

'Because we hoped that they would learn lessons of constancy here,' was

her answer.

'Lovely blossom from the banks of the Garonne!' I exclaimed, 'who could

be inconstant to you?'

'There is no telling,' she continued, gaily. 'You are paying me

compliments without knowing me. You call me pretty, yet you have never

seen _me_. It must be my mask that you mean.'

'Your eyes assure me of your beauty,' said I; 'they must bear the blame

if I am mistaken.'

Just at that moment another dance commenced; I asked the fair

shepherdess to be my partner, and consenting, she held out her hand to

me. We took our places immediately. It was then that a recollection

came over me of having heard her sweet voice before. I thought that I

recognized it--yes! Surely it could be no other's than hers--my fairy

of Esrom Wood! But I was determined to be certain of the fact. I said

nothing, however, while we were dancing. The dance seemed to me very

short, and at the same time endless.

I interrupted him somewhat uncivilly with--'At any rate your story

seems endless.' He continued, however.

After the dance was over I conducted her to a seat, and placed myself

by her side.

'It strikes me,' I remarked in Danish, 'that T have once before heard

your voice, but not on the banks of the Garonne--'

'No,' she replied, interrupting me, 'not there, but perhaps on the

borders of Lake Esrom?'

A sweet feeling at that moment, as it were, both expanded and

contracted my breast. It was herself--the Unseen! She must also have

remarked my voice, and preserved its tones in her memory.

'A second time we meet,' I sighed, 'without beholding each other. This

is really like an adventure brought about by some magician's art; but,

oh! how I long for the moment when you will no longer hide that

charming countenance.'

She laughed slightly; and there was something so sprightly, musical,

and winning in her laugh, while her white teeth glistened like pearls

under her mask, that I forgot what more I was going to say. She,

however, began to speak.

'Why should I destroy your illusion? Leave our adventure, as you call

it, alone; when a mystery is solved it loses its interest. If I were to

remove my mask, you would only see the face of a very ordinary girl.

Your imagination gallantly pictures me beautiful as some Circassian, or

some Houri; let me remain such in your idea, at least till the watchman

cries the hour of midnight, and wakes you from your dreams.'

'All dreams are not delusive,' I said. 'They often speak the truth,' I

added; 'yet sometimes one is tempted to wish that truths were but

dreams; as, for instance, the very unfortunate event which was the

occasion of our first meeting.'

She looked surprised, while she repeated--

'Unfortunate? Ah! true. You probably never heard--' At that moment one

of the shepherds ran up, and carried her off hurriedly to a quadrille

which was just forming.

I was following the couple with my eyes, when my sister tapped me on

the arm and asked me to dance with her, as she was not engaged.

Mechanically I took my place in the quadrille, the same in which my

_incognita_ was dancing, and mechanically I went through the figures

until she had to give me her hand in the chain. I pressed it warmly,

but there was no response. Ashamed and angry, I determined not to cast

another glance at her; and resolutely I turned my head away. The

quadrille was over, and once more I found myself constrained to look at

her. But she was gone--the shepherds and shepherdesses had all

disappeared. Whether they had left the ball, or--what was more

probable--had changed their attire, I saw them no more. In vain at the

supper-table my eyes wandered over all the ladies, to guess, if

possible, which was the right one. Many of them were pretty; many had

dark eyes and white teeth; but which of all these eyes and teeth were

hers? It was by the voice alone that I could recognize her; but I could

not go from the one to the other, and ask them to speak to me. And thus

ended the second part of my drama.

'Now, then, for the third act,' said I, with some curiosity.

'For that,' he replied, 'I have waited in vain, above a year and a

day.'

'But do you not know her name?' I asked.

'No.'

'Or none of the party of shepherds and shepherdesses?'

'I found out shortly after that I knew two of the shepherds; but of

what use was that to me? I could not describe my shepherdess so that

they could distinguish her among the twelve; they mentioned a dozen

names, all equally unknown to me. That gave me no clue; to me she was

both nameless and invisible.'

I could not help smiling at my usually-gay cousin's doleful

countenance.

'You are laughing at me,' said he. 'Well, I don't wonder at it. To fall

in love with a girl one has never seen is certainly great folly. But do

not fancy that I am going to die of despair. I only feel a sort of

longing come over me when I think of her.'

The singers had now come so near that we could hear their conversation.

After a few moments my cousin whispered to me that he knew one of them

by his voice, and that he was an officer from Copenhagen. In another

minute they made their appearance. There were three of them, all

dressed as civilians, but the moustaches of one showed that he was a

military man. My cousin squeezed my arm, and whispered again--

'It is he, sure enough; let us see if he knows me.'

We rose, and stood stiffly, with our caps in our hands. They nodded to

us, and the officer said--

'Put your hats on, lads. Will you earn a shilling for something to

drink, and help to erect our tent?'

We agreed to his proposal, and at his desire we joined two men in

fetching, from a cart near, the canvas and other things required to put

the tent up; also cloaks, cushions, baskets with provisions, and

bottles of wine, benches for seats, and a wider one for a table. When

our services were no longer needed, the officer held out some money to

me, which, of course, I would not receive. My cousin also refused

payment; whereupon he swore that we should at least take something to

drink, and, filling a tumbler from his flask, he handed it to my

cousin, who received it with a suppressed laugh.

'What are you grinning at, fellow?' said the officer; but, as my cousin

carried the tumbler to his lips, he exclaimed--

'Your health, Wilhelm!'

The individual thus addressed started back in astonishment, while his

two companions peered into our faces. My cousin burst into a fit of

laughter; and the officer, who now recognized him, cried, laughing

also,--

'Ludvig! What the deuce is all this? and why are you equipped in that

preposterous garb?'

The matter was speedily explained; the three travellers expressed much

pleasure at meeting us, and pressed us so cordially to join their

party, and stay the night with them, that we at length acceded to their

request.

One of the officer's companions was a young, handsome, and very

fashionable-looking man; he was extremely rich, we understood,

therefore they called him _the merchant_, and they would not tell us

his name, or if that were his _real_ position in society. The other

introduced himself to us with these words:

'Gentlemen, of the respectable peasant class! my name here in Jutland

is Farniente. My agreeable occupation is to do nothing--at least

nothing but amuse myself.'

There was a great deal more joking among our hosts, and then we

presented each other in the same bantering way, after which we all

adjourned to the tent, where we wound up with a very jovial supper. At

midnight the merchant reminded us that we had to rise next morning with

the first rays of the sun, and that it was time to retire to rest. We

made up a sort of couch, with cushions and cloaks, and on it we five

faithful brothers stretched ourselves as best we might. The other four

soon fell asleep. I alone remained awake; and when I found that slumber

had fled my pillow, rose as quietly as possible, and left the tent.

All around was still as the grave. The skies were without a cloud, but

of their millions of eyes only a few were now open, and even these

shone dimly and feebly, as if they were almost overcome by sleep. The

monarch of light, who was soon to overpower their fading brightness,

was already clearing his path in the north-east. It is not the

darkness, still less the tempest, that renders night so extremely

melancholy; it is that deep repose, that corpse-like stillness in

nature; it is to see oneself the only waking being in a sleeping

world--one living amidst the vast vaults of the grave--a creature

trembling with the fearful, giddy thought of death and eternity. How

welcome then is any sound which breaks the oppressive silence of that

nocturnal solitude, and reminds us that human beings are about to

awaken to their daily round of occupation and pleasure--and, it must be

added, of anxiety and trouble! How cheerful seems the earliest crowing

of the cocks from the nearest huts, rising almost lazily on the dusky

air! The drowsy world was beginning to move; and after a time I

discerned faint, sweet tones proceeding from the direction of the

wood. I listened attentively, and soon became convinced that it was

music--the music of wind instruments--which I heard. To me music is as

welcome as the first rosy streaks of morn to the benighted wanderer, or

a glimpse of the brilliant sun amidst the gloom of a dark wintry sky.

The sweet sounds ceased, and I began to ponder whether it might not

have been unearthly strains which I had heard--whether they might not

have come from the fairies who perhaps dwell amidst the surrounding

glades, or among the wild flowers that enamelled the sloping sides of

the hills. The music, however, was certainly Weber's, and the question

was, whether the elfin people had learned the airs from him, or he from

them. I returned to the tent, where the still sleeping party produced a

very different and somewhat nasal kind of music.

'Gentlemen! gentlemen!' I shouted, 'there are visitors coming.'

My cousin was the first to awaken, then the officer, who sprang up, and

immediately endeavoured to arouse the other two.

'The ladies will be here presently,' he said; 'get up both of you.'

'They are too early,' groaned one; 'I have not had half my sleep.'

'Let them wait outside the tent till I am ready,' said Farniente. 'Good

night!'

The rest of us, however, went towards the wood to meet the three

ladies, who were making their way to our temporary domicile, preceded

by two musicians playing the horn, and two youths bearing torches, the

latter being the sons of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, at whose

house the ladies had slept. Observing the peasant costume of my friend

and myself, the ladies asked who we were, and were told by the military

man that we were two soldiers of his regiment, who, being in the

adjacent village, had assisted in putting up the tent.

'Lads,' said he, addressing us in a tone of command, 'can you fetch

some water for us from the nearest stream, and get some wood for us to

boil our coffee? I will go with you.'

'No, no, sir--that would be a shame,' said my cousin, in the Jutland

dialect; 'we will bring all that is wanted ourselves.'

When we returned to the tent it was broad daylight; Farniente had been

compelled to vacate his couch of cloaks, and in his lively way was

greeting the fair guests with 'Good morning, my three Graces.' The

officers told us, aside, that two of the ladies were his sisters, and

were about to tell us more, when a waltz on the turf was proposed by

Farniente, who seized one of the ladies, whom he called Sybilla, as his

partner. _The merchant_ danced with another, to whom it appeared he was

engaged, and the officer took his youngest sister. Their hilarity was

infectious, and my cousin dragged me round for want of a better

partner, whereupon the fair Sybilla, who had observed our dancing,

remarked that we were 'really not at all awkward for peasant lads.'

While they were taking their coffee afterwards, during which time we

stood respectfully at a little distance, my cousin whispered to me how

much he admired the lieutenant's youngest sister, who was indeed

extremely pretty. He had not hitherto heard her voice, but he could not

help seeing that she looked attentively--even inquisitively at him. By

Farniente's request, the ladies handed us some coffee, after having

done which they made some remarks upon us to each other in German. At

that moment my cousin let his coffee-cup drop suddenly to the ground,

and standing as motionless as one of the trees in the wood, he fixed

his eyes upon the youngest girl with a very peculiar expression, which

called the deepest blushes to her cheek. We all looked on in surprise,

but I began to suspect the truth. Farniente was the first to speak.

'Min Herre!' said he, 'it is time that you should lay aside your

incognito, for it is evident that you and this lady have met before.'

My cousin had by this time recovered his speech and his

self-possession. He went up to the young lady, and said:--'For the

first time to-day have I had the happiness of seeing those lips from

which I have twice heard a voice whose accents delighted me. In that

voice I cannot be mistaken, so deep was the impression it made upon me.

Dare I flatter myself that my voice has not been quite forgotten by

you?'

Catherina--that was her name--replied with a smile,--

'I have neither forgotten your voice nor your face, though last time we

met you were a Spanish grandee.'

'What is all this?' exclaimed the officer; 'old acquaintances--another

masquerade!'

'We are now truly all partaking of rural life,' said Farniente; 'so

come, you two peasants, and place yourselves with the fair shepherdess

and us.'

We joined the circle, and after our names having been told, my cousin,

leading the conversation to Lake Esrom, and the events which took place

on its banks, asked Catherina how her poor friend had taken that sad

affair, and if she had ever recovered her spirits?'

'Oh yes, she has,' replied Catherina; and pointing to the young lady

who was engaged to _the merchant_, 'there she is!'

My cousin started, and said, in some embarrassment, 'It was a sad

event, but--'

'Not so very sad,' cried _the merchant_, interrupting him, 'for the

drowned man returned to life. He was no other than myself.'

'God be thanked!' exclaimed my cousin, sincerely rejoiced at the

pleasant intelligence. 'That is more than we _then_ dared to hope. But

what became of the poor foolish madcap who first upset the boat and

then wished to drown himself?'

'Here he is,' said Farniente, pointing to himself; 'and as I once

thought I might be promoted to the dignity of court jester, I took a

wife, and there,' bowing to Sybilla, 'sits the fair one who has

undertaken to steer my boat over the dangerous ocean of life.'

The morning mists by degrees cleared away from the wooded valleys and

the hill-encircled waters; the larks had ended their early chorus, and

the later songsters of the grove had commenced their sweet harmonies;

all seemed joy around, and I looked with pleasure at the gay group

before me. Never had the cheering light of day shone upon a circle of

more contented human beings, and among them none were happier than

Ludwig and his recently-found shepherdess, whose countenance beamed in

the radiant glow of dawning love.

Six months have passed since then, and they are now united for this

world and for that which is to come.

THE SECRET WITNESS.

BY B. S. INGEMANN.

In the year 1816 there lived in Copenhagen an elderly lady, Froken

F----, of whom it was known that she sometimes involuntarily saw what

was not visible to anyone else. She was a tall, thin, grave-looking

person, with large features, and an expressive countenance. Her dark,

deep-set eyes had a strange glance, and she saw much better than most

people in the twilight; but she was so deaf, that people had to speak

very loudly to her before she could catch their words, and when a

number of persons were speaking at the same time in a room, she could

hear nothing but an unintelligible murmur. A sort of magnetic

clairvoyance had, doubtless, in the somewhat isolated condition in

which she was placed, been awakened in her mind, without, however, her

being thrown into any peculiar state. She only seemed at times to be

labouring under absence of mind, or to have fallen into deep thought,

and then she was observed to fix her eyes upon some object invisible to

all others. What she saw at those moments were most frequently the

similitude of some absent person, or images of the future, which were

always afterwards realized. Thus she had often foreseen unexpected

deaths, and other unlooked-for fatal accidents. As she seldom beheld in

her visions anything pleasing, she was regarded by many as a bird of

ill omen, and she therefore did not visit a number of families; those,

however, who knew her intimately both respected and loved her. She was

quiet and unpretending, and it was but rarely that she said anything,

unsolicited, of the results of her wonderful faculty.

She was a frequent guest in a family with whom she was a great

favourite. The master of the house was an historical painter, and his

wife was an excellent musician. The deaf old lady was a good judge of

paintings, and extremely fond of them; also, hard of hearing as she

was, music had always a great effect upon her; she could add in fancy

what she did not hear to what she did hear; she had been very musical

herself in her youthful days, and when she saw fingers flying over the

pianoforte, she imagined she heard the music, even when anyone, to dupe

her, moved their fingers back and forwards over the instrument, but

without playing on it.

One day she was sitting on a sofa in the drawing-room at the house of

the above-mentioned family, engaged in some handiwork. The artist had a

visitor who was a very lively, witty, satirical person, and they were

standing together near a window, discoursing merrily; they often

laughed during their conversation, and the tones of their voices seemed

to change, occasionally, as if they were imitating some one, whereupon

their hilarity invariably increased, which, however, was far from being

as harmless and goodnatured as mirth and gaiety generally were in that

house.

When the visit was over, and the artist had accompanied his friend to

the door, and returned to the drawing-room, the old lady asked him who

had been with him.

He mentioned the name of his lively friend, whom, he said, he thought

she knew very well.

'Oh, yes, I know him well enough,' she replied; 'but the other?'

'What other?' asked the painter, starting.

'Why the tall man with the long thin face, who stood yonder; he with

the dark, rough, uncombed-looking hair, and the bushy eyebrows--he who

so often laid his hand on his breast, and pointed upwards, especially

when you and your merry friend laughed heartily.'

'Did you ever see him before?' inquired the artist, turning pale. 'Did

you observe how he was dressed, and if he had any peculiar habit?'

'I do not remember having ever seen him before; as to his dress, it was

very singular, much like that of an old-fashioned country

schoolmaster.' And she described minutely his long frock-coat, with

large buttons and side-pockets, and his antiquated boots, that did not

appear to have been brushed for a very long time. 'The peculiar habit

you speak of,' she added, 'was probably the manner in which he slowly

shook his head, when he seemed to differ in opinion from you and your

other guest; in my eyes there was something noble and striking in this

movement, there was an expression of pain or sadness in his

countenance, which interested me; it was particularly observable when

he laid his right hand on his breast, and raised his left hand upwards,

as if he were solemnly affirming something, or calling God to witness

to the truth of what he said. Nevertheless, I remarked with surprise,

that I scarcely saw him open his lips. It was of course impossible for

me to hear what you were all talking about.'

The terrified artist became still paler--he tottered for a moment, and

was obliged to lean on the back of a chair for support. Shortly after

he seized his hat and hurried out of the house. The individual whom the

old lady had so graphically described had been a friend of his in

youth, but with whom he had been on bad terms for the last two years,

and whom he had not seen lately.

The whole conversation with his amusing visitor had been about this

very man. They had been engaged in a laughable and, at the same time,

merciless criticism of his character, and appearance, and had been

turning into ridicule every little peculiarity he had; his very voice

they had mimicked, and in their facetious exaggeration, had not only

made a laughing-stock of his person and manners, which were indeed odd,

but had attributed to him want of heart and want of judgment, which

latter sentence they based upon his somewhat peculiar taste, and a kind

of dry, pedantic, schoolmaster tone in conversation, from which he was

not free.

'That old maid is mad--and she has made me mad, too,' mumbled the

artist, pausing a moment when he had gained the street. '_He_ certainly

was not there--we do not meet any longer. She never saw him before.

There is something strangely mysterious in this matter--perhaps it

bodes some calamity. But, whether she is deranged--or I--or both of us,

I have wronged him--shamefully wronged him--and I must see him, and

tell him all.'

He stepped into a bookseller's shop, and asked to look at a Directory.

After about half-an-hour's walk he entered a house in a small back

street, and ascending to the third story, he rang at a door. A girl

opened it, and, in answer to his inquiries, told him that the person he

asked for was ill, and could not see anyone.

'But I must see him--I must speak to him,' cried the painter, almost

forcing himself in.

He was then ushered into a darkened room, where he found his poor

friend of bygone days looking pale and emaciated, lying perfectly still

upon a sofa, in his old grey frock-coat and soiled boots. The kind

anxiety with which the unexpected visitor asked about his health seemed

equally to surprise and please the invalid.

'You!' he exclaimed, '_you_ here! Do you still take any interest in me?

Have you any regard left for me? I did you shameful injustice two years

ago, when I saw your great masterpiece; and had not an enthusiastic

word for what I have though, often since, thought of with the greatest

admiration. Nay, within this very last hour I have wronged you, though

in quite a different manner. I was dreaming of you, and I fancied you

were speaking of me with scorn and derision--pulling me to pieces in a

jesting conversation with a very satirical person, who vied with you in

ridiculing me, and in mimicking all my oddities.'

'Forgive me--oh, forgive me! you dreamed the truth,' cried the painter,

in great agitation, while he threw himself down by the sick man's

couch, and embraced his knees.

An explanation ensued between the two friends who had so long been

estranged from each other--mutual confessions were made--old feelings

were revived in the hearts of both--and an entire reconciliation

immediately took place. The unusual emotion, and the surprise at the

event related to him, did not, as might have been expected, increase

the illness of the nervous and debilitated invalid; on the contrary,

the meeting with his former friend appeared to have had a good effect

on his health, for in the course of a few weeks he had quite recovered.

The old lady's qualifications as a seer, or rather her strange faculty

of beholding, to others invisible, apparitions, had been productive of

good; but it was such an extraordinary revelation, agreeing so entirely

with what both the reconciled friends knew to be the truth, that they

could only look upon it as a proof of the reality of what was then

beginning to be so much talked of--the magnetic clairvoyance.

They continued unalterable friends from that time. From that time,

also, the artist felt an involuntary horror at ridiculing the absent,

or making or listening to any censorious remarks upon them; he always

fancied that the injured party might be standing _as a secret witness_

by his side, with one hand on his breast, and the other raised in an

appeal to that great Judge, who alone can know what is passing in every

heart and every soul.

AGNETE AND THE MERMAN.

BY JENS BAGGESEN.

Agnete she was guileless.

She was beloved and true,

But solitude, it charm'd her,

And mirth she never knew--

She never knew--

She made the joy of all around

Yet never felt it too.

Over the dark blue waves,

Agnete, gazing, bends,

When lo! a merman rising there

From ocean's depths ascends;

Up he ascends.

Yet still, Agnete's bending form

With the soft billows blends.

His glossy hair, it seemed as spun

Out of the purest gold,

His beaming eye, it brightly glow'd

With warmest love untold--

With love untold!

And his scale-cover'd bosom held

A heart that was not cold.

The song he sang Agnete,

On love and sorrow rang;

His voice it was so melting soft,

So sadly sweet he sang--

Sadly he sang.

It seemed as if his beating heart

Upon his lips it sprang.

'And hearken, dear Agnete!

What I shall say to thee--

My heart, oh! it is breaking, sweet!

With longing after thee!

Still after thee!

Oh! wilt thou ease my sorrow, love,

Oh! wilt thou smile on me?'

Two silver buckles lay

Upon the rocky shore,

And aught more rich, or aught more bright,

No princess ever wore,

No, never wore.

'My best beloved,'--so sang he--

'Add these unto thy store!'

Then drew he from his breast

A string of pearls so rare--

None richer, no, or none more pure

Did princess ever wear--

Oh! ever wear.

'My best beloved,' so sang he,

'Accept this bracelet fair!'

Then from his finger drew he

A ring of jewels fine--

And none more brilliant, none more rich,

Midst princely gems might shine;

'Here, here from mine.

My best beloved,' so sang he,

'Oh, place this upon thine!'

Agnete, on the deep sea

Beholds the sky's soft hue,

The waves they were so crystal clear,

The ocean 'twas so blue!

Oh! so blue!

The merman smiled, and thus he sang,

As near to her he drew:--

'Ah! hearken, my Agnete,

What I to thee shall speak:

For thee my heart is burning, love,

For thee, my heart will break!

Oh! 'twill break!

Say, sweet, wilt thou be kind to me,

And grant the love I seek?'

'Dear merman! hearken thou,

Yes, I will list to thee!

If deep beneath the sparkling waves

Thou'lt downward carry me--

Take thou me!

And bear me to thine ocean bow'r

There, I will dwell with thee.'

Then stoppeth he her ears,

Her mouth then stoppeth he;

And with the lady he hath fled,

Deep, deep beneath the sea!

Beneath the sea!

There kiss'd they, and embraced they,

So fond, and safe, and free!

For full two years and more,

Agnete, she lived there,

And warm, untiring, faithful love

They to each other bear;

Such love they bear.

Within the merman's shelly bower

Are born two children fair.

Agnete--she sat tranquilly.

And to her boys she sang;

When hark! a sound of earth she hears,

How solemnly it rang!

Ding--dong--dang!

It was the church's passing bell

In Holme Vale that clang.

Agnete, from the cradle,

Springs suddenly away,

She hastes to seek her merman dear,

'Loved merman, say I may--

Say--Oh say,

That I, ere midnight's hour, may take

To Holme's church my way?'

'Thou wishest ere the midnight

To Holme church to go?

See then that thou, ere day, art back

Here, to thy boys below--

Go--go--go!

But ere the morning light return

Come to thy sons below!'

He stoppeth then her ears,

Her mouth then stoppeth he;

And upwards they together rise

Till Holme Vale they see.

'Now part we!'

They part, and he descends again

Beneath the deep blue sea.

Straight on to the churchyard,

Agnete's footsteps hie:

She meets--O God! her mother there,

And turns again to fly.

'Why--O why?'

Her mother's voice her steps arrests

Thus speaking with a sigh:--

'Oh hearken, my Agnete,

What I shall say to thee,

Where has thy distant dwelling been

So long away from me?

Away from me!

Say, where hast thou, my child, been hid

So long and secretly?'

'O mother! I have dwelt

Beneath the boundless main,

Within a merman's coral bower,

And we have children twain,

Beneath the main.

I came to pray--and then I go

Back to the deep again!'

'But hearken thou, Agnete,

What I to thee shall say--

Here thy two little daughters weep

Because thou art away;

By night, by day,

Thy little girls bemoan and grieve;

With them thou'lt surely stay?'

'Well--let my daughters small

For me both grieve and long,

My ears are closed--I cannot hear

Their cries yon waves among!

Oh! I belong

To my dear sons, and they will die

If I my stay prolong.'

'Have pity on thy babes--

Let them not pine away!

Oh! think upon thy youngest child

Who in her cradle lay!

With them oh stay!

Forget yon elves, and with thine own,

Thy lawful children stay!'

'Nay, let them bloom or fade--

The two--as Heav'n may will!

My heart is closed--their cries no more

Can now my bosom thrill--

Oh! no more thrill!

For now my merman's sons alone

All my affections fill.'

'Alas! though thou canst thus

Thy smiling babes forget;

Yet think upon their father's faith,

Thy noble lord's regret,

The fate he met!

As soon as thou wert lost to him

His sun of joy was set.

'Long--long he search'd for thee,

He went a weary way;

At last from yonder shelving rock

He cast himself one day--

One dismal day.

His corpse upon the pebbly strand

In the dim twilight lay!

'And here--'twas not long since--

His coffin they did bring;

Ha! list, my daughter, hearest thou?

The midnight bells they ring!

Ding--dong--ding!'

Away her mother hastens then

As loud the church bells ring.

Agnete, o'er the church-door

Stepp'd softly from without,

When all the little images

They seem'd to turn about;

Round about.

Within the church, the images

They seem'd to turn about.

Agnete gazes on

The altar-piece so fair;

The altar-piece it seem'd to turn,

And the altar with it there.

All where'er

Her eye it fell within the church,

Seem'd turning, turning there!

Agnete, on the ground

She gazed in thoughtful mood,

When lo! she saw her mother's name

That on a tomb-stone stood.

There it stood!

Then, sudden from her bursting heart,

Flow'd back her chill'd life's blood.

Agnete--first she stagger'd back,

She fainted, then she fell.

Now may her children long in vain

For her they loved so well.

Oh, so well!

Now, neither sons nor daughters more

To her their wants may tell.

Ay! Let them weep, and let them long,

And seek her o'er and o'er!

Dark, dark, are now her eyes so bright,

They ne'er shall open more!

Oh, never more!

And crush'd is now that death-cold heart,

So warm with love before.

A WAKING DREAM.

He sat alone. It was not twilight, it was night, deep, dark night. He

had extinguished the lamp, for he wished that all around him should be

gloomy as his own sad thoughts. Even the pitiful glimmering light,

which was cast by the fire in the stove on the objects near it, was

disagreeable to him, for it showed him a portion, at least, of the

scene of his bygone happiness. His bitter sorrow seemed to have

petrified all his faculties, and entirely blasted his life; he did not

appear to reflect, he only felt. The deep sighs that every now and then

burst from his compressed lips were all that gave sign of existence

about him. That agitated tremor, those wild lamentations, those burning

tears,--the glowing look which griefs volcano casts forth, lay hidden

amidst the ashes of mute and agonized suffering.

But a few years before he had been the most hopeful of lovers; and

somewhat later, the happiest of husbands and of fathers. Now all--all

was lost! Death had stretched forth his mighty hand and taken his

treasures from him; blow after blew had fate thus inflicted on

his bleeding heart. He--the strong man--the high-minded--the

richly-endowed--sat there like a lifeless statue, without purpose,

without motion, without energy: all had been swept away in the

earthquake which had engulphed the happiness of his home, and he had

not power to raise a new structure upon the ruins of the past.

While he was sitting thus, a momentary blaze in the fire showed him the

portrait of his departed wife, which hung against the wall. How many

recollections the sight of it awakened! Oh, how distinctly he

remembered the day when that painting had been finished for him! It was

a short time before his marriage; he was gazing on it in an ecstasy of

delight, when the lovely original cast her beaming eyes on him and

whispered, 'Do you really think it beautiful? Is it so beautiful that

when I become old and grey-headed, you may look at my picture and

remember your love, your feelings for me, when we were both young?' And

when he assured her, that for him she would always be young, she

replied so sweetly, 'Oh, I am not afraid of becoming old by your side;

it will be so delightful to have lived a long life of love with you!'

Alas! he was still young, but he had to wander through perhaps a long,

long life alone. How had he beheld her last? She was lying in her

coffin--young and lovely, but pale and motionless. And he--who

still breathed and felt--he it was who had clung in despair to that

coffin--he who, with a breaking heart, had laid her dark hair smoothly

on her marble-white cheek, had pressed his lips for the last time on

her cold forehead, had folded her transparent hands and bedewed them

with his tears, and had laid his throbbing head on that so lately

beating heart, which never, never more would thrill with sorrow or with

joy. But who could describe that depth of grief, that rending of the

soul, that agonizing convulsion of the heart, when the last farewell

look on earth--the long, eager, parting look--was taken, and the head

was raised from the harrowing contemplation of these beloved features,

which were soon to be snatched and hidden from his gaze! Then despair

seized upon him, and his grief could find no relief in tears.

In these heart-breaking recollections his spirit was long absorbed; at

length he pressed his hands on his aching temples, burst into a flood

of tears, and exclaimed:

'Oh, thou whom I loved so truly! hast thou indeed forsaken me? Can it

be possible that thou hast dissevered thyself from my soul! Oft

have I dreamed that thou wert harkening to my lamentations, that

thou wert lingering by my side, and soothing my sorrow! But it was

fancy--cheating fancy! Thou who didst feel so much affection for

me--thou who wert never deaf to my prayers--hast thou heard me, and yet

not answered me? How often during the sad weary night have I not called

upon thee! See--I stretch forth my arms and embrace only the empty

air--I gaze around for thee, but am left in oppressive solitude. Oh, if

thou _canst_ hear me, beloved spirit! if it be possible that thou canst

hear me--come, oh come!' His voice was choked by tears.

At last, when the water mist had passed from his eyes, removing, as it

were, a veil from before them, he gazed wearily on the darkness around,

and perceived a faint ray of light, which gradually seemed to become

clearer. At first he thought it was the moon casting its uncertain

gleams through the window; but the light seemed to extend itself. The

corner of the room opposite to him seemed illumined by a pale,

tremulous lustre that spread down to the floor. His heart beat

violently as he gazed intently at the miraculous light. By degrees it

assumed something like a shape, an airy, transparent figure, clad in a

shining garment that glittered like the stars of heaven; and when it

turned its countenance towards him, he recognized the features of her

he had lost, but radiant in celestial peace and glory. Her clear eyes,

which were fixed upon him, beamed with an expression of indescribable

benignity.

The deep grief that had oppressed his spirit gave place to a wonderful,

a mysterious feeling of holy calmness which he had never before

experienced.

'Oh, speak!' he entreated softly, as if he were afraid to disturb the

beautiful apparition, and holding his clasped hands beseechingly

towards it--'Oh let me hear that voice, the echo of whose dear accents

still lives in my heart! Hast thou taken compassion on me?'

'Didst thou not call me?' replied the apparition in a faint, subdued

tone, yet so full of tenderness and affection that it seemed to inspire

him with new life. 'Hast thou not often called me? I could no longer

withstand thy supplication. The sorrows and sufferings of earth have

lost their bitterness and their sting for those who have become

heavenly spirits--those who have seen the Omnipotent face to face; but

thy grief touched my heart even in the midst of blessedness. I could

not be happy whilst thou wert wretched. Often have I hovered around

thee, often lingered by thy side, often wafted coolness to thy burning

brow; and when thy sadness would seem to be somewhat soothed, I have

lain at thy feet, and contemplated thy beloved countenance. I was by

thee when thou didst lean weeping over my coffin, and in an agony of

woe didst cling to that body whence my soul had fled. Oh! how much I

wished then that thou couldst look up at me, and know how near I was to

thee! Oh! how willingly I would have embraced thee, had the Almighty

permitted me! I was also with thee when our beloved infant lay in its

last earthly struggle. My dying child called for me, and the heart of

the mother yearned to respond to that call which had reached her, even

when surrounded by the happiness of eternity, I came down to earth to

answer it. Like an airy shadow, I glided through the garden paths in

the still summer night, and all the plants and the flower exhaled their

sweetest fragrance to salute me, for they felt that I had come from a

better world. And Nature spoke to me with its spirit voice, and

besought me to consecrate its soil with my ethereal step. The dark

elder-tree and the blushing rosebush made signs to me, asking me if I

remembered how often they had shed their perfume around us, when you

and I, wrapped in our mutual happiness, used to wander in the soft

evenings, arm in arm--heart answering heart--eye meeting eye--through

the verdant alleys and flower-enamelled walks; but I could not linger

over these sweet remembrances, I passed on to watch the death-bed of

the little innocent who longed so for its mother. And when thou, my

beloved! overcome by affliction, let thine aching head sink in helpless

sorrow on its couch, our child lay, peaceful and joyous, in my embrace,

and ascended to heaven with me to pray for thee. Oh, dearest one I how

canst thou think that death has power to sever hearts that have once

been united in everlasting love!'

He listened in mute and breathless ecstasy to these words, which

sounded as the softest melody to his enraptured ear. When the voice

ceased, he stretched forth his arms towards the beloved shade, and said

beseechingly:

'Forgive me, angel of Paradise--forgive me! I feel now that the

happiness of heaven is so great that nothing mortal can compare with

it. Yet for my sake thou hast left awhile this inconceivable felicity,

and deigned to assuage my grief, and to speak balm to my heart. Thanks,

blessed spirit--thanks! My path shall no longer be gloomy--my life no

longer lonesome!'

'Thou wilt sigh no more--thou wilt no longer weep?' asked the spirit,

with a radiant smile.

'Thou shalt be my guardian angel, blessed spirit!' he replied, in deep

emotion.

'God be thanked!' ejaculated the spirit in holy joy. It waved its

shadowy hand to him, and as it seemed to turn to move away, its airy

robe sparkled luminously for a moment; it then glittered more and more

faintly, till it looked like the twinkling of some distant star.

Then earth-born wishes seized again upon _his_ heart.

'Alas;' he cried, as he made an involuntary movement towards the

vanishing shadow, 'shall I, then, never behold thee more in this

world?'

A holy light passed over the scarcely defined features of the spirit,

while it replied, as if from afar--

'Yes! once more--but only once. When thy last hour approaches--when the

bitterness of death is passed--then shalt thou tell those that watch by

thy couch, and who, incredulous, will deem thy words the raving of

delirium--then shalt thou tell them that a messenger from a glorious

world is standing by thy side. That messenger will be me. I shall come

to kiss the last breath from thy pale quivering lips, to gladden the

last glance of thy closing eyes, and, after the heart's last pulsation,

to receive thy parted soul, and be its guide to the realms of endless

happiness, where I now await thee.'

He listened and bowed his head. When he raised it--all was dark and

empty. He went to the window, and looked out upon the dazzling snow,

and up to the brilliant star-lit heavens, and prayed in sadness, but

with earnest devotion.

He lives to perform his duties, to do good to his fellow-creatures, to

serve his God. He is never gay nor lively; but he is tranquil and

content. He loves quiet and solitude. He loves in winter to lose

himself in meditation while gazing on the calm, cold face of nature;

and in summer to loiter in silence, till a late hour at night, amidst

his garden's sweetly-scented walks. He is a lonely wanderer on the

earth; yet not quite so lonely as he is thought to be, for he is often

soothed by delightful dreams, and then he smiles happily, as if in his

visions he had been consoled by the presence of a beloved being.

If his soul sometimes ventures humbly to indulge in the wish that it

might soon enter into death's peaceful land, none can tell; his silent

aspirations are known to none--to none but _Him_ who sees into the

deepest recesses of the human heart.

THE CONFESSIONAL.

BY CHRISTIAN WINTHER.

In the Magdalene Church at Girgenti[9] preparations had been made for a

grand festival. It was adorned, as usual on such occasions, with red

tapestry and flowers. The hour of noon had struck, the workmen had left

the church, and there reigned around that deep, solemn stillness which,

in Catholic places of worship, is so appropriate and so imposing.

Two gentlemen, who conversed in a low tone of voice, were pacing up and

down the long aisle that runs along the northern side of the building,

and seemed to be enjoying the shade and coolness of the church, as if

it had been a public promenade. The elder was a man of about thirty

years of age, stout, broad-shouldered, and strongly built, with a grave

countenance, in which no trace of passion was visible: this was Don

Antonio Carracciolio, Marquis d'Arena. The other, who seemed a mere

youth, had a slender, graceful figure, an animated, handsome face, and

dark eyes, soft almost as those of a woman--which wandered from side to

side with approving glances, as if he had some peculiar interest in the

interior of the sacred edifice. And such he certainly had; for he was

the architect who had planned the church and superintended its

erection. He was called Giulio Balzetti, and had only lately returned

from Rome. Suddenly they stopped.

'I shall entrust you with a secret, which I think will amuse you,

Signor Marquis,' said the younger man, in the easy intimate tones in

which one speaks to a friend at whose house one is a daily visitor--'a

secret with which, I believe, no one is acquainted but myself. You see

the effects of acoustics sometimes play us builders strange tricks

where we least expect or wish them. Chance, a mere accident, has

revealed to me, that when one stands here--here upon this white marble

slab--one can distinctly overhear every syllable, even of the lowest

whisper, uttered far from this, yonder, where you may observe the

second last confessional; while, in a straight line between this point

and that, you would not be sensible of any sound, were you even much

nearer the place. If you will remain standing here, I will go yonder to

the confessional in question, and you will be astonished at this

miracle of nature.'

He went accordingly, but scarcely had he moved the distance of a couple

of steps, when the Marquis distinctly heard a whisper, the subject of

which seemed to make a strong impression upon him. He stood as rigid

and marble-white as if suddenly turned to stone by some magician's

wand; while the painfully anxious attention with which he listened, and

which was expressed in his otherwise stony features, gave evidence that

he was hearing something of excessive importance. He did not move a

muscle--he scarcely breathed--he was like one who is standing on the

extreme verge of an abyss, into which he is afraid of falling, and his

rolling eyes and beating heart alone gave signs of his violent

agitation.

In a very few minutes the young architect came back smiling, and called

out from a little distance, 'I could not manage to make the experiment,

for some one was in the confessional--from the glimpse I got, a lady

closely veiled--but, Heavens! what is the matter with you?'

The only answer which the Marquis gave the Italian was to place his

finger on his mouth, and he continued to stand motionless. After a

minute or two he drew a deep sigh. The statue passed out of its

speechless magic trance, and returned again to life.

'It is nothing, dear Giulio!' said he, in a friendly tone. 'Do not

think that I am superstitious; but I assure you this mysterious and

wonderful natural phenomenon has taken me so much by surprise, that it

has had a strange effect on me. Come, let us go! I shall recover myself

in the fresh air,' he added, as he took Balzetti's arm, and led him to

the promenade on the outside of the town.

The two gentlemen walked up and down there for about an hour, when the

Marquis bade the young man adieu, saying, at the same time, 'Tomorrow,

after the festival is over, will you come out as usual to our villa?'

At a very early hour the next morning the Marquis entered his wife's

private suite of apartments. The waiting-maid, who just at that moment

was coming into the anteroom by another door, started, and looked quite

astounded.

'Did your lady ring?' asked the Marquis.

'No, your excellency!' replied the woman, curtseying low and colouring

violently.

'Then wait till you are called,' said the Marquis, as he opened the

door of the dressing-room, which separated the sleeping-room from the

antechamber.

As he crossed the threshold he was met by his lovely young wife,

attired in a morning-gown so light and flowing, that it looked as if it

must have been the one in which she had arisen from her couch. The

Marquis stopped and stood still, as if struck with his wife's extreme

beauty. He did not appear to observe the uneasiness, the inward tempest

of feelings that, chasing all the blood from her cheeks, had sent it to

her heart, and caused its beating to be too plainly visible under the

robe of slight fabric which was thrown around her.

'You are up early this morning, Antonio!' said the young Marchioness,

in a scarcely audible tone of voice, with a deepening blush and a

forced smile. 'What do you want here?'

'Could you be surprised, my Lauretta? Light of my eyes!' said the

Marquis, in the blandest and most insinuating of accents, 'could you be

surprised if I came both early and late? And yet, dearest, this morning

my visit is not to you alone. You know to-day is the feast of the Holy

Magdalene, and a great festival in the Church. I have taken it into my

head to usher in this day by paying my tribute of admiration to the

glorious Magdalene of Titian, which you had placed in your own sleeping

apartment. Will you permit me?' he asked, very politely, as with slow

steps, but in a determined manner, he walked towards the door.

'Everything is really in such sad disorder there,' said his young wife,

with a rapid glance through the half-open door; 'but ... go, since you

will. I shall begin making my toilette here in the mean time.'

And he went in.

'How charming,' he cried, in a peculiar tone of voice--'how charming is

not all this disorder! This graceful robe thrown carelessly down--these

fairy slippers! There is something that awakens the fancy, something

delicious in the very air of this room! All this is absolutely poetry.'

His searching look fastened itself upon the snow-white couch, the

silken coverlet of which was drawn up and spread out, but could not

entirely conceal the outline of a human figure, lying as flat as

possible, evidently in the endeavour to escape observation.

'I will sit down awhile,' said the Marquis, in the cheerful voice of a

person who has no unpleasant thought in his mind, 'and contemplate this

master-work.'

As he said this he took up a pillow, its white covering trimmed with

wide lace, and laid it on the spot where he thought the face of the

concealed person must be, and placed himself upon it with all the

weight of his somewhat bulky figure, whilst he placed his right hand

upon the chest of the reclining form, and pressed on it with all his

force.

Without heeding the involuntary, frightful, and convulsive

heavings--the death-throes of his wretched victim--the Marquis

exclaimed, in a calm, firm voice,--

'How beautifully that picture is finished! How noble and chaste does

not the lovely penitent look, all sinner as she was, with her rich

golden locks waving over that neck and those shoulders whiter than

alabaster, while these graceful hands are clasped, and these contrite,

tearful eyes seem gazing up yonder, whence alone mercy and pardon can

be obtained! One could almost become a poet in gazing on so splendid a

work of art. But ah! I never had the happy talent of an improvisatore.

In place, therefore, of poetizing, I will tell you something that

happened yesterday. Our little friend Giulio Balzetti took me round the

Magdalene Church; and, whilst we were wandering about, he pointed out a

particular spot to me, and bade me stand quite still there, telling me

that _there_ might be overheard what was said at another spot at some

distance in the church. And he was right. At that other place stood the

confessional No. 6. I had hardly placed myself on the marble flag

indicated to me, than I heard a charming voice--God knows who it was

speaking!--but she was confessing the sorrows of her heart and her

little sins to the holy father. She had a husband, she said, whom she

loved--yes, she loved him, and he loved her: he was very kind to her,

and left her much at liberty; in short, she gave the husband credit for

all sorts of good qualities, but, unfortunately, she had fallen in love

with another man! She did not mention his name. I should like to have

heard it. He must be one of our handsome young cavaliers about the

town. And this other loved her, too--she could not help it, poor

thing!--and so she found room for him in her heart as well as

for the husband. This other one was so handsome, so pleasing, so

fascinating!... Well ... if her husband did not know what was going on,

he could not be vexed, and ... it would do him no harm. So she had

promised to admit the lover early this morning. Do you hear? This is

what the French dames call "passer ses caprices." At last, she begged

the good priest to give her absolution beforehand. And he did so: he

gave the absolution! What do you think of all this, my love?' said the

Marquis, as he rose from the couch, where all was now still as death,

'Well,' he continued, in a jocular tone, 'our worthy priests are almost

too complaisant and indulgent--at least, most of them. Our old Father

Gregorio, however, would have taken _you_ to task after a different

fashion, if you ...'

He broke off abruptly, while he quietly laid the pillow in its own

place, and deliberately turned down the embroidered coverlet. It was

the architect Giulio Balzetti whom the Marquis beheld: he had ceased to

breathe!

'Have you been to confession lately, my Laura?' asked the Marquis.

There was no answer.

'Is it long since you have been to confession?' he asked, in a louder

and sterner voice.

'No!' replied the young woman, in the lowest possible tone.

'Apropos,' said the Marquis, as he covered the frightfully distorted

and blue face of the corpse with the coverlet, 'shall we not go to the

grand festival at the church to-day? The procession begins exactly at

twelve o'clock. I shall order the carriage--we really must not miss

it.'

He returned to the dressing-room. The Marchioness was sitting in a

large cushioned lounging-chair, the thick tresses of her dark hair

hanging negligently down, her lips and cheeks as pale as death, and her

hands resting listlessly on her lap.

'What is the matter, my dear child?' asked the Marquis, inwardly

triumphing at her distress, but with fair and friendly words upon his

lips. 'You have risen too early, my little Laura; and you have also

fatigued yourself in trying to dress without assistance. Where is

Pipetta? I shall ring for her now.' He pulled the bell-rope--approached

his wife--slightly kissed her brow--and then left her apartments.

At mid-day, when all the bells of the churches were pealing, the

Marquis's splendid state carriage, with four horses adorned with

gilded trappings, stood before the gate of his palace, and a crowd of

richly-dressed pages, footmen, and grooms, were in waiting there.

Presently the Marquis appeared in his brilliant court costume, with

glittering stars on his breast, his hat in one hand, whilst with the

other he led his young and beautiful but deadly-pale wife. With the

utmost attention he handed her down the marble steps, and while her

countenance looked as cold and stony as that of a statue, his eyes

flashed with a fire that was unusual to them. The servants hurried

forwards, the carriage-door was opened, the noble pair entered it, and

it drove off towards the town. In the crowded streets the foot

passengers turned round to gaze at it, and exclaimed to each other,

'There go a happy couple!'

The architect had disappeared. No one suspected that on the day of the

grand festival he lay dead--a blue and terrible-looking corpse--amidst

boots and shoes, at the bottom of a noble young dame's wardrobe; or

that, the following night, without shroud or coffin, his body was

secretly transported by the lady's faithful servants to a neighbouring

mountain, and there thrown into a deep cave. But the lady paid a large

sum to the convent of the Magdalens for the sake of his soul's repose.

The monk Gregorio--the accommodating and favourite confessor of the

fashionable world--was also soon after missing. But _he_ was not

dead--he lingered for some years in a subterranean prison belonging to

a monastery of one of the strictest orders: a punishment to which he

had been condemned through the influence of the Marquis d'Arena.

That the confessional No. 6 was removed, will be easily believed.

The Marquis never alluded to these events before his wife. When they

appeared in public together, as also in society at his own home, he

treated her with respect, often with attention. But he never again

spoke to her in private, nor did he ever again enter those apartments

which had once been the scene of so dreadful a tragedy.

THE ANCESTRESS; OR, FAMILY PRIDE.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF THE LATE BARONESS KNORRING.

I.

Adelgunda was one of the most beautiful creatures ever moulded by the

great Master's hand, and one on whom He might deign to look with the

same paternal complacency as Pygmalion looked on his Galathea.

Adelgunda was also as the apple of their eye to her father and mother;

but not the less did they bring her up with the utmost strictness and

severity, in the awful loftiness of their aristocratic principles,

which made no allowance for a single error, a single imperfection, a

single weakness even, among any who belonged to them. Everyone was to

be super-excellent, and supremely high-bred like their ancestors; for

their ancestors had only _virtues_, their failings being entombed with

their bodies. The slightest infringement of the stately decorum,

the formal propriety--and, to the honour of their ancestors we must

add--the rectitude, the loyal and chivalric conduct of these worthies,

called forth as unmerciful punishment as a heinous fault. And

Adelgunda, from her earliest infancy, learned to form grand ideas about

her noble, ancient, and opulent family; it was impressed on her mind

that she would be very degenerate indeed if she did not resemble all

those long departed, and now mouldering dames and damsels, whose

portraits hung in long rows in the great picture-gallery, as a large

old-fashioned apartment was called, which, in spite of accidental

fires, of repairs and renovations in the old baronial castle, had

preserved unaltered its antique appearance since the middle of the

sixteenth century.

In her infancy, Adelgunda had often been taken into this venerable

saloon, and, counting with her five small fingers, she could repeat the

names of all those haughty-looking, long-bearded cavaliers, equipped in

heavy armour, or these stiff, richly-dressed nobles, most of them

decorated with jewelled orders, or other tokens of a high worldly

position; and these grand-looking ladies, encased in whalebone and

stiff corsets, with towering powdered heads and magnificent jewellery,

evincing the wealth of the family. These ladies and gentlemen hung, as

has been said, in straight rows on each side of the long, narrow, dark,

oak-paneled hall; and they were all half-length portraits in oval or

almost square frames, the gilding of which had long since faded into a

sort of a brownish-yellow cinnamon tint. But at the end of the hall,

between two deep Gothic windows, with small old-fashioned panes of

glass, there hung alone in state the great _ancestress_, or founder of

the family--a tall, dark, stern-looking woman, whose countenance was

grave, austere, and almost menacing, though the features, when narrowly

examined, were regular and beautiful.

In contrast to the half-length portraits around, this picture was

almost colossal in size; and the noble lady it represented, who in

Roman Catholic times had ended her days as the Abbess of a convent,

stood there so stately and so stiff in the close black garb, with the

unbecoming white linen band across her forehead, and with one hand, in

which she held a crucifix, resting on a dark-looking stand, on which a

missal, a skull, and a rosary, lay near each other, the other hand hung

carelessly down by her side, and almost reached the lower portion of

the picture-frame, which seemed considerably darker and more time-worn

than all the rest. This picture was painted on thick wood, or on canvas

stretched on wood, it was not certain which, but everyone knew that it

was as heavy as lead--and so it proved to be.

The likeness of the patriarch of the family--of the father of the

race--painted to correspond in size and everything else to that of the

high-born lady above mentioned, had in former days hung also in this

saloon, but had been destroyed in a fire which had taken place between

the years 1740 and 1750, so that the stern imperious-looking dame now

occupied the place of honour alone.

Her parents had never omitted, when they accompanied Adelgunda into the

picture gallery, to take her up first to one, then to another of the

noble ladies whose lineaments adorned the walls, saying, 'How fortunate

for you if you could be as good as _this_ ancestress of yours was--as

clever as _that_ one--as beautiful as _she_ was--as dutiful and

affectionate as _yon_ lady!' Adelgunda would fix her eyes on each by

turns, and every time she looked at them her desire to resemble them

increased. But the great gloomy portrait of the tall dark lady always

awakened a thrill of terror in the little girl's mind. This was partly

owing to the tales with which the servants frightened her about this

harsh, awful-looking abbess, partly to her being obliged, whenever she

was naughty, to go into the sombre apartment where the picture was,

and, curtseying before it, to beg pardon of the stern, threatening

figure.

With her tearful looks fixed upon it, she had often fancied that the

eyes of the portrait moved; but it was a still greater trial to poor

Adelgunda, when she had been guilty of some great offence, to be

condemned, as a punishment, to stand for a quarter of an hour, or

half-an-hour, under the dreaded portrait with her back to it.

There was a tradition in the family that many, many years back, during

the lifetime of one of the more ancient lords of the castle, a little

girl, a member of the race, who was undergoing a similar punishment,

distinctly felt the terrible lady's hand, which hung unemployed by her

side, stretch over the picture-frame and seize roughly hold of her

hair. The recollection of that tradition was martyrdom to Adelgunda

when this most dreaded penance was inflicted on her; and on one

occasion, when her conscience was not of the clearest, and she had

cried herself almost into a fever from fright, she fancied that she

actually felt a grasp at her little golden tresses.

It is easy to imagine how anxious, in consequence of all this,

Adelgunda was to avoid committing any faults, and with what terror the

picture inspired her. And even in riper years, when she began to lay

aside her childish dress and childish ideas, and when reason told her

that a painted figure could have no more power or influence than any

other inanimate object, she still looked with a certain degree of awe

upon the portrait of her frowning ancestress, especially when her

conscience told her that she had been guilty of any slight

indiscretion; while, on the contrary, she felt some pleasure at gazing

on the other family pictures, which all seemed to smile upon her.

But years and time wore on, and the aristocratic bones of Adelgunda's

proud, high-born parents were laid in the dust to mingle with the

honoured remains of the old stock. She was then still in her minority,

and found a new home with a kind aunt, who had resided too short a time

under the same roof with the ancestral portraits, and in the place

which had been the cradle of their race, to have imbibed their

exaggerated family pride.

The estate, which was entailed, with everything belonging to it,

including the much-prized portrait, passed in trust, for future

generations, to Adelgunda's only brother, of whom we purposely have not

spoken, that we might not be obliged to give an account of all the

exaggerated ideas of the consequence of his family which his father and

mother had diligently and zealously laboured to imprint on the mind of

their son--the only male scion of that ancient house, which was now

threatened with speedy extinction--he who, after them, was alone to

represent the glory of their time-honoured ancestry. What precepts and

exhortations he, the only son and last hope, received under his

progenitor's portrait--what deference and devotion were inculcated to

the name of the haughty-looking abbess, whose severe virtue and pious

deeds were held to reflect honour on her descendants--what aristocratic

ideas and exclusive principles were there engrafted on his soul, we

will not stop to relate--they would be incomprehensible to many, and do

not require to be dwelt on in our short tale.

In the aunt's cheerful, hospitable, pleasant, light modern villa quite

another tone prevailed, and quite another mode of life from that within

the solid walls of the old baronial castle or under its gloomy roof. At

Adelgunda's age new impressions are soon received, new associations and

new ideas are welcomed with avidity, and seldom fail to influence the

mind. Adelgunda--truth obliges us to confess--soon forgot a very

stringent and important paragraph in the paternal and maternal

lectures--forgot the faithful portraits of the defunct females of her

noble house, and even the threatening glance--the dark eye that shone

from beneath the white linen fillet of the haughty abbess--forgot them

all amidst new-born and overflowing happiness in the arms of an adored

and adoring husband, a young naval officer, rich in all nature's

brightest gifts, and standing high in the opinion of the world, but on

whom the great ancestress would certainly never have permitted her hand

to be bestowed, had she known of the matter; for his patent of nobility

was not mouldy from age, was not even made out, and still worse, was

not likely ever to be drawn up, because he did not feel the slightest

wish ever to possess one.

Adelgunda, nevertheless, felt unspeakably happy, and her noble brother,

to whom the family mode of thinking had descended as an heirloom in

conjunction with the entailed property, winked at the plebeian

match--partly because he well knew that Adelgunda's very limited

portion would never tempt any among the needy and impoverished of his

own class to lay their hearts at her feet--partly because it was the

preservation of the family name and tree in his own person that lay

nearest to his heart, not the offshoots from the female line--and

partly that, though he was a proud man, and unflinching in his

aristocratical notions, he had a kind heart, was fondly attached to his

sister, rejoiced in her happiness, and was well aware how much superior

in character his estimable brother-in-law was to the generality of the

young men of the day.

But for himself, this brother and lord of the castle sought a spouse

who should entwine no vulgar burgher twig around the fair branches of

his genealogical tree, but one who counted as many generations as other

good qualities; for ancient lineage is not apt, like wealth, to corrupt

the heart, and Adelgunda's sister-in-law was truly an amiable lady.

Again the lordly halls of the ancient castle became the abode of

domestic happiness; and it was admitted that it could not be otherwise,

for not one alone, but many of the old servants who had passed into the

service of the heir of entail, and who were not notorious for their

superstition, had clearly and distinctly observed that the first time

the young countess entered the picture gallery, the majestic ancestress

had relaxed her stern lips almost into a smile of approbation, which

had never happened but once before--in the year 1664, on a similar

occasion; a remarkable event, which had been recorded by the chaplain

of the castle, with many subscribing witnesses, in a document which was

preserved like a holy relic amidst the family's most valued papers,

parchments, and deeds.

When the young count and countess were happily wedded, and comfortably

settled at the castle, which however, did not happen until about five

years after Adelgunda's marriage to her delightful naval hero, the

brother and sister felt a strong wish to meet once more under the

paternal roof. And Adelgunda's husband promised that on his return in

autumn from an expedition in which he was then engaged, he, his wife,

and their little son, a boy about four years of age, should without any

delay accept of the count's invitation, and make the visit so much

desired by all parties--even by the young countess, Adelgunda's

sister-in-law, who was by no means a stranger to her. They had been

friends in childhood, indeed were distantly related to each other; for

it so happens that almost all the families amongst the most ancient of

the Swedish nobility are connected by ties of consanguinity.

At length the long-looked-for day arrived, and Adelgunda beheld, with

tears of mingled joy and sorrow, the grey old towers of the castle

where she was born, and where she had spent her earliest years--those

years which, on comparing them with the subsequent epochs of our life,

we denominate the gayest and the happiest. Adelgunda and her husband,

who had had a long day's journey, arrived late in the evening at the

castle, and were shortly after conducted to their sleeping-rooms, a

suite of lofty arched apartments in one of the farthest towers, and in

the olden time the principal guest-chambers, but which did not bear the

best of reputations as regarded spectres, midnight noises, groans,

rattling of chains, and the like horrors. Adelgunda had all her life

entertained great respect for, but also no little fear of, these

apartments; and those feelings were probably heightened by an old

tradition which averred that some most extraordinary and mysterious

events had taken place in these chambers. Some pretended to know that

one of these apartments, which along with the picture-gallery had

remained most unchanged during the lapse of years, had served as the

bridal-chamber for the great ancestress of the family; at any rate,

there was something that savoured of awe and discomfort about them.

Never in her life had Adelgunda slept in any of these gloomy

apartments, and in former days nothing would have induced her to do so;

but now, with her brave, bold sailor by her side, she smiled at her old

childish fears,--at least when he laughed at her recital of them. She

would not, however, on any account, allow her little Victor to sleep in

the first antechamber with the trembling waiting-maid, but placed the

child's crib close to her own bed, and often during the long, dark, and

stormy autumnal night, when the wind shook the panes of glass, and

howled through the adjacent forest, and she was awakened by its

violence, she turned quickly, and with a beating heart, towards the

child, leaned over his little bed, and felt unhappy until she had

ascertained that her darling was sleeping soundly and peacefully.

'Well!' said her husband the next morning, when the sun was already

pretty high in the heavens, and cast his cheerful rays through the

narrow casements of these haunted chambers--'well, dearest Adelgunda,

have you heard or seen any spectre last night--been visited in any way

by a ghost?'

'No,' she replied laughingly, as the bright sunshine restored her

courage; there was but one spirit near me last night--one dear, good

spirit;' and she embraced her husband.

'And you, Annette?' cried the incredulous visitor to the poor

waiting-maid, 'I hope you have not been disturbed by the ghosts

either?'

But Annette, who was half-dead from fear, asserted that she had not

closed her eyes the whole night; that she had distinctly heard sighs

and groans, and heavy footsteps up and down the floor; and there had

been many other frightful things that she could not describe.

Now, in the cheering daylight, Adelgunda laughed heartily at these

_fancies_, as she called them; but the previous night she would not

have done so,--at least not with a heart so much at ease.

'I wonder what his uncle and aunt will say of my little Victor, now

that he is nicely dressed, and not so sleepy and cross as he was last

night, after that long fatiguing journey!' said Adelgunda to Annette,

with a mother's pride in her pretty boy, and while they were both

engaged in arranging his curly hair, and putting on his handsome new

green dress.

Adelgunda's husband had risen early and gone out to stroll round the

old castle, and the former young lady of the mansion, who had now

become a wife and mother, took up her little son in her arms to go down

to her sister-in-law, who had already sent to inquire how she had

slept, and to let her know that breakfast was ready.

Humming an air, Adelgunda proceeded with her light burden through the

dear old well-remembered passages where her very footsteps echoed,

until she came close to the door which opened into the picture-gallery;

she then stopped, seized suddenly with a strong impulse to enter it,

while a strange, sad foreboding of evil filled her heart. Influenced,

as it were, by an invincible power over which she had no control, she

laid her hand upon the lock, turned it, and stood, she scarcely knew

how, in presence of the mute family, who seemed gazing on her from both

sides. Adelgunda's heart beat quickly; recollections from her childhood

and her youthful days began to rush back on her. These aristocratic

feelings, which had so long slumbered, began to start up in her mind,

and she dared not look towards the terrible lady at the extreme end,

for fear of meeting her angry, implacable glance.

'That is a pretty lady! And there is another nice lady! What a grand

gentleman! and see, yonder is a fine gentleman, too!'

Such were little Victor's exclamations, as Adelgunda went slowly with

him past all these well-known portraits of uncles and aunts,

grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and other members of the family, all

long since asleep in their graves.

'But, oh, mother, look!' cried Victor, as he first caught sight of the

largest; 'see how horrible that one up yonder looks! See, mother, how

that tall woman there on the wall frowns down at us!' And Victor knit

his little brows, and drew in his small mouth, to make his face look

very terrible in return.

'Oh, do not speak so--do not speak so!' exclaimed his mother, trying

in vain to hush the child. 'On the contrary,' she added, in a

faltering voice, 'she is an excellent lady, and very kind to all good,

well-behaved children. We will go up yonder, and beg her pardon and her

blessing.'

'No, no!' screamed Victor, kicking his little legs with all his might;

'I won't have anything to do with her: she looks as cross as if she

would bite me.'

'Again his mother entreated Victor to be a reasonable, good boy, and by

that time they stood under the great lady's picture. A tremor crept

over Adelgunda as she encountered that austere, repulsive look, and

involuntarily she dropped her eyes beneath it. But reason soon

triumphed; she approached closer to the portrait, and said to her

little son, whom she still held in her arms, 'Now we shall say good

morning to that lady;' and she curtseyed herself, and bent with her

hand the obstinate little head; 'and we shall beg her to look kindly

and gently down upon us, for your dear, good papa's sake, and we will

kiss her hand.' And Adelgunda kissed the hand in the picture that was

hanging down; but when she attempted to raise the child's face up

towards the hand, the little fellow, in whose infantine breast was

aroused a portion of his father's bold spirit, and perhaps impetuous

temper, and who, though somewhat frightened, felt his courage rising,

and was, withal, extremely angry, struggled furiously, clenched his

little fist, and instead of kissing the great lady's drooping hand,

thumped it with all his might--and at that moment he was strong enough.

II.

Adelgunda's brother and sister-in-law waited in vain for her appearance

at the breakfast-table. She came not! But at length the startling

intelligence was brought to them that a strange, frightful noise had

been heard in the picture-gallery. No one knew what was the cause of

it, for no one had dared to venture in to see what had happened, but

now every one rushed in. A cloud of dust, a heap of mortar and wood was

before them; and a sight so dreadful, so shocking, so appalling, met

their eyes, that every heart was like to break.

But only one heart _did_ break, for notwithstanding his strength of

mind--his unconquerable spirit--his undeniable fortitude, the bereaved

husband and father almost sank beneath the frightful calamity that had

suddenly deprived him of the wife he adored, and the child on whom all

his hopes were centred. Yet he was the first--the only one who had

sufficient energy, and presence of mind to drag the lifeless remains of

his wife and son from under the destroying weight of the heavy

portrait.

It was a frightful event, and made a great sensation. A rotten rope,

and the mouldering state of the wall which should have upheld the

enormously heavy wooden frame, had done all the evil.

The naval officer passed over distant seas to many a foreign land--the

world was all before him, but he never forgot what he had lost.

The picture of the awful ancestress met with little injury in its fall;

but several years elapsed before it was hung up again in its former

place. It was, however, at length restored to its old position, but

fastened with new rope, and everything necessary to make it more

secure. The dreadful occurrence was beginning to be forgotten, and the

brotherly affection which had somewhat cooled, seemed to have displayed

itself sufficiently in having banished the lofty dame for some years to

a lumber-room. She could not always be left there! So at length she

hung in her old place again, as stern, as frowning as formerly. And the

count, who had now become an old man, generally when he alluded to the

terrible event, reasonably ascribed it to natural causes. But, once

upon a time, when he observed his youngest daughter, a girl not much

more than sixteen years of age, casting _furtive_ and _rather friendly_

glances at a young man, the son of a country parson, who, on account of

his handsome person and pleasant manners, was often received at the

baronial castle,--when he saw this, by means of some sidelong looks

with the corner of his eye, which were not perceived by the young

couple, then he took his daughter by the hand, led her silently and

solemnly into the picture-gallery, walked with her up to the replaced

portrait of their great ancestress, and said with the gravity of an

anxious father, and the dignity of an aristocratic nobleman,--

'Beware, my daughter! Remember the fate of your aunt!'

These words were all he uttered.

* * *

'And this happened in the nineteenth century, and here in our

father-land? 'Such an inquiry will assuredly be made by one or other of

our readers. But we will not answer it ourselves; we shall only advise

the inquirer to address himself to the descendants of _one of the most

ancient families in Scania_, and ask _them_ whether it be true or not.

THE MAN FROM PARADISE.[10]

A Comic Tale.

FROM THE DANISH OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

There was a widow, once upon a time--

Yet stop--with _truth_ we must commence our rhyme--

She _had_ been such, but now another spouse

Had sought her love, and won the widow's vows.

One evening she was quite alone at home

(For the best husbands sometimes like to roam);

She sat, her cheek reposing on her hand,

The tea-things spread upon the table, and

The kettle singing by, or on the fire--

A sort of a monotonous steam lyre:

Her thoughts from this low world of fogs had flown

Up to the husband she first called her own;

She could not _quite_ the dear, kind soul forget--

And ah! the other one was absent yet.

'But thou art happy now,' she cried--'in case

In Abraham's bosom thou hast found a place:

Thou pitiest us, in these rooms close and old,

Where one so often gets a cough or cold.'

Then into a brown study she did fall,

When suddenly some sounds her thoughts recall;

She hears a gentle knocking at the door;

She starts--looks at the roof, then at the floor--

Then peers into each corner, as she cries,

'Well--who is there?' To be right brave she tries,

But truth to tell, she almost shook with fear

To see some ghost, or corpse-like form appear.

Another knock--then in the doorway stood

No spectre, but a youth of flesh and blood

'Twas an apprentice who had run away

From work, and chose from town to town to stray:

The rogue lived by his wits as best he might,

For nought he scrupled at--except to fight.

The quondam widow very soon perceived

The intruder was not what she had believed--

That he was mortal, not a form of air.

She questioned whence he came, and also where

He might be bound. 'I'm on my way,' said he,

'To Paris, madam, _via_ Germany.'

With joyous heart she listened to his tale,

And then she placed before him meat and ale,

Kindly inviting him to eat and drink;

While she exclaimed, 'How very strange to think

That you to Paradise are journeying on!--

Why, that's the land where my first husband's gone!

Please give my love to him, our daughter's, too,

And--_his successor's compliments_, will you?'

Quickly the knave observed that the good dame

In her geography was rather lame--

That _Paradise_ with _Paris_ she confounded.

And though one moment he looked up astounded,

The next into her droll conceit he fell,

Saying, 'Oh, yes! I know the good man well.'

'What! have you really been already there?'

She cried. 'Then say, how does the dear one fare?'

'Ah! very badly. 'Tis a tale of woe!

I was up there about a month ago.

A sort of a dog's life the poor thing led,

Early he had to rise--get late to bed;

Worked hard, and scarce a stitch of clothing had.

His shroud and grave-clothes from the first were bad;

They very soon wore out, and now he goes

Without a coat, and with bare legs and toes.'

These words went like a dagger to her heart;

She shuddered--groaned--then, with a sudden start,

She rose, and soon an ample bundle made

Of linen, coats, warm woollen socks; and said,

Whilst with big tear-drops both her eyes looked dim.

'This package, sir, I pray you take to him.

Tell the poor fellow I shall send him more

By the first opportunity--a store

I'll surely send. Oh dear! oh dear! 'tis sad

His fate in yonder place should be so bad!'

The rogue had stuffed quite to his heart's content,

So, taking up the bundle, off he went;

But first he thanked her for the food, and vowed

The clothes she sent should soon replace the shroud.

Long, long she sits, her eyes still full of tears;

The absent husband now at length appears

('Tis to the _second_ one that I allude--

The _first_, as has been shown, was gone for good).

'Well, I have curious tidings for your ear--

A man from Paradise has just been here;

He knew poor _Thi--is_ there.' (Such was the name

Of him who was first husband to the dame.)

And thereupon, with a most serious face,

She told him all that had just taken place.

The husband, when he heard her, smelled a rat,

But only saying he would have a chat

Himself with the great traveller, he sent

For his best horse, and after him he went.

'Twas a sweet night, the moon was shining clearly--

Just such a night as poets love most dearly;

The nightingales were pouring forth their notes,

The owls were exercising, too, their throats;

But, what was better still, he found the track

The thief had ta'en, and hoped to bring him back.

Thieves, by the way, like the moon's silver rays

Far better than the sun's meridian blaze.

And now, how fared it with the thief himself,

Thus making off with his ill-gotten pelf?

He spied a man, who like old Nick was riding,

And felt that he was in for a good hiding;

Therefore into a neighbouring ditch he flung

The burden that across his back had slung,

Then casting himself down upon a bank,

Quite in a lounging attitude he sank,

And gazing on the clear calm skies above,

He sang some ditty about ladies' love.

Up comes the rider at a rapid trot--

The pace had made him and his steed both hot--

And asked abruptly, reining in his grey,

If he had seen a rascal pass that way,

Who on his shoulders a large bundle bore--

A horrid thief he was, the horseman swore.

'Why, yes,' was the reply. 'I have just seen

A fellow with long legs pass by--I ween

It is the same you seek; for he looked round

Soon as your horse's footfall on the ground

Was heard--and then, as quickly as he could,

He fled to hide himself in yonder wood.

If you make haste, you there will catch him soon.'

The horseman thanked him much and craved a boon--

It was to hold his steed, while in pursuit

He went himself into the wood on foot.

'Twas granted, and the husband rushed among

The bushes tall--while the thief laughing sprung

Upon the horse; he took the bundle too,

And fast away he rode, or rather flew.

Angry, fatigued, and scratched till he was sore,

The husband came, his bootless errand o'er.

Fancy what was his grief, his rage, to find

The horse he thought he left so safe behind,

Gone too! he cried, 'Hey! hey!' its name he called,

But all in vain he shouted and he bawled--

The clever thief the faster rode away.

There was no creature near on whom to lay

The blame; so the poor foolish dupe abused

The moon, for having thus her light misused.

Home on his weary legs he had to trudge;

His steed to the vile thief did he not grudge!

'Well, did you find him?' asked his smiling wife.

He answered, in a tone subdued, 'My life,

I did. I found him, and--and--for _your_ sake,

Our best, our swiftest horse I let him take,

That he with greater speed might find his way.'

The dame smiled on him, and in accents gay

Exclaimed, 'O best of husbands! who could find

Your equal--one so thoughtful, wise, and kind!'

MORAL.

The moral of this story shows,

Though knaves on women oft impose,

That men are sometimes quite as _green_,

But hold their tongues themselves to screen.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: A Danish title, signifying councillor of justice.]

[Footnote 2: Danish mile, equal to about 4 3/4 English miles.]

[Footnote 3: Fourteen and a quarter English miles.]

[Footnote 4: 'To give a basket,' in Danish, signifies a refusal.]

[Footnote 5: A Danish title.]

[Footnote 6: 'Aprilsnarrene.' A Danish vaudeville.]

[Footnote 7: The ceremony of Confirmation is deemed of the highest

importance in Denmark, and is never neglected in any rank of life, from

the prince to the peasant.]

[Footnote 8: For these, and 'Octavianus,' see Ludwig Tieck's works.

They have been translated into Danish by Adam Oehlenschlaeger.]

[Footnote 9: A town of Sicily, in the Val di Mazzara, on the site of

the ancient Agrigenum, the magnificent ruins of which are still to be

seen.]

[Footnote 10: Manden Fra Paradiis. En komisk Fortaelling.]

END OF VOL. I.

LONDON. PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,

AND CHARING CROSS.