vast number of armed retainers, and his power and wealth were unequalled
by any other of equal rank in the country. His kindness and hospitality
were every where proverbial, and the noblest of the land delighted to
gather round his festive board. Thus, love, wealth and beauty conspired
to fill the heart of Ehlendorf with joy, and nought could dim his
happiness till his loved Elfrida was called from earth to blossom in a
fairer clime. Sad and afflictive was this bereavement to the young
baron, overthrowing as it did the dreams that he had been weaving
through eight bright years of wedded happiness. Still, as he turned in
anguish from the lifeless form of the object of his heart’s best
affections, one ray of hope enlivened the surrounding gloom. His lovely
Katrine grew more and more beautiful day by day, and in her he felt that
he possessed a purer treasure than wealth could afford. In his constant
watchful care over her helplessness, and the fond confiding affection
with which she repaid his tenderness, he found forgetfulness of every
sorrow.
As successive years rolled on she grew more and more lovely, and new
charms in her unfolded daily. No opportunity had been neglected which
would tend to her intellectual advancement; and at the age of sixteen
she possessed the charms of beauty, and an intellect of the highest
degree. Their castle was thronged with young cavaliers, eager to win so
lovely a prize,—and though her smiles were bestowed on all, yet no one
of the noble train had received any evidence of her preference. Happy in
the fondness, nay, almost idolatry of her father, she remained
insensible to any other than paternal affection. The baron, though still
in the pride of manhood, had never indulged serious thoughts of a second
union, and when bright eyes beamed on him, and silvery voices fell in
tones of melody upon his ear, he had only to look upon the face of
Katrine, where every feature of her sainted mother was reflected as in a
faithful mirror, and his heart was steeled against every attraction.
It was a beautiful morning in the month of June, when the baron and his
daughter went forth for their accustomed ride. The air was balmy; the
fragrance of the flowers was borne upon the breeze, and the groves were
vocal with the melody of the feathered songsters. Suddenly dark clouds
obscured the sky, and foretold a coming tempest. They hurried on, but
when they arrived at the castle, the storm-clouds hung darkly and
fearfully over its rugged towers. Then loud thunders rent the sky;
gleams of lightning darted from pole to pole. The rain fell in torrents
from the darkened sky, hour after hour, incessantly; the swollen waves
of the Rhine beat in fury upon their rugged banks. Katrine was seated at
her chamber window, watching the raging billows as they rushed in wild
commotion against the rocks. Suddenly her attention was attracted by the
sight of a cavalier upon the opposite shore. The vision was transient,
for scarcely had he appeared ere his fiery charger leaped from the
towering height of the rock into the boiling waves below. The baron’s
sturdy vassals had witnessed his disaster, and rushed forth to rescue
him if possible. Urged on by impassioned signs from Katrine, they put
forth every effort. For awhile he struggled successfully against the
foaming billows, but was at length thrown with violence against the
rocks, and when the vassals of the castle had succeeded in bearing him
to the shore, he was insensible. Hour after hour the baron and Katrine
hung anxiously over his couch, watching for signs of returning
consciousness, but he remained pale and motionless as the work of a
statuary; his faint breathing and a slight pulsation alone giving
evidence that life was not extinct. At length a delicate flush
overspread his marble countenance; his eyelids gently raised, and he
gazed in bewildered astonishment on all around him.
“Fear not,” said the baron, “you are with friends, who will watch over
you carefully, until you have recovered from your late disaster.”
The following morning he was able to relate the circumstances which had
led him there. He gave his name as Hildebrand, a young knight of
Hanover. He had been engaged in the chase, the day before, and had
followed the deer so far that he lost sight of his companions, and
wandered through the intricate mazes of the forest, not knowing whither
his way might lead. Soon the tempest arose, and as he reached the
opening of the forest, he spurred on his charger, ignorant of his
proximity to the Rhine, until he was precipitated down the frightful
chasm. He expressed his gratitude in the highest terms to his noble host
for his kindness, and a wish to leave the castle as soon as possible.
The extreme debility resulting from his late accident, however,
precluded the possibility of his immediate departure. Besides, the
ravages of the storm had rendered the highways impassable.
During this time the fair Katrine left no means untried to cheer the
lingering hours. Her harp beguiled those moments which would otherwise
have been tedious, and her voice, whose melody was unrivalled, seemed
even more sweet than it was wont to be, as she sung the wild and
beautiful legends of their country. Charmed by her beauty, her
accomplishments, and filial affection, young Hildebrand became daily
more and more attached to Katrine, while she returned his affection with
fond idolatry. Thus passed day after day in peace and happiness, and the
only sorrow which dimmed Katrine’s pleasures was the thought of parting,
and his wish that their engagement should be concealed from her father,
until he should return to claim his affianced bride. Sincere and
trusting, she yielded to the conviction that he was urged to this wish
by powerful motives, then unknown to her, nor allowed the slightest
suspicion of his constancy to enter her mind.
One bright morning three weeks after his arrival at the castle, a
courier alighted with despatches for Hildebrand. As he perused them, a
cloud rested upon his brow, and he hastened to find Katrine. He told her
that his presence was demanded at court, but with many promises of a
speedy return, he bade her a fond farewell. Weeks, nay, even months
passed away, and still Katrine received no tidings from her stranger
lover. She had withdrawn herself from gay society, and her gladsome
laugh no longer resounded through the silent halls. Her anxious parent
saw with anguish the sorrow of his child, and finally won from her the
tale of her love. In vain he used every endeavor to find the retreat of
their guest. The name of Hildebrand was unknown to any of the barons of
the vicinity, and he was forced to relinquish his fruitless inquiry. At
length it was announced that a tournament was to be held at the capital,
in honor of the nuptials of the Elector of Hanover, and the baron hoping
that this scene of gaiety would dissipate her melancholy, won the
consent of Katrine to accompany him. The morning of the day appointed
dawned with unusual splendor, and the eye of Katrine beamed with the
light of hope, as she took her place in a gallery commanding a full view
of the field of action. “Surely,” she thought to herself, “when the
bravest of the land are about to signalise themselves, Hildebrand will
not desert the noble band.”
The field was elegantly prepared; and the tents, glittering with all the
splendor of martial panoply, added double richness to the scene. On
either side of the lists were galleries of blue and red and purple silk,
crowded with the beauty of the land. All was anxious expectation. Soon a
shout of joy from the assembled multitude announced that the elector and
his young bride were approaching. Mounted on a fiery charger, which he
managed with perfect skill, his noble form appeared to the best
advantage. His bride rode a beautiful white palfrey, and though there
was something noble in her flashing eye and masculine firmness, still
her beauty could not be compared, without disparagement, to the angelic
loveliness of Katrine. As they advanced near the place where Katrine was
seated, an undefined horror thrilled through her frame, yet her eyes
remained fixed upon the prince. Surely it was the same noble form. Could
it be Hildebrand? He turned his dark eye upon her and met her anxious
glance; the color receded from his cheek. She uttered a faint cry of
agony, pronounced the name of Hildebrand, and fell senseless into the
arms of her attendants.
The tale can be told in a few words. Her faithless lover had been
summoned from his delightful retreat at Ehlendorf by the duties of
state; and ambition had led him to form an alliance from which his heart
revolted. In the cares of state and the hilarity of his nuptials he had
in a measure drowned the memory of Katrine, but now she seemed to rise
like a gentle spirit to reprove his falsehood. The arrows of remorse had
entered his soul and poisoned his enjoyment. Though surrounded by all
the honors and dignities of this world he found no peace. Katrine was
borne by her afflicted parent to their once happy home, but the light of
existence had fled forever, and the house of Ehlendorf was soon to be
remembered as among the dead. A few sad years rolled on. The baron was
borne to his last resting place. Katrine with her attendants alone
remained within the castle walls. At length she yielded up her vast
domains in favor of a distant relative, with this restriction, that the
old castle should remain undisturbed, and as it was reported, retired to
a convent in Switzerland. From this period the old fortress was left to
the ravages of time, uninhabited by any mortal, though the superstitious
inhabitants of the vicinity declared it to be the abode of supernatural
beings. A tall form according to the neighboring villagers, robed in
white, had been seen upon the battlements at midnight, while strains of
wild unearthly melody were heard floating on the breeze; and when the
storm was raging, the same spirit form was seen hovering over the
yawning chasm and keeping its fearful vigils where no mortal foot durst
approach. The benighted traveller turned away, choosing to wander
through the mazes of the forest, rather than pass the fearful place, and
even the adventurous mountain boy fled in terror from its lonely walls.
Years had rolled on, when the Elector of Hanover chanced in hunting to
pass through the domains of Ehlendorf. One of his followers related to
him the superstitions concerning the castle, and despite their
entreaties he insisted upon exploring its recesses. He reached it just
as its towers were gleaming in the pure moonlight; and the waters of the
Rhine flowed gently on, while each tiny ripple wore its glittering
coronet of moonbeams. How vividly bright the visions of the past rose in
his memory, as he entered once more through the castle’s lonely gates.
Just as he passed the threshold the notes of an Æolian harp sent a
thrill of superstitious terror through every vein. He opened the door
which led to Katrine’s boudoir, when a sight met his eye which caused
him to recoil with terror. Extended on a couch, and guarded by an old
attendant, was the form of the once beautiful heiress of Ehlendorf. The
deep flush of agitation overspread her cheek as she recognised him and
said,
“Why intrude upon the sanctity of one devoted to Heaven, or strive to
bind a heart to this earth which its sorrows have broken?”
These words assured him that the true Katrine and not the spirit was
before him, and he slowly approached her saying,
“I come, to crave the boon of pardon from one so deeply injured as you
have been.”
A sweet smile beamed on her placid countenance as she said,
“It is granted, and may kind Heaven forgive all your wanderings, as
freely as I now forgive your falsehood. I have found the bitterness of
earthly sorrow, and for awhile brooded sadly over disappointed love, but
the deep dream now is past. For years my hopes have been fixed upon a
brighter world, and not one lingering trace of earthly idolatry has
mingled in my devotions. I would have secluded myself in the sacred
walls of a monastery, but my heart clung with fondness to my father’s
halls. I have traced the Creator’s power in the starry heavens and
stolen abroad to view the glories of nature in the pure moonlight. This
has given rise to the superstitions of the peasantry, and I have
carefully avoided undeceiving them lest they should intrude upon my
retirement. And now, farewell. My sands of life are well nigh spent, and
I shall soon join my sainted parents in Heaven. Leave me in solitude, I
entreat you, lest the lingering spell be thrown again upon me. Once more
farewell.”
Thus saying she motioned to the door where he had entered, and he
retired in sadness of spirit. A few weeks after, the form of Katrine was
deposited in the family vault, and the castle remained untenanted. The
peasantry still call it the Haunted Castle, asserting that the fair lady
of Ehlendorf is seen to wander by moonlight over its crumbling towers.
EMMA.
Female Seminary, Yonkers, N. Y. 1841.
* * * * *
ALETHE.
BY J. S. FRELIGH.
I saw Alethe—she was young and fair:
A rose-bud op’ning to the balmy spring;
And as she knelt in holy, fervent prayer,
Her youthful heart to God surrendering,
The music of her voice in murmurs low,
Sounded like tones of sweetest melody,
Half-waking heard—or like the silver flow
Of some lone woodland stream—she seem’d to be
A type of perfect beauty—Heav’nly symmetry.
Again I saw Alethe.—It was where
Dwelt sickness, poverty, and misery deep—
Where prison-walls enclos’d a parent dear;
And like an angel, she had come to keep
Watch while he slept—to comfort him—to pray.
In innocence she came, like Mercy’s dove,
With healing balm, to sooth his care away!
Oh! such sweet tenderness—such holy love,
Must be akin to that in the bright world above!
Once more I saw Alethe—at her breast
Hung a sweet infant, and the radiant smile
That revell’d round its lips while calm at rest,
Was like the smile of cherubs,—free from guile.
Ethereal—bright—surpassing Fancy’s dreaming,
The mother shone—for Fancy ne’er could paint
Aught so much like a guardian Angel beaming
In full beneficence upon a saint
As sweetly innocent—as free from earthly taint.
St. Louis, 1841.
* * * * *
MY GRANDFATHER’S STORY.
BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.
“Well, well,” said my grandfather, “sit down, girls, and I will tell you
all about it.”
Cousin Sarah and myself accordingly got our work, and sitting down at a
proper distance, assumed the attitude of earnest listeners.
“If you had ever been in France,” he commenced, “I could make you
understand my story much better, but your little rustic American
imaginations can never conceive any thing like the refinement, and yet
freedom of society in that polished country; the softness and beauty of
the earth and sky; or the striking magnificence of the old ruinous
chateaux; but as it is I shall be very brief in my sketches of these
things.”
“Oh, no, no, grandfather,” we both exclaimed at once, “you must be the
more particular in your description; for being strange to us they are
the more interesting.”
“Well,” he replied, “I will as much as I can, without making a long
story of it; but do not interrupt me, for that will utterly break the
chain of my recollections.
“First, you must consider that although I am an old American citizen, I
was once a young French nobleman; and your grandmother whom you see
busied in household duties is a Stuart, of the royal blood of Scotland.
The estate of my ancestors lies in view of the ancient and noble city of
Lyons, stretching from the beautiful Rhone west to the Cervennes
mountains. A fine chateau near the river is the modern residence of our
family; but its ancient strong-hold is a rude and magnificent old
castle, built on the rocky summit of a mountain which stands alone in
its majesty, looking down with seeming scorn on the proud city, and the
river which can never more than kiss its feet. My noble grandsire had
two sons, of whom my father was the younger. My uncle, of course,
inherited the title and estate, and was sole lord of the old castle;
although my father occupied magnificent apartments in the chateau. I
remember when quite a child, accompanying my father in his visits to my
uncle, at such seasons as he chose to reside on the mountain. My awe and
admiration of the dark, old structure were boundless. There it sat, firm
as the eternal rock to which it was secured, utterly inaccessible on the
side toward the river; and scarcely approachable in any direction, save
by an expensively constructed road, dug or built along the margin of a
brook which flows at the bottom of a ravine, down the mountain, toward
the river. This traversed ravine presented to my eyes a thousand wild,
beautiful, and romantic spots. I had not then seen the forests, and
mountains, and wild glens, of this panorama of nature’s most grand and
beautiful works; this land of the majestic and the terrible; the lovely
and the sweet; from the savage chieftain beside the soul-stunning
Niagara, to the enameled humming bird kissing the blossoms that overhang
the silver fountain. Oh! this is a glorious country; but it is not my
native France.
“In that dear land every perpendicular rock, every babbling cataract,
every gnarled tree, or ragged shrub was a picturesque and wonderful
object to my young imagination; and to be allowed to visit my uncle at
the castle was the highest reward at which my efforts were aimed. My
uncle was a widower. At thirty years of age he married a beautiful child
of seventeen, whom he fervently idolised: but in less than two years the
fair creature began to fade. He carried her to balmy Italy, but he
returned alone. From that time he was sad and gloomy, almost morose. He
never left the castle, except to ramble over the mountains, among the
wild recesses of which he often spent whole nights, and I sometimes
shuddered as I heard the domestics hint that he was or would be utterly
crazed. Such was my uncle’s condition, when on a beautiful summer
morning my father set out with me toward the castle. I was eight years
of age, and had just been made master of a fine sleek mule, which I was
permitted to ride by the side of my father’s noble Arabian horse. That
was a proud day to me. Never since have I felt myself of as much
consequence as then. My uncle’s steward who saw in me the future lord of
the estate, always paid me great deference, and I was an idol in his
family. Of course I spent the time of my visits with them, after paying
my respects to my uncle, who always saluted me with grave courtesy, and
then turned sorrowfully away. I was an especial pet of the steward’s
daughter, a pretty girl of about seventeen, who always treated me with
choice cakes and delicious fruits. On this day she spread a table in a
garden arbor with her choicest viands, adding rich creams and
sweet-meats, to which we sat down joyfully. But she soon made me sad by
saying that in all probability I should not soon dine with her again.
She was about to be married, and go far away. But she wished to tell me
something of great importance, only she feared that I was too young to
have discretion sufficient to manage so strange an affair. This
mysterious prelude wrought my curiosity to the highest pitch. I
protested and promised every thing she required of me, and so she began:
“‘You see the square tower all covered with ivy that stands on the angle
of that perpendicular rock. Did you ever notice how lonely it is; how
small and high the windows are, and that there is no way of getting to
it from without? Well, you see it is only connected with the rest of the
building by one long, dark gallery; the other sides being closed up with
strong walls. This tower has been called the Haunted Tower these hundred
years. I used to be afraid to go near it. You were a very little baby
when your beautiful aunt died abroad, and your uncle came home a mourner
to this place. I was then about as old as you are now. I cried bitterly
for the loss of my young lady, and pitied my lord exceedingly. I
observed that he went frequently to that tower, and remained for hours
within it. Once I ventured to follow him. I know not what impelled me;
but I was surprised when I entered the hall. It was tastefully
furnished, and adorned with the most beautiful and fragrant exotic and
native plants and shrubs. I stood a moment lost in admiration, when I
thought I heard low voices in conversation. I listened; I distinctly
heard my lord speaking, and detected the murmur of a soft female voice.
A door on one side the hall stood partly open. I approached it
stealthily, and saw my lord kneeling before a most beautiful woman, who
sat upon a low seat, resting her face upon her hand, seemingly in deep
sorrow. She was dressed in black, and her hair was of the same dark hue,
while her hands, face, and shoulders were white as alabaster, I did not
look long, but I saw my lord press her hand to his lips, when she
suddenly withdrew it with a shudder, and bending down placed both her
hands over her face and wept. I stole away; but whether I was observed,
or my intrusion suspected, or from some other cause, my lord ever after
secured the door behind him, so that I entered there no more. Yet often
in the mellow twilight I have heard strains of solemn music, so soft and
sorrowful that I have sat down and wept until the melody ceased. But I
never saw the lady since that time. I have heard others assert that they
have seen an apparition, which they say is like our deceased lady, and
that while they gazed it vanished away. But the person whom I saw was as
unlike my lady as possible, and as to vanishing, as these sights were
always seen in the evening, I suppose she wore a white dress and a black
mantle, which on being alarmed she drew around her, and so became
invisible. Now who she is, or how she came here, or why she keeps
herself concealed I cannot guess. I have kept it secret out of respect
to your uncle, but I thought as you will be lord here after his death,
and as he is slowly wasting away, I would tell you, and so when you come
to the estate you will examine into it. But do not mention it until
then; for I am sure that any discovery or investigation would greatly
afflict your poor uncle, whose melancholy I am sure is connected with
this mystery.’
“Now, girls,” said my grandfather, “if you can tell me how such a piece
of information would make you feel, I shall have no need of telling you
the wonder, the terror, the curiosity and anxiety which it awakened in
my mind. Sleeping or waking my thoughts were full of Annette’s story.
Once I ventured to ask my mother why people thought my uncle’s castle
haunted? ‘It is a common thing,’ she replied, ‘for the vulgar to tell
marvellous tales of old buildings, castles in particular; but I hope
that you will show your superior breeding, by never giving heed to such
tales. Your father has been there much by day and night, and he never
saw any thing wonderful; and it would grieve him if he knew that you had
been listening to stories of supernatural agency.’ I assured her that I
did not believe in ghosts; and I never again ventured to propose the
subject. As years passed on, the impression became less vivid, until
Annette’s tale of wonder seemed to me like some old familiar legend. I
was about eighteen when I was suddenly summoned from the University to
attend my uncle’s death-bed. When I found myself again in that old
familiar place, although the old steward had died, and his place was
filled by a stranger, the story of the old tower came first among the
recollections of the past. My uncle was so wan and wasted that I should
not have known him, yet he seemed exceedingly glad to see me. In the
night as I sat beside his bed, he dismissed the nurse, saying that she
must need rest and sleep. He then said that as I was his kinsman and
successor, he hoped that he might confide to me something which nearly
concerned his honor. I remarked that as his honor was mine he need be
under no apprehension. So he commenced.