They cantered home, the Baroness in unusual spirits, Vivian thinking

very much of his fair companion. Her character puzzled him. That she was

not the lovely simpleton that Madame Carolina believed her to be, he had

little doubt. Some people have great knowledge of society and little of

mankind. Madame Carolina was one of these. She viewed her species

through only one medium. That the Baroness was a woman of acute feeling,

Vivian could not doubt. Her conduct at the Opera, which had escaped

every one’s attention, made this evident. That she had seen more of the

world than her previous conversation had given him to believe, was

equally clear by her conduct and conversation this morning. He

determined to become more acquainted with her character. Her evident

partiality to his company would not render the execution of his purpose

very difficult. At any rate, if he discovered nothing, it was something

to do: it would at least amuse him.

In the evening he joined a large party at the palace. He looked

immediately for the Baroness. She was surrounded by the dandies. Their

attentions she treated with contempt, and ridiculed their compliments

without mercy. Without obtruding himself on her notice, Vivian joined

her circle, and witnessed her demolition of the young Count of Eberstein

with great amusement. Emilius von Aslingen was not there; for having

made the interesting savage the fashion, she was no longer worthy of his

attention, and consequently deserted. The young lady soon observed

Vivian; and saying, without the least embarrassment, that she was

delighted to see him, she begged him to share her chaise-longue. Her

envious levée witnessed the preference with dismay; and as the object of

their attention did not now notice their remarks, even by her expressed

contempt, one by one fell away. Vivian and the Baroness were left alone,

and conversed much together. The lady displayed, on every subject,

engaging ignorance, and requested information on obvious topics with

artless naïveté. Vivian was convinced that her ignorance was not

affected, and equally sure that it could not arise from imbecility of

intellect; for while she surprised him by her crude questions, and her

want of acquaintance with all those topics which generally form the

staple of conversation, she equally amused him with her poignant wit,

and the imperious and energetic manner in which she instantly expected

satisfactory information on every possible subject.

CHAPTER IX

On the day after the review a fancy-dress ball was to be given at Court.

It was to be an entertainment of a peculiar nature. The lively genius of

Madame Carolina, wearied of the commonplace effect generally produced by

this species of amusement, in which usually a stray Turk and a wandering

Pole looked sedate and singular among crowds of Spanish girls, Swiss

peasants, and gentlemen in uniforms, had invented something novel. Her

idea was ingenious. To use her own sublime phrase, she determined that

the party should represent “an age!” Great difficulty was experienced in

fixing upon the century which was to be honoured. At first a poetical

idea was started of having something primeval, perhaps antediluvian; but

Noah, or even Father Abraham, were thought characters hardly

sufficiently romantic for a fancy-dress ball, and consequently the

earliest postdiluvian ages were soon under consideration. Nimrod, or

Sardanapalus, were distinguished personages, and might be well

represented by the Master of the Staghounds, or the Master of the

Revels; but then the want of an interesting lady-character was a great

objection. Semiramis, though not without style in her own way, was not

sufficiently Parisian for Madame Carolina. New ages were proposed and

new objections started; and so the “Committee of Selection,” which

consisted of Madame herself, the Countess von S----, and a few other

dames of fashion, gradually slided through the four great empires.

Athens was not aristocratic enough, and then the women were nothing. In

spite of her admiration of the character of Aspasia, Madame Carolina

somewhat doubted the possibility of persuading the ladies of the Court

of Reisenburg to appear in the characters of [Greek: hetairai]. Rome

presented great capabilities, and greater difficulties. Finding

themselves, after many days’ sitting and study, still very far from

coming to a decision, Madame called in the aid of the Grand Duke, who

proposed “something national.” The proposition was plausible; but,

according to Madame Carolina, Germany, until her own time, had been

only a land of barbarism and barbarians; and therefore in such a

country, in a national point of view, what could there be interesting?

The middle ages, as they are usually styled, in spite of the Emperor

Charlemagne, “that oasis in the desert of barbarism,” to use her own

eloquent and original image, were her particular aversion. “The age of

chivalry is past!” was as constant an exclamation of Madame Carolina as

it was of Mr. Burke. “The age of chivalry is past; and very fortunate

that it is. What resources could they have had in the age of chivalry?

an age without either moral or experimental philosophy; an age in which

they were equally ignorant of the doctrine of association of ideas, and

of the doctrine of electricity; and when they were as devoid of a

knowledge of the Incalculable powers of the human mind as of the

incalculable powers of steam!” Had Madame Carolina been the consort of

an Italian grand duke, selection would not be difficult; and, to inquire

no farther, the court of the Medici alone would afford them everything

they wanted. But Germany never had any character, and never produced nor

had been the resort of illustrious men and interesting persons. What was

to be done? The age of Frederick the Great was the only thing; and then

that was so recent, and would offend the Austrians: it could not be

thought of.

At last, when the “Committee of Selection” was almost in despair, some

one proposed a period which not only would be German, not only would

compliment the House of Austria, but, what was of still greater

importance, would allow of every contemporary character of interest of

every nation, the age of Charles the Fifth! The suggestion was received

with enthusiasm, and adopted on the spot. “The Committee of Selection”

was immediately dissolved, and its members as immediately formed

themselves into a “Committee of Arrangement.” Lists of all the persons

of any fame, distinction, or notoriety, who had lived either in the

empire of Germany, the kingdoms of Spain, Portugal, France, or England,

the Italian States, the Netherlands, the American, and, in short, in

every country in the known world, were immediately formed. Von

Chronicle, rewarded for his last historical novel by a ribbon and the

title of Baron, was appointed secretary to the “Committee of Costume.”

All guests who received a card invitation were desired, on or before a

certain day, to send in the title of their adopted character and a

sketch of their intended dress, that their plans might receive the

sanction of the ladies of the “Committee of Arrangement,” and their

dresses the approbation of the secretary of costume. By this method the

chance and inconvenience of two persons selecting and appearing in the

same character were destroyed and prevented. After exciting the usual

jealousies, intrigues, dissatisfaction, and ill-blood, by the influence

and imperturbable temper of Madame Carolina, everything was arranged;

Emilius von Aslingen being the only person who set both the Committees

of Arrangement and Costume at defiance, and treated the repeated

applications of their respected secretary with contemptuous silence. The

indignant Baron von Chronicle entreated the strong interference of the

“Committee of Arrangement,” but Emilius von Aslingen was too powerful an

individual to be treated by others as he treated them. Had the

fancy-dress ball of the Sovereign been attended by all his subjects,

with the exception of this Captain in his Guards, the whole affair might

have been a failure; would have been dark in spite of the glare of ten

thousand lamps and the glories of all the jewels of his state; would

have been dull, although each guest were wittier than Pasquin himself;

and very vulgar, although attended by lords of as many quarterings as

the ancient shield of his own antediluvian house! All, therefore, that

the ladies of the “Committee of Arrangement” could do, was to enclose to

the rebellious von Aslingen a list of the expected characters, and a

resolution passed in consequence of his contumacy, that no person or

persons was, or were, to appear as either or any of these characters,

unless he, or they, could produce a ticket, or tickets, granted by a

member of the “Committee of Arrangement,” and countersigned by the

secretary of the “Committee of Costume.” At the same time that these

vigorous measures were resolved on, no persons spoke of Emilius von

Aslingen’s rebellious conduct in terms of greater admiration than the

ladies of the Committee themselves. If possible, he in consequence

became even a more influential and popular personage than before, and

his conduct procured him almost the adoration of persons who, had they

dared to imitate him, would have been instantly crushed, and would have

been banished society principally by the exertions of the very

individual whom they had the presumption to mimic.

In the gardens of the palace was a spacious amphitheatre, cut out in

green seats, for the spectators of the plays which, during the summer

months, were sometimes performed there by the Court. There was a stage

in the same taste, with rows of trees for side-scenes, and a great

number of arbours and summer-rooms, surrounded by lofty hedges of

laurel, for the actors to retire and dress in. Connected with this

“rural Theatre,” for such was its title, were many labyrinths, and

groves, and arched walks, in the same style. More than twelve large

fountains were in the immediate vicinity of this theatre. At the end of

one walk a sea-horse spouted its element through its nostrils; and in

another, Neptune turned an Ocean out of a vase. Seated on a rock,

Arcadia’s half-goat god, the deity of silly sheep and silly poets, sent

forth trickling streams through his rustic pipes; and in the centre of a

green grove, an enamoured Salmacis, bathing in a pellucid basin, seemed

watching for her Hermaphrodite.

It was in this rural theatre and its fanciful confines that Madame

Carolina and her councillors resolved that their magic should, for a

night, not only stop the course of time, but recall past centuries. It

was certainly rather late in the year for choosing such a spot for the

scene of their enchantment; but the season, as we have often had

occasion to remark in the course of these volumes, was singularly fine;

and indeed at this moment the nights were as warm, and as clear from

mist and dew, as they are during an Italian midsummer.

But it is eight o’clock; we are already rather late. Is that a figure by

Holbein, just started out of the canvas, that I am about to meet? Stand

aside! It is a page of the Emperor Charles the Fifth! The Court is on

its way to the theatre. The theatre and the gardens are brilliantly

illuminated. The effect of the thousands of coloured lamps, in all parts

of the foliage, is very beautiful. The moon is up, and a million stars!

If it be not quite as light as day, it is just light enough for

pleasure. You could not perhaps endorse a bill of exchange, or engross a

parchment, by this light; but then it is just the light to read a

love-letter by, and do a thousand other things besides.

All hail to the Emperor! we would give his costume, were it not rather

too much in the style of the von Chronicles. Reader! you have seen a

portrait of Charles by Holbein: very well; what need is there of a

description? No lack was there in this gay scene of massy chains and

curious collars, nor of cloth of gold, nor of cloth of silver! No lack

was there of trembling plumes and costly hose! No lack was there of

crimson velvet, and russet velvet, and tawny velvet, and purple velvet,

and plunket velvet, and of scarlet cloth, and green taffeta, and cloth

of silk embroidered! No lack was there of garments of estate, and of

quaint chemews, nor of short crimson cloaks, covered with pearls and

precious stones! No lack was there of party-coloured splendour, of

purple velvet embroidered with white, and white satin dresses

embroidered with black! No lack was there of splendid koyfes of damask,

or kerchiefs of fine Cyprus; nor of points of Venice silver of ducat

fineness, nor of garlands of friars’ knots, nor of coloured satins, nor

of bleeding hearts embroidered on the bravery of dolorous lovers, nor of

quaint sentences of wailing gallantry! But for the details, are they not

to be found in those much-neglected and much-plundered persons, the old

chroniclers? and will they not sufficiently appear in the most inventive

portion of the next great historical novel?

The Grand Duke looked the Emperor. Our friend the Grand Marshal was

Francis the First; and Arnelm and von Neuwied figured as the Marshal of

Montmorency and the Marshal Lautrec. The old toothless Bishop did

justice to Clement the Seventh; and his companion, the ancient General,

looked grim as Pompeo Colonna. A prince of the House of Nassau, one of

the royal visitors, represented his adventurous ancestor the Prince of

Orange. Von Sohnspeer was that haughty and accomplished rebel, the

Constable of Bourbon. The young Baron Gernsbach was worthy of the

seraglio, as he stalked along as Solyman the Magnificent, with all the

family jewels belonging to his dowager mother shining in his superb

turban. Our friend the Count of Eberstein personified chivalry, in the

person of Bayard. The younger Bernstorff, the intimate friend of

Gernsbach, attended his sumptuous sovereign as that Turkish Paul Jones,

Barbarossa. An Italian Prince was Andrew Doria. The Grand Chamberlain,

our francisé acquaintance, and who affected a love of literature, was

the Protestant Elector of Saxony. His train consisted of the principal

litterateurs of Reisenburg. The Editor of the “Attack-all Review,” who

originally had been a Catholic, but who had been skilfully converted

some years ago, when he thought Catholicism was on the decline, was

Martin Luther, an individual whom, both in his apostasy and fierceness,

he much and only resembled. On the contrary, the editor of the

“Praise-all Review” appeared as the mild and meek Melanchthon. Mr.

Sievers, not yet at Vienna, was Erasmus. Ariosto, Guicciardini, Ronsard,

Rabelais, Machiavel, Pietro Aretino, Garcilasso de la Vega. Sannazaro,

and Paracelsus, afforded names to many nameless critics. Two Generals,

brothers, appeared as Cortes and Pizarro. The noble Director of the

Gallery was Albert Durer, and his deputy Hans Holbein. The Court

painter, a wretched mimic of the modern French School, did justice to

the character of Correggio; and an indifferent sculptor looked sublime

as Michel Angelo.

Von Chronicle had persuaded the Prince of Pike and Powdren, one of his

warmest admirers, to appear as Henry the Eighth of England. His Highness

was one of those true North German patriots who think their own country

a very garden of Eden, and verily believe that original sin is to be

finally put an end to in a large sandy plain between Berlin and Hanover.

The Prince of Pike and Powdren passed his whole life in patriotically

sighing for the concentration of all Germany into one great nation, and

in secretly trusting that, if ever the consummation took place, the

North would be rewarded for their condescending union by a monopoly of

all the privileges of the Empire. Such a character was of course

extremely desirous of figuring to-night in a style peculiarly national.

The persuasions of von Chronicle, however, prevailed, and induced his

Highness of Pike and Powdren to dismiss his idea of appearing as the

ancient Arminius, although it was with great regret that the Prince gave

up his plan of personating his favourite hero, with hair down to his

middle and skins up to his chin. Nothing would content von Chronicle but

that his kind patron should represent a crowned head: anything else was

beneath him. The patriotism of the Prince disappeared before the

flattery of the novelist, like the bloom of a plum before the breath of

a boy, when he polishes the powdered fruit ere he devours it. No sooner

had his Highness agreed to be changed into bluff Harry than the secret

purpose of his adviser was immediately detected. No Court confessor,

seduced by the vision of a red hat, ever betrayed the secrets of his

sovereign with greater fervour than did von Chronicle labour for the

Cardinal’s costume, which was the consequence of the Prince of Pike and

Powdren undertaking the English monarch. To-night, proud as was the part

of the Prince as regal Harry, his strut was a shamble compared with the

imperious stalk of von Chronicle as the arrogant and ambitious Wolsey.

The Cardinal in Rienzi was nothing to him; for to-night Wolsey had as

many pages as the other had petticoats!

But, most ungallant of scribblers! Place aux dames! Surely Madame

Carolina, as the beautiful and accomplished Margaret of Navarre, might

well command, even without a mandate, your homage and your admiration!

The lovely Queen seemed the very goddess of smiles and repartee; young

Max, as her page, carried at her side a painted volume of her own

poetry. The arm of the favourite sister of Francis, who it will be

remembered once fascinated even the Emperor, was linked in that of

Caesar’s natural daughter, her beautiful namesake, the bright-eyed

Margaret of Austria. Conversing with these royal dames, and indeed

apparently in attendance upon them, was a young gallant of courtly

bearing, and attired in a fantastic dress. It is Clement Marot, “the

Poet of Princes and the Prince of Poets,” as he was styled by his own

admiring age; he offers to the critical inspection of the nimble-witted

Navarre a few lines in celebration of her beauty and the night’s

festivity; one of those short Marotique poems once so celebrated;

perhaps a page culled from those gay and airy psalms which, with

characteristic gallantry, he dedicated “to the Dames of France!” Observe

well the fashionable bard! Marot was a true poet, and in his day not

merely read by queens and honoured by courtiers: observe him well; for

the character is supported by our Vivian Grey. It was with great

difficulty that Madame Carolina had found a character for her favourite,

for the lists were all filled before his arrival at Reisenburg. She at

first wished him to appear as some celebrated Englishman of the time,

but no character of sufficient importance could be discovered. All our

countrymen in contact or connection with the Emperor Charles were

churchmen and civilians; and Sir Nicholas Carew and the other fops of

the reign of Henry the Eighth, who, after the visit to Paris, were even

more ridiculously francisé than the Grand Chamberlain of Reisenburg

himself, were not, after mature deliberation, considered entitled to the

honour of being ranked in Madame Carolina’s age of Charles the Fifth.

But who is this, surrounded by her ladies and her chamberlains and her

secretaries? Four pages in dresses of cloth of gold, and each the son of

a prince of the French blood, support her train; a crown encircles locks

grey as much from thought as from time, but which require no show of

loyalty to prove that they belong to a mother of princes; that ample

forehead, aquiline nose, and the keen glance of her piercing eye denote

the Queen as much as the regality of her gait and her numerous and

splendid train. The young Queen of Navarre hastens to proffer her duty

to the mother of Francis, the celebrated Louise of Savoy; and

exquisitely did the young and lovely Countess of S---- personate the

most celebrated of female diplomatists.

We have forgotten one character; the repeated commands of his father and

the constant entreaties of Madame Carolina had at length prevailed upon

the Crown Prince to shuffle himself into a fancy dress. No sooner had he

gratified them by his hard-wrung consent than Baron von Chronicle called

upon him with drawings of the costume of the Prince of Asturias,

afterwards Philip the Second of Spain. If we for a moment forgot so

important a personage as the future Grand Duke, it must have been

because he supported his character so ably that no one for an instant

believed that it was an assumed one; standing near the side scenes of

the amphitheatre, with his gloomy brow, sad eye, protruding under-lip,

and arms hanging straight by his sides, he looked a bigot without hope,

and a tyrant without purpose.

The first hour is over, and the guests are all assembled. As yet they

content themselves with promenading round the amphitheatre; for before

they can think of dance or stroll, each of them must be duly acquainted

with the other’s dress. It was a most splendid scene. The Queen of

Navarre has now been presented to the Emperor, and, leaning on his arm,

they head the promenade. The Emperor had given the hand of Margaret of

Austria to his legitimate son; but the Crown Prince, though he continued

in silence by the side of the young Baroness, soon resigned a hand which

did not struggle to retain his. Clement Marot was about to fall back

into a less conspicuous part of the procession; but the Grand Duke,

witnessing the regret of his loved Consort, condescendingly said, “We

cannot afford to lose our poet;” and so Vivian found himself walking

behind Madame Carolina, and on the left side of the young Baroness.

Louise of Savoy followed with her son, the King of France; most of the

ladies of the Court, and a crowd of officers, among them Montmorency and

De Lautrec, after their Majesties. The King of England moves by; his

state unnoticed in the superior magnificence of Wolsey. Pompeo Colonna

apologises to Pope Clement for having besieged his holiness in the

Castle of St. Angelo. The Elector of Saxony and the Prince of Orange

follow. Solyman the Magnificent is attended by his Admiral; and

Bayard’s pure spirit almost quivers at the whispered treason of the

Constable of Bourbon. Luther and Melanchthon, Erasmus and Rabelais,

Cortez and Pizarro, Correggio and Michael Angelo, and a long train of

dames and dons of all nations, succeed; so long that the amphitheatre

cannot hold them, and the procession, that they may walk over the stage,

makes a short progress through an adjoining summer-room.

Just as the Emperor and the fair Queen are in the middle of the stage, a

wounded warrior with a face pale as an eclipsed moon, a helmet on which

is painted the sign of his sacred order, a black mantle thrown over his

left shoulder, but not concealing his armour, a sword in his right hand

and an outstretched crucifix in his left, rushes on the scene. The

procession suddenly halts; all recognise Emilius von Aslingen! and

Madame Carolina blushes through her rouge when she perceives that so

celebrated, “so interesting a character” as Ignatius Loyola, the Founder

of the Jesuits, has not been included in the all-comprehensive lists of

her committee.

CHAPTER X

Henry of England led the Polonaise with Louise of Savoy; Margaret of

Austria would not join in it: waltzing quickly followed. The Emperor

seldom left the side of the Queen of Navarre, and often conversed with

her Majesty’s poet. The Prince of Asturias hovered for a moment round

his father’s daughter, as if he were summoning resolution to ask her to

waltz. Once, indeed, he opened his mouth; could it have been to speak?

But the young Margaret gave no encouragement to this unusual exertion;

and Philip of Asturias, looking, if possible, more sad and sombre than

before, skulked away. The Crown Prince left the gardens, and now a smile

lit up every face, except that of the young Baroness. The gracious Grand

Duke, unwilling to see a gloomy countenance anywhere to-night, turned to

Vivian, who was speaking to Madame Carolina, and said, “Gentle poet,

would that thou hadst some chanson or courtly compliment to chase the

cloud which hovers on the brow of our much-loved daughter of Austria!

Your popularity, sir,” continued the Grand Duke, dropping his mock

heroic vein and speaking in a much lower tone, “your popularity, sir,

among the ladies of the Court, cannot be increased by any panegyric of

mine; nor am I insensible, believe me, to the assiduity and skill with

which you have complied with my wishes in making our Court agreeable to

the relative of a man to whom we owe so much as Mr. Beckendorff. I am

informed, Mr. Grey,” continued his Royal Highness, “that you have no

intention of very speedily returning to your country; I wish that I

could count you among my peculiar attendants. If you have an objection

to live in the palace without performing your quota of duty to the

State, we shall have no difficulty in finding you an office, and

clothing you in our official costume. Think of this!” So saying, with a

gracious smile, his Royal Highness, leading Madame Carolina, commenced a

walk round the gardens.

The young Baroness did not follow them. Solyman the Magnificent, and

Bayard the irreproachable, and Barbarossa the pirate, and Bourbon the

rebel, immediately surrounded her. Few persons were higher ton than the

Turkish Emperor and his Admiral; few persons talked more agreeable

nonsense than the Knight sans peur et sans reproche; no person was more

important than the warlike Constable; but their attention, their

amusement, and their homage were to-night thrown away on the object of

their observance. The Baroness listened to them without interest, and

answered them with brevity. She did not even condescend, as she had done

before, to enter into a war of words, to mortify their vanity or

exercise their wit. She treated them neither with contempt nor courtesy.

If no smile welcomed their remarks, at least her silence was not

scornful, and the most shallow-headed prater that fluttered around her

felt that he was received with dignity and not with disdain. Awed by her

conduct, not one of them dared to be flippant, and every one of them

soon became dull. The ornaments of the Court of Reisenburg, the arbiters

of ton and the lords of taste, stared with astonishment at each other

when they found, to their mutual surprise, that at one moment, in such a

select party, universal silence pervaded. In this state of affairs,

every one felt that his dignity required his speedy disappearance from

the lady’s presence. The Orientals, taking advantage of Bourbon’s

returning once more to the charge with an often unanswered remark,

coolly walked away: the Chevalier made an adroit and honourable retreat

by joining a passing party; and the Constable was the only one who,

being left in solitude and silence, was finally obliged to make a formal

bow and retire discomforted from the side of the only woman with whom

he had ever condescended to fall in love. Leaning against the trunk of a

tree at some little distance, Vivian Grey watched the formation and

dissolution of the young Baroness’ levée with lively interest. His eyes

met the lady’s as she raised them from the ground on von Sohnspeer

quitting her. She immediately beckoned to Vivian, but without her usual

smile. He was directly at her side, but she did not speak. At last he

said, “This is a most brilliant scene!”

“You think so, do you?” answered the lady, in a tone and manner which

almost made Vivian believe, for a moment, that his friend Mr.

Beckendorff was at his side.

“Decidedly his daughter!” thought he.

“You are not gay to-night?” said Vivian.

“Why should I be?” said the lady, in a manner which would have made

Vivian imagine that his presence was as disagreeable to her as that of

Count von Sohnspeer, had not the lady herself invited his company.

“I suppose the scene is very brilliant,” continued the Baroness, after a

few moments’ silence. “At least all here seem to think so, except

two persons.”

“And who are they?” asked Vivian.

“Myself and--the Crown Prince. I am almost sorry that I did not dance

with him. There seems a wonderful similarity in our dispositions.”

“You are pleased to be severe to-night.”

“And who shall complain when the first person that I satirize is

myself?”

“It is most considerate in you,” said Vivian, “to undertake such an

office; for it is one which you yourself are alone capable of

fulfilling. The only person that can ever satirize your Excellency is

yourself; and I think even then that, in spite of your candour, your

self-examination must please us with a self-panegyric.”

“Nay, a truce to compliments: at least let me hear better things from

you. I cannot any longer endure the glare of these lamps and dresses!

your arm! Let us walk for a few minutes in the more retired and cooler

parts of the gardens.”

The Baroness and Vivian left the amphitheatre by a different path to

that by which the Grand Duke and Madame Carolina had quitted it. They

found the walks quite solitary; for the royal party, which was small,

contained the only persons who had yet left the stage.

Vivian and his companions strolled about for some time, conversing on

subjects of casual interest. The Baroness, though no longer absent,

either in her manner or her conversation, seemed depressed; and Vivian,

while he flattered himself that he was more entertaining than usual,

felt, to his mortification, that the lady was not entertained.

“I am afraid you find it dull here,” said he; “shall we return?”

“Oh, no; do not let us return! We have so short a time to be together

that we must not allow even one hour to be dull.”

As Vivian was about to reply, he heard the joyous voice of young

Maximilian; it sounded very near. The royal party was approaching. The

Baroness expressed her earnest desire to avoid it; and as to advance or

to retreat, in these labyrinthine walks, was almost equally hazardous,

they retired into one of those green recesses which we have before

mentioned; indeed it was the very evergreen grove in the centre of which

the Nymph of the Fountain watched for her loved Carian youth. A shower

of moonlight fell on the marble statue, and showed the Nymph in an

attitude of consummate skill: her modesty struggling with her desire,

and herself crouching in her hitherto pure waters, while her anxious ear

listens for the bounding step of the regardless huntsman.

“The air is cooler here,” said the Baroness, “or the sound of the

falling water is peculiarly refreshing to my senses. They have passed. I

rejoice that we did not return; I do not think that I could have

remained among those lamps another moment. How singular, actually to

view with aversion a scene which appears to enchant all!”

“A scene which I should have thought would have been particularly

charming to you,” said Vivian; “you are dispirited tonight!”

“Am I?” said the Baroness. “I ought not to be; not to be more dispirited

than I ever am. To-night I expected pleasure; nothing has happened which

I did not expect, and everything which I did. And yet I am sad! Do you

think that happiness can ever be sad? I think it must be so. But whether

I am sorrowful or happy I can hardly tell; for it is only within these

few days that I have known either grief or joy.”

“It must be counted an eventful period in your existence which reckons

in its brief hours a first acquaintance with such passions!” said

Vivian, with a searching eye and an inquiring voice.

“Yes; an eventful period, certainly an eventful period,” answered the

Baroness, with a thoughtful air and in measured words.

“I cannot bear to see a cloud upon that brow!” said Vivian. “Have you

forgotten how much was to be done to-night? How eagerly you looked

forward to its arrival? How bitterly we were to regret the termination

of the mimic empire?”

“I have forgotten nothing; would that I had! I will not look grave. I

will be gay; and yet, when I remember how soon other mockery besides

this splendid pageant must be terminated, why should I look gay? Why may

I not weep?”

“Nay, if we are to moralise on worldly felicity, I fear that instead of

inspiriting you, which is my wish, I shall prove but a too congenial

companion. But such a theme is not for you.”

“And why should it be for one who, though he lecture me with such

gravity and gracefulness, can scarcely be entitled to play the part of

Mentor by the weight of years?” said the Baroness, with a smile: “for

one who, I trust, who I should think, as little deserved, and was as

little inured to, sorrow as myself!”

“To find that you have cause to grieve,” said Vivian, “and to learn from

you, at the same time, your opinion of my own lot, prove what I have too

often had the sad opportunity of observing, that the face of man is

scarcely more genuine and less deceitful than these masquerade dresses

which we now wear.”

“But you are not unhappy?” asked the Baroness with a quick voice.

“Not now,” said Vivian.

His companion seated herself on the marble balustrade which surrounded

the fountain: she did not immediately speak again, and Vivian was

silent, for he was watching her motionless countenance as her large

brilliant eyes gazed with earnestness on the falling water sparkling in

the moonlight. Surely it was not the mysterious portrait at

Beckendorff’s that he beheld!

She turned. She exclaimed in an agitated voice, “O friend! too lately

found, why have we met to part?”

“To part, dearest!” said he, in a low and rapid voice, and he gently

took her hand; “to part! and why should we part? why--”

“Ask not; your question is agony!” She tried to withdraw her hand, he

pressed it with renewed energy, it remained in his, she turned away her

head, and both were silent.

“O! lady,” said Vivian, as he knelt at her side, “why are we not happy?”

His arm is round her waist, gently he bends his head, their speaking

eyes meet, and their trembling lips cling into a kiss!

A seal of love and purity and faith! and the chaste moon need not have

blushed as she lit up the countenances of the lovers.

“O! lady, why are we not happy?”

“We are, we are: is not this happiness, is not this joy, is not this

bliss? Bliss,” she continued, in a low broken voice, “to which I have no

right, no title. Oh! quit, quit my hand! Happiness is not for me!” She

extricated herself from his arm, and sprang upon her feet. Alarm, rather

than affection, was visible on her agitated features. It seemed to cost

her a great effort to collect her scattered senses; the effort was made

with pain, but with success.

“Forgive me,” she said, in a hurried and indistinct tone; “forgive me! I

would speak, but cannot, not now at least; we have been long away, too

long; our absence will be remarked to-night; to-night we must give up to

the gratification of others, but I will speak. For yours, for my own

sake, let us, let us go. You know that we are to be very gay to-night,

and gay we will be. Who shall prevent us? At least the present hour is

our own; and when the future ones must be so sad, why, why, trifle

with this?”

CHAPTER XI

The reader is not to suppose that Vivian Grey thought of the young

Baroness merely in the rapid scenes which we have sketched. There were

few moments in the day in which her image did not occupy his thoughts,

and which, indeed, he did not spend in her presence. From the first her

character had interested him. His accidental but extraordinary

acquaintance with Beckendorff made him view any individual connected

with that singular man with a far more curious feeling than could

influence the young nobles of the Court, who were ignorant of the

Minister’s personal character. There was an evident mystery about the

character and situation of the Baroness, which well accorded with the

eccentric and romantic career of the Prime Minister of Reisenburg. Of

the precise nature of her connection with Beckendorff Vivian was wholly

ignorant. The world spoke of her as his daughter, and the affirmation of

Madame Carolina confirmed the world’s report. Her name was still unknown

to him; and although during the few moments that they had enjoyed an

opportunity of conversing together alone, Vivian had made every exertion

of which good breeding, impelled by curiosity, is capable, and had

devised many little artifices with which a schooled address is well

acquainted to obtain it, his exertions had hitherto been unsuccessful.

If there was a mystery, the young lady was competent to preserve it; and

with all her naïveté, her interesting ignorance of the world, and her

evidently uncontrollable spirit, no hasty word ever fell from her

cautious lips which threw any light on the objects of his inquiry.

Though impetuous, she was never indiscreet, and often displayed a

caution which was little in accordance with her youth and temper. The

last night had witnessed the only moment in which her passions seemed

for a time to have struggled with, and to have overcome, her judgment;

but it was only for a moment. That display of overpowering feeling had

cost Vivian a sleepless night; and he is at this instant pacing up and

down the chamber of his hotel, thinking of that which he had imagined

could exercise his thoughts no more.

She was beautiful; she loved him; she was unhappy! To be loved by any

woman is flattering to the feelings of every man, no matter how deeply

he may have quaffed the bitter goblet of worldly knowledge. The praise

of a fool is incense to the wisest of us; and though we believe

ourselves broken-hearted, it still delights us to find that we are

loved. The memory of Violet Fane was still as fresh, as sweet, to the

mind of Vivian Grey as when he pressed her blushing cheek for the first

and only time. To love again, really to love as he had done, he once

thought was impossible; he thought so still. The character of the

Baroness had interested him from the first. Her ignorance of mankind,

and her perfect acquaintance with the polished forms of society; her

extreme beauty, her mysterious rank, her proud spirit and impetuous

feelings; her occasional pensiveness, her extreme waywardness, had

astonished, perplexed, and enchanted him. But he had never felt in love.

It never for a moment had entered into his mind that his lonely bosom

could again be a fit resting-place for one so lovely and so young.

Scared at the misery which had always followed in his track, he would

have shuddered ere he again asked a human being to share his sad and

blighted fortunes. The partiality of the Baroness for his society,

without flattering his vanity, or giving rise to thoughts more serious

than how he could most completely enchant for her the passing hour, had

certainly made the time passed in her presence the least gloomy which he

had lately experienced. At the same moment that he left the saloon of

the palace he had supposed that his image quitted her remembrance; and

if she had again welcomed him with cheerfulness and cordiality, he had

felt that his reception was owing to not being, perhaps, quite as

frivolous as the Count of Eberstein, and rather more amusing than the

Baron of Gernsbach.

It was therefore with the greatest astonishment that, last night, he had

found that he was loved, loved, too, by this beautiful and haughty girl,

who had treated the advances of the most distinguished nobles with

ill-concealed scorn, and who had so presumed upon her dubious

relationship to the bourgeois Minister that nothing but her own

surpassing loveliness and her parent’s all-engrossing influence could

have excused or authorised her conduct.

Vivian had yielded to the magic of the moment, and had returned the

feelings apparently no sooner expressed than withdrawn. Had he left the

gardens of the palace the Baroness’s plighted lover he might perhaps

have deplored his rash engagement, and the sacred image of his first and

hallowed love might have risen up in judgment against his violated

affection; but how had he and the interesting stranger parted? He was

rejected, even while his affection was returned; and while her

flattering voice told him that he alone could make her happy, she had

mournfully declared that happiness could not be hers. How was this?

Could she be another’s? Her agitation at the Opera, often the object of

his thought, quickly occurred to him! It must be so. Ah! another’s! and

who this rival? this proud possessor of a heart which could not beat for

him? Madame Carolina’s declaration that the Baroness must be married off

was at this moment remembered: her marked observation, that von

Sohnspeer was no son of Beckendorff’s, not forgotten. The Field Marshal,

too, was the valued friend of the Minister; and it did not fail to occur

to Vivian that it was not von Sohnspeer’s fault that his attendance on

the Baroness was not as constant as his own. Indeed, the unusual

gallantry of the Commander-in-Chief had been the subject of many a joke

among the young lords of the Court, and the reception of his addresses

by their unmerciful object not unobserved or unspared. But as for poor

von Sohnspeer, what could be expected, as Emilius von Aslingen observed,

“from a man whose softest compliment was as long, loud, and obscure as a

birthday salute!”

No sooner was the affair clear to Vivian, no sooner was he convinced

that a powerful obstacle existed to the love or union of himself and the

Baroness, than he began to ask what right the interests of third persons

had to interfere between the mutual affection of any individuals. He

thought of her in the moonlight garden, struggling with her pure and

natural passion. He thought of her exceeding beauty, her exceeding love.

He beheld this rare and lovely creature in the embrace of von Sohnspeer.

He turned from the picture in disgust and indignation. She was his.

Nature had decreed it. She should be the bride of no other man. Sooner

than yield her up he would beard Beckendorff himself in his own retreat,

and run every hazard and meet every danger which the ardent imagination

of a lover could conceive. Was he madly to reject the happiness which

Providence, or Destiny, or Chance had at length offered him? If the

romance of boyhood could never be realised, at least with this engaging

being for his companion, he might pass through his remaining years in

calmness and in peace. His trials were perhaps over. Alas! this is the

last delusion of unhappy men!

Vivian called at the Palace, but the fatigues of the preceding night

prevented either of the ladies from being visible. In the evening he

joined a small and select circle. The party, indeed, only consisted of

the Grand Duke, Madame, their visitors, and the usual attendants,

himself, and von Sohnspeer. The quiet of the little circle did not more

strikingly contrast with the noise, and glare, and splendour of the last

night than did Vivian’s subdued reception by the Baroness with her

agitated demeanour in the garden. She was cordial, but calm. He found it

quite impossible to gain even one moment’s private conversation with

her. Madame Carolina monopolised his attention, as much to favour the

views of the Field Marshal as to discuss the comparative merits of Pope

as a moralist and a poet; and Vivian had the mortification of observing

his odious rival, whom he now thoroughly detested, discharge without

ceasing his royal salutes in the impatient ear of Beckendorff’s

lovely daughter.

Towards the conclusion of the evening a chamberlain entered the room and

whispered his mission to the Baroness. She immediately rose and quitted

the apartment. As the party was breaking up she again entered. Her

countenance was agitated. Madame Carolina was in the art of being

overwhelmed with the compliments of the Grand Marshal, and Vivian seized

the opportunity of reaching the Baroness. After a few hurried sentences

she dropped her glove. Vivian gave it her. So many persons were round

them that it was impossible to converse except on the most common

topics. The glove was again dropped.

“I see,” said the Baroness, with a meaning look, “that you are but a

recreant knight, or else you would not part with a lady’s glove

so easily.”

Vivian gave a rapid glance round the room. No one was observing him, and

the glove was immediately concealed. He hurried home, rushed up the

staircase of the hotel, ordered lights, locked the door, and with a

sensation of indescribable anxiety tore the precious glove from his

bosom, seized, opened, and read the enclosed and following note. It was

written in pencil, in a hurried hand, and some of the words were

repeated:--

“I leave the Court to-night. He is here himself. No art can postpone my

departure. Much, much, I wish to see you; to say, to say, to you. He is

to have an interview with the Grand Duke to-morrow morning. Dare you

come to his place in his absence? You know the private road. He goes by

the high road, and calls in his way on a Forest Councillor: it is the

white house by the barrier; you know it! Watch him to-morrow morning;

about nine or ten I should think; here, here; and then for heaven’s sake

let me see you. Dare everything! Fail not! Mind, by the private road:

beware the other! You know the ground. God bless you:

“SYBILLA”

CHAPTER XII

Vivian read the note over a thousand times. He could not retire to rest.

He called Essper George, and gave him all necessary directions for the

morning. About three o’clock Vivian lay down on a sofa, and slept for a

few hours. He started often in his short and feverish slumber. His

dreams were unceasing and inexplicable. At first von Sohnspeer was their

natural hero; but soon the scene shifted. Vivian was at Ems, walking

under the well-remembered lime-trees, and with the Baroness. Suddenly,

although it was mid-day, the Sun became large, blood-red, and fell out

of the heavens; his companion screamed, a man rushed forward with a

drawn sword. It was the idiot Crown Prince of Reisenburg. Vivian tried

to oppose him, but without success. The infuriated ruffian sheathed his

weapon in the heart of the Baroness. Vivian shrieked, and fell upon her

body, and, to his horror, found himself embracing the cold corpse of

Violet Fane!

Vivian and Essper mounted their horses about seven o’clock. At eight

they had reached a small inn near the Forest Councillor’s house, where

Vivian was to remain until Essper had watched the entrance of the

Minister. It was a few minutes past nine when Essper returned with the

joyful intelligence that Owlface and his master had been seen to enter

the Courtyard. Vivian immediately mounted Max, and telling Essper to

keep a sharp watch, he set spurs to his horse.

“Now, Max, my good steed, each minute is golden; serve thy master well!”

He patted the horse’s neck, the animal’s erected ears proved how well it

understood its master’s wishes; and taking advantage of the loose

bridle, which was confidently allowed it, the horse sprang rather than

galloped to the Minister’s residence. Nearly an hour, however, was lost

in gaining the private road, for Vivian, after the caution in the

Baroness’s letter, did not dare the high road.

He is galloping up the winding rural lane, where he met Beckendorff on

the second morning of his visit. He has reached the little gate, and

following the example of the Grand Duke, ties Max at the entrance. He

dashes over the meadows; not following the path, but crossing straight

through the long dewy grass, he leaps over the light iron railing; he is

rushing up the walk; he takes a rapid glance, in passing, at the little

summer-house; the blue passion-flower is still blooming, the house is in

sight; a white handkerchief is waving from the drawing-room window! He

sees it; fresh wings are added to its course; he dashes through a bed of

flowers, frightens the white peacock, darts through the library window,

and is in the drawing room.

The Baroness was there: pale and agitated she stood beneath the

mysterious picture, with one arm leaning on the old carved mantelpiece.

Overcome by her emotions, she did not move forward to meet him as he

entered; but Vivian observed neither her constraint nor her agitation.

“Sybilla! dearest Sybilla! say you are mine!”

He seized her hand. She struggled not to disengage herself; her head

sank upon her arm, which rested upon his shoulder. Overpowered, she

sobbed convulsively. He endeavoured to calm her, but her agitation

increased; and minutes elapsed ere she seemed to be even sensible of his

presence. At length she became more calm, and apparently making a

struggle to compose herself, she raised her head and said, “This is very

weak--let us walk for a moment about the room!”

At this moment Vivian was seized by the throat with a strong grasp. He

turned round; it was Mr. Beckendorff, with a face deadly white, his full

eyes darting from their sockets like a hungry snake’s, and the famous

Italian dagger in his right hand.

“Villain!” said he, in the low voice of fatal passion; “Villain, is this

your Destiny?”

Vivian’s first thoughts were for the Baroness; and turning his head from

Beckendorff, he looked with the eye of anxious love to his companion.

But, instead of fainting, instead of being overwhelmed by this terrible

interruption, she seemed, on the contrary, to have suddenly regained her

natural spirit and self-possession. The blood had returned to her

hitherto pale cheek, and the fire to an eye before dull with weeping.

She extricated herself immediately from Vivian’s encircling arm, and by

so doing enabled him to have struggled, had it been necessary, more

equally with the powerful grasp of his assailant.

“Stand off, sir!” said the Baroness, with an air of inexpressible

dignity, and a voice which even at this crisis seemed to anticipate

that it would be obeyed. “Stand off, sir! stand off, I command you!”

Beckendorff for one moment was motionless: he then gave her a look of

piercing earnestness, threw Vivian, rather than released him, from his

hold, and flung the dagger with a bitter smile, into the corner of the

room. “Well, madam!” said he, in a choking voice, “you are obeyed!”

“Mr. Grey,” continued the Baroness, “I regret that this outrage should

have been experienced by you because you have dared to serve me. My

presence should have preserved you from this contumely; but what are we

to expect from those who pride themselves upon being the sons of slaves!

You shall hear further from me.” So saying, the lady, bowing to Vivian,

and sweeping by the Minister with a glance of indescribable disdain,

quitted the apartment. As she was on the point of leaving the room,

Vivian was standing against the wall, with a pale face and folded arms;

Beckendorff, with his back to the window, his eyes fixed on the ground;

and Vivian, to his astonishment, perceived, what escaped the Minister’s

notice, that while the lady bade him adieu with one hand she made rapid

signs with the other to some unknown person in the garden.

Mr. Beckendorff and Vivian were left alone, and the latter was the first

to break silence.

“Mr. Beckendorff,” said he, in a calm voice, “considering the

circumstances under which you have found me in your house this morning,

I should have known how to excuse and to forget any irritable

expressions which a moment of ungovernable passion might have inspired.

I should have passed them over unnoticed. But your unjustifiable

behaviour has exceeded that line of demarcation which sympathy with

human feelings allows even men of honour to recognise. You have

disgraced both me and yourself by giving me a blow. It is, as that lady

well styled it, an outrage; an outrage which the blood of any other man

but yourself could only obliterate from my memory; but while I am

inclined to be indulgent to your exalted station and your peculiar

character, I at the same time expect, and now wait for, an apology!”

“An apology!” said Beckendorff, now beginning to stamp up and down the

room; “an apology! Shall it be made to you, sir, or the Archduchess?”

“The Archduchess;” said Vivian. “Good God! what can you mean! Did I

hear you right?”

“I said the Archduchess,” answered Beckendorff, with firmness; “a

Princess of the House of Austria, and the pledged wife of his Royal

Highness the Crown Prince of Reisenburg. Perhaps you may now think that

other persons have to apologise?”

“Mr. Beckendorff,” said Vivian, “I am overwhelmed; I declare, upon my

honour--”

“Stop, sir! you have said too much already--”

“But, Mr. Beckendorff, surely you will allow me to explain--”

“Sir! there is no need of explanation. I know everything; more than you

do yourself. You can have nothing to explain to me! and I presume you

are now fully aware of the impossibility of again speaking to her. It is

at present within an hour of noon. Before sunset you must be twenty

miles from the Court; so far you will be attended. Do not answer me; you

know my power. A remonstrance only, and I write to Vienna: your progress

shall be stopped throughout the South of Europe. For her sake this

business will be hushed up. An important and secret mission will be the

accredited reason of your leaving Reisenburg. This will be confirmed by

your official attendant, who will be an Envoy’s Courier. Farewell!”

As Mr. Beckendorff quitted the room, his confidential servant, the

messenger of Turriparva, entered, and with the most respectful bow

informed Vivian that the horses were ready. In about three hours’ time

Vivian Grey, followed by the Government messenger, stopped at his hotel.

The landlord and waiters bowed with increased obsequiousness on seeing

him so attended, and in a few minutes Reisenburg was ringing with the

news that his appointment to the Under-Secretaryship of State was now “a

settled thing.”

BOOK VIII

CHAPTER I

The landlord of the Grand Hotel of the Four Nations at Reisenburg was

somewhat consoled for the sudden departure of his distinguished guest by

selling the plenipotentiary a travelling carriage lately taken for a

doubtful bill from a gambling Russian General at a large profit. In this

convenient vehicle, in the course of a couple of hours after his arrival

in the city, was Mr. Vivian Grey borne through the gate of the Allies.

Essper George, who had reached the hotel about half an hour after his

master, followed behind the carriage on his hack, leading Max. The

Courier cleared the road before, and expedited the arrival of the

special Envoy of the Grand Duke of Reisenburg at the point of his

destination by ordering the horses, clearing the barriers, and paying

the postilions in advance. Vivian had never travelled before with such

style and speed.

Our hero covered himself up with his cloak and drew his travelling cap

over his eyes, though it was one of the hottest days of this singularly

hot autumn. Entranced in a reverie, the only figure that occurred to his

mind was the young Archduchess, and the only sounds that dwelt on his

ear were the words of Beckendorff: but neither to the person of the

first nor to the voice of the second did he annex any definite idea.

After some hours’ travelling, which to Vivian seemed both an age and a

minute, he was roused from his stupor by the door of his calèche being

opened. He shook himself as a man does who has awakened from a benumbing

and heavy sleep, although his eyes were the whole time wide open. The

disturbing intruder was his courier, who, bowing, with his hat in hand,

informed his Excellency that he was now on the frontier of Reisenburg;

regretting that he was under the necessity of quitting his Excellency,

he begged to present him with his passport. “It is made out for Vienna,”

continued the messenger. “A private pass, sir, of the Prime Minister,

and will entitle you to the greatest consideration.”

The carriage was soon again advancing rapidly to the next post-house,

when, after they had proceeded about half a mile, Essper George calling

loudly from behind, the drivers suddenly stopped. Just as Vivian, to

whose tortured mind the rapid movement of the carriage was some relief,

for it produced an excitement which prevented thought, was about to

inquire the cause of this stoppage. Essper George rode up to

the calèche.

“Kind sir!” said he, with a peculiar look, “I have a packet for you.”

“A packet! from whom? speak! give it me!”

“Hush! softly, good master. Here am I about to commit rank treason for

your sake, and a hasty word is the only reward of my rashness.”

“Nay, nay, good Essper, try me not now!”

“I will not, kind sir! but the truth is, I could not give you the packet

while that double-faced knave was with us, or even while he was in

sight. ‘In good truth,’ as Master Rodolph was wont to say--!”

“But of this packet?”

“‘Fairly and softly,’ good sir! as Hunsdrich the porter said when I

would have drunk the mulled wine, while he was on the cold staircase--”

“Essper! do you mean to enrage me?”

“‘By St. Hubert!’ as that worthy gentleman the Grand Marshal was in the

habit of swearing, I--”

“This is too much; what are the idle sayings of these people to me?”

“Nay, nay, kind sir! they do but show that each of us has his own way of

telling a story, and that he who would hear a tale must let the teller’s

breath come out of his own nostrils.”

“Well, Essper, speak on! Stranger things have happened to me than to be

reproved by my own servant.”

“Nay, kind master! say not a bitter word to me because you have slipped

out of a scrape with your head on your shoulders. The packet is from Mr.

Beckendorff’s daughter.”

“Ah! why did you not give it me before?”

“Why do I give it you now? Because I am a fool; that is why. What! you

wanted it when that double-faced scoundrel was watching every eyelash of

yours as it moved from the breath of a fly? a fellow who can see as well

at the back of his head as from his face. I should like to poke out his

front eyes, to put him on an equality with the rest of mankind. He it

was who let the old gentleman know of your visit this morning, and I

suspect that he has been nearer your limbs of late than you have

imagined. Every dog has his day, and the oldest pig must look for the

knife! The Devil was once cheated on Sunday, and I have been too sharp

for Puss in boots and his mouse-trap! Prowling about the Forest

Councillor’s house, I saw your new servant, sir, gallop in, and his old

master soon gallop out. I was off as quick as they, but was obliged to

leave my horse within two miles of the house, and then trust to my legs.

I crept through the shrubs like a land tortoise; but, of course, too

late to warn you. However, I was in for the death, and making signs to

the young lady, who directly saw that I was a friend; bless her! she is

as quick as a partridge; I left you to settle it with papa, and, after

all, did that which I suppose you intended, sir, to do yourself; made my

way into the young lady’s bedchamber.”

“Hold your tongue, sir! and give me the packet.”

“There it is, and now we will go on; but we must stay an hour at the

next post, if your honour pleases not to sleep there; for both Max and

my own hack have had a sharp day’s work.”

Vivian tore open the packet. It contained a long letter, written on the

night of her return to Beckendorff’s; she had stayed up the whole night

writing. It was to have been forwarded to Vivian, in case of their not

being able to meet. In the enclosure were a few hurried lines, written

since the catastrophe. They were these: “May this safely reach you! Can

you ever forgive me? The enclosed, you will see, was intended for you,

in case of our not meeting. It anticipated sorrow; yet what were its

anticipations to our reality!”

The Archduchess’ letter was evidently written under the influence of

agitated feelings. We omit it; because, as the mystery of her character

is now explained, a great portion of her communication would be

irrelevant to our tale. She spoke of her exalted station as a woman,

that station which so many women envy, in a spirit of agonising

bitterness. A royal princess is only the most flattered of state

victims. She is a political sacrifice, by which enraged Governments are

appeased, wavering allies conciliated and ancient amities confirmed.

Debarred by her rank and her education from looking forward to that

exchange of equal affection which is the great end and charm of female

existence, no individual finds more fatally and feels more keenly that

pomp is not felicity, and splendour not content.

Deprived of all those sources of happiness which seem inherent in woman,

the wife of the Sovereign sometimes seeks in politics and in pleasure a

means of excitement which may purchase oblivion. But the political queen

is a rare character; she must possess an intellect of unusual power, and

her lot must be considered as an exception in the fortunes of female

royalty. Even the political queen generally closes an agitated career

with a broken heart. And for the unhappy votary of pleasure, who owns

her cold duty to a royal husband, we must not forget that even in the

most dissipated courts the conduct of the queen is expected to be

decorous, and that the instances are not rare where the wife of the

monarch has died on the scaffold, or in a dungeon, or in exile, because

she dared to be indiscreet where all were debauched. But for the great

majority of royal wives, they exist without a passion; they have nothing

to hope, nothing to fear, nothing to envy, nothing to want, nothing to

confide, nothing to hate, and nothing to love. Even their duties, though

multitudinous, are mechanical, and, while they require much attention,

occasion no anxiety. Amusement is their moment of great emotion, and for

them amusement is rare; for amusement is the result of equal

companionship. Thus situated, they are doomed to become frivolous in

their pursuits and formal in their manners, and the Court chaplain or

the Court confessor is the only person who can prove they have a soul,

by convincing them that it will be saved.

The young Archduchess had assented to the proposition of marriage with

the Crown Prince of Reisenburg without opposition, as she was convinced

that requesting her assent was only a courteous form of requiring her

compliance. There was nothing outrageous to her feelings in marrying a

man whom she had never seen, because her education, from her tenderest

years, had daily prepared her for such an event. Moreover, she was aware

that, if she succeeded in escaping from the offers of the Crown Prince

of Reisenburg, she would soon be under the necessity of assenting to

those of some other suitor; and if proximity to her own country,

accordance with its sentiments and manners, and previous connection with

her own house, were taken into consideration, an union with the family

of Reisenburg was even desirable. It was to be preferred, at least, to

one which brought with it a foreign husband and a foreign clime, a

strange language and strange customs. The Archduchess, a girl of ardent

feelings and lively mind, had not, however, agreed to become that

all-commanding slave, a Queen, without a stipulation. She required that

she might be allowed, previous to her marriage, to visit her future

Court incognita. This singular and unparalleled proposition was not

easily acceded to: but the opposition with which it was received only

tended to make the young Princess more determined to be gratified in her

caprice. Her Imperial Highness did not pretend that any end was to be

obtained by this unusual procedure, and indeed she had no definite

purpose in requesting it to be permitted. It was originally the mere

whim of the moment, and had it not been strongly opposed it would not

have been strenuously insisted upon. As it was, the young Archduchess

persisted, threatened, and grew obstinate; and the grey-headed

negotiators of the marriage, desirous of its speedy completion, and not

having a more tractable tool ready to supply her place, at length

yielded to her bold importunity. Great difficulty, however, was

experienced in carrying her wishes into execution. By what means and in

what character she was to appear at Court, so as not to excite suspicion

or occasion discovery, were often discussed, without being resolved

upon. At length it became necessary to consult Mr. Beckendorff. The

upper lip of the Prime Minister of Reisenburg curled as the Imperial

Minister detailed the caprice and contumacy of the Princess, and

treating with the greatest contempt this girlish whim, Mr. Beckendorff

ridiculed those by whom it had been humoured with no suppressed

derision. The consequence of his conduct was an interview with the

future Grand Duchess, and the consequence of his interview an unexpected

undertaking on his part to arrange the visit according to her

Highness’s desires.

The Archduchess had not yet seen the Crown Prince; but six miniatures

and a whole length portrait had prepared her for not meeting an Adonis

or a Baron Trenck, and that was all; for never had the Correggio of the

age of Charles the Fifth better substantiated his claims to the office

of Court painter than by these accurate semblances of his Royal

Highness, in which his hump was subdued into a Grecian bend, and his

lack-lustre eyes seemed beaming with tenderness and admiration. His

betrothed bride stipulated with Mr. Beckendorff that the fact of her

visit should be known only to himself and the Grand Duke; and before

she appeared at Court she had received the personal pledge both of

himself and his Royal Highness that the affair should be kept a complete

secret from the Crown Prince.

Most probably, on her first introduction to her future husband, all the

romantic plans of the young Archduchess to excite an involuntary

interest in his heart vanished; but how this may be, it is needless for

us to inquire, for that same night introduced another character into her

romance for whom she was perfectly unprepared, and whose appearance

totally disorganised its plot.

Her inconsiderate, her unjustifiable conduct, in tampering with that

individual’s happiness and affection, was what the young and haughty

Archduchess deplored in the most energetic, the most feeling, and the

most humble spirit; and anticipating that after this painful disclosure

they would never meet again, she declared that for his sake alone she

regretted what had passed, and praying that he might be happier than

herself, she supplicated to be forgiven and forgotten.

Vivian read the Archduchess’s letter over and over again, and then put

it in his breast. At first he thought that he had lived to shed another

tear; but he was mistaken. In a few minutes he found himself quite

roused from his late overwhelming stupor. Remorse or regret for the

past, care or caution for the future, seemed at the same moment to have

fled from his mind. He looked up to Heaven with a wild smile, half of

despair and half of defiance, it seemed to imply that Fate had now done

her worst, and that he had at last the satisfaction of knowing himself

to be the most unfortunate and unhappy being that ever existed. When a

man at the same time believes in and sneers at his Destiny we may be

sure that he considers his condition past redemption.

CHAPTER II

They stopped for an hour at the next post, according to Essper’s

suggestion. Indeed, he proposed resting there for the night, for both

men and beasts much required repose; but Vivian panted to reach Vienna,

to which city two days’ travelling would now carry him. His passions

were so roused, and his powers of reflection so annihilated, that while

he had determined to act desperately, he was unable to resolve upon

anything desperate. Whether, on his arrival at the Austrian capital, he

should plunge into dissipation or into the Danube was equally uncertain.

He had some thought of joining the Greeks or Turks, no matter which,

probably the latter, or perhaps of serving in the Americas. The idea of

returning to England never once entered his mind: he expected to find

letters from his father at Vienna, and he almost regretted it; for, in

his excessive misery, it was painful to be conscious that a being still

breathed who was his friend.

It was a fine moonlight night, but the road was mountainous; and in

spite of all the encouragement of Vivian, and all the consequent

exertions of the postilion, they were upwards of two hours and a half

going these eight miles. To get on any farther to-night was quite

impossible. Essper’s horse was fairly knocked up, and even Max visibly

distressed. The post-house was fortunately an inn. It was not at a

village, and, as far as the travellers could learn, not near one, and

its appearance did not promise very pleasing accommodation. Essper, who

had scarcely tasted food for nearly eighteen hours, was not highly

delighted with the prospect before them. His anxiety, however, was not

merely selfish: he was as desirous that his young master should be

refreshed by a good night’s rest as himself, and anticipating that he

should have to exercise his skill in making a couch for Vivian in the

carriage, he proceeded to cross-examine the postmaster on the

possibility of his accommodating them. The host was a pious-looking

personage, in a black velvet cap, with a singularly meek and charitable

expression of countenance. His long black hair was exquisitely braided,

and he wore round his neck a collar of pewter medals, all of which had

been recently sprinkled with holy water and blessed under the petticoat

of the saintly Virgin; for the postmaster had only just returned from a

pilgrimage to the celebrated shrine of the Black Lady of Altoting.

“Good friend!” said Essper, looking him cunningly in the face, “I fear

that we must order horses on: you can hardly accommodate two?”

“Good friend!” answered the innkeeper, and he crossed himself very

reverently at the same time, “it is not for man to fear, but to hope.”

“If your beds were as good as your adages,” said Essper George,

laughing, “in good truth, as a friend of mine would say, I would sleep

here to-night.”

“Prithee, friend,” continued the innkeeper, kissing a medal of his

collar very devoutly, “what accommodation dost thou lack?”

“Why” said Essper, “in the way of accommodation, little, for two

excellent beds will content us; but in the way of refreshment, by St.

Hubert! as another friend of mine would swear, he would be a bold man

who would engage to be as hungry before his dinner as I shall be after

my supper.”

“Friend!” said the innkeeper, “Our Lady forbid that thou shouldst leave

our walls to-night: for the accommodation, we have more than sufficient;

and as for the refreshment, by Holy Mass! we had a priest tarry here

last night, and he left his rosary behind. I will comfort my soul, by

telling my beads over the kitchen-fire, and for every Paternoster my

wife shall give thee a rasher of kid, and for every Ave a tumbler of

Augsburg, which Our Lady forget me if I did not myself purchase but

yesterday se’nnight from the pious fathers of the Convent of

St. Florian!”

“I take thee at thy word, honest sir,” said Essper. “By the Creed! I

liked thy appearance from the first; nor wilt thou find me unwilling,

when my voice has taken its supper, to join thee in some pious hymn or

holy canticle. And now for the beds!”

“There is the green room, the best bedroom in my house,” said the

Innkeeper. “Holy Mary forget me if in that same bed have not stretched

their legs more valorous generals, more holy prelates, and more

distinguished councillors of our Lord the Emperor, than in any bed in

all Austria.”

“That, then, for my master, and for myself--”

“H-u-m!” said the host, looking very earnestly in Essper’s face; “I

should have thought that thou wert one more anxious after dish and

flagon than curtain and eider-down!”

“By my Mother! I love good cheer,” said Essper, earnestly, “and want it

more at this moment than any knave that ever yet starved: but if thou

hast not a bed to let me stretch my legs on after four-and-twenty hours’

hard riding, by holy Virgin! I will have horses on to Vienna.”

“Our Black Lady forbid!” said the innkeeper, with a quick voice, and

with rather a dismayed look; “said I that thou shouldst not have a bed?

St. Florian desert me if I and my wife would not sooner sleep in the

chimney-corner than thou shouldst miss one wink of thy slumbers!”

“In one word, have you a bed?”

“Have I a bed? Where slept, I should like to know, the Vice-Principal

of the Convent of Molk on the day before the last holy Ascension? The

waters were out in the morning; and when will my wife forget what his

reverence was pleased to say when he took his leave; ‘Good woman!’ said

he, ‘my duty calls me; but the weather is cold; and between ourselves, I

am used to great feasts, and I should have no objection, if I were

privileged, to stay and to eat again of thy red cabbage and cream!’ What

say you to that? Do you think we have got beds now? You shall sleep

to-night, sir, like an Aulic Councillor!”

This adroit introduction of the red cabbage and cream settled

everything; when men are wearied and famished they have no inclination

to be incredulous, and in a few moments Vivian was informed by his

servant that the promised accommodation was satisfactory; and having

locked up the carriage, and wheeled it into a small outhouse, he and

Essper were ushered by their host into a room which, as is usual in

small German inns in the South, served at the same time both for kitchen

and saloon. The fire was lit in a platform of brick, raised in the

centre of the floor: the sky was visible through the chimney, which,

although of a great breadth below, gradually narrowed to the top. A

family of wandering Bohemians, consisting of the father and mother and

three children, were seated on the platform when Vivian entered; the man

was playing on a coarse wooden harp, without which the Bohemians seldom

travel. The music ceased as the new guests came into the room, and the

Bohemian courteously offered his place at the fire to our hero, who,

however, declined disturbing the family group. A small table and a

couple of chairs were placed in a corner of the room by the innkeeper’s

wife, a bustling active dame, who apparently found no difficulty in

laying the cloth, dusting the furniture, and cooking the supper at the

same time. At this table Vivian and his servant seated themselves; nor,

indeed, did the cookery discredit the panegyric of the Reverend

Vice-Principal of the Convent of Molk.

Alike wearied in mind and body, Vivian soon asked for his bed, which,

though not exactly fitted for an Aulic Councillor, as the good host

perpetually avowed it to be, nevertheless afforded decent accommodation.

The Bohemian family retired to the hayloft, and Essper George would have

followed his master’s example, had not the kind mistress of the house

tempted him to stay behind by the production of a new platter of

rashers: indeed, he never remembered meeting with such hospitable people

as the postmaster and his wife. They had evidently taken a fancy to him,

and, though extremely wearied, the lively little Essper endeavoured,

between his quick mouthfuls and long draughts, to reward and encourage

their kindness by many a good story and sharp joke. With all these both

mine host and his wife were exceedingly amused, seldom containing their

laughter, and frequently protesting, by the sanctity of various saints,

that this was the pleasantest night and Essper the pleasantest fellow

that they had ever met with.

“Eat, eat, my friend!” said his host; “by the Mass! thou hast travelled

far; and fill thy glass, and pledge with me Our Black Lady of Altoting.

By Holy Cross! I have hung up this week in her chapel a garland of silk

roses, and have ordered to be burnt before her shrine three pounds of

perfumed was tapers! Fill again, fill again! and thou too, good

mistress; a hard day’s work hast thou had; a glass of wine will do thee

no harm! join me with our new friend! Pledge we together the Holy

Fathers of St. Florian, my worldly patrons and my spiritual pastors: let

us pray that his reverence the Sub-Prior may not have his Christmas

attack of gout in the stomach, and a better health to poor Father Felix!

Fill again, fill again! this Augsburg is somewhat acid; we will have a

bottle of Hungary. Mistress, fetch us the bell-glasses, and here to the

Reverend Vice-Principal of Molk! our good friend: when will my wife

forget what he said to her on the morning of last holy Ascension! Fill

again, fill again!”

Inspired by the convivial spirit of the pious and jolly postmaster,

Essper George soon forgot his threatened visit to his bedroom, and ate

and drank, laughed and joked, as if he were again with his friend,

Master Rodolph; but wearied Nature at length avenged herself for this

unnatural exertion, and leaning back in his chair, he was, in the course

of an hour, overcome by one of those dead and heavy slumbers the effect

of the united influence of fatigue and intemperance; in short, it was

like the midnight sleep of a fox-hunter.

No sooner had our pious votary of the Black Lady of Altoting observed

the effect of his Hungary wine than, making a well-understood sign to

his wife, he took up the chair of Essper in his brawny arms, and,

preceded by Mrs. Postmistress with a lantern, he left the room with his

guest. Essper’s hostess led and lighted the way to an outhouse, which

occasionally served as a coach-house, a stable, and a lumber-room. It

had no window, and the lantern afforded the only light which exhibited

its present contents. In one corner was a donkey tied up, belonging to

the Bohemian. Under a hayrack was a large child’s cradle: it was of a

remarkable size, having been made for twins. Near it was a low wooden

sheep-tank, half filled with water, and which had been placed there for

the refreshment of the dog and his feathered friends, who were roosting

in the rack.

The pious innkeeper very gently lowered to the ground the chair on which

Essper was soundly sleeping; and then, having crossed himself, he took

up our friend with great tenderness and solicitude, and dexterously

fitted him in the huge cradle.

About an hour past midnight Essper George awoke. He was lying on his

back, and very unwell; and on trying to move, found that he was rocking.

His late adventure was obliterated from his memory; and the strange

movement, united with his peculiar indisposition, left him no doubt that

he was on board ship! As is often the case when we are tipsy or nervous,

Essper had been woke by the fright of falling from some immense height;

and finding that his legs had no sensation, for they were quite

benumbed, he concluded that he had fallen down the hatchway, that his

legs were broken, and himself jammed in between some logs of wood in the

hold, and so he began to cry lustily to those above to come down to

his rescue.

“O, Essper George!” thought he, “how came you to set foot on salt timber

again! Had not you had enough of it in the Mediterranean and the Turkish

seas, that you must be getting aboard this lubberly Dutch galliot! for I

am sure she’s Dutch by being so low in the water. Well, they may talk of

a sea-life, but for my part, I never saw the use of the Sea. Many a sad

heart it has caused, and many a sick stomach has it occasioned! The

boldest sailor climbs on board with a heavy soul, and leaps on land with

a light spirit. O! thou indifferent ape of Earth! thy houses are of wood

and thy horses of canvas; thy roads have no landmarks and thy highways

no inns; thy hills are green without grass and wet without showers! and

as for food, what art thou, O, bully Ocean! but the stable of

horse-fishes, the stall of cow-fishes, the sty of hog-fishes, and the

kennel of dog-fishes! Commend me to a fresh-water dish for meagre days!

Sea-weeds stewed with chalk may be savoury stuff for a merman; but, for

my part, give me red cabbage and cream: and as for drink, a man may live

in the midst of thee his whole life and die for thirst at the end of it!

Besides, thou blasphemous salt lake, where is thy religion? Where are

thy churches, thou heretic?” So saying Essper made a desperate effort to

crawl up the hold. His exertion set the cradle rocking with renewed

violence; and at lust dashing against the sheep-tank, that pastoral

piece of furniture was overset, and part of its contents poured upon the

inmate of the cradle.

“Sprung a leak in the hold, by St. Nicholas!” bawled out Essper George.

“Caulkers ahoy!”

At this moment three or four fowls, roused by the fall of the tank and

the consequent shouts of Essper, began fluttering about the rack, and at

last perched upon the cradle. “The live stock got loose’” shouted

Essper, “and the breeze getting stiffer every instant! Where is the

captain? I will see him. I am not one of the crew: I belong to the

Court! I must have cracked my skull when I fell like a lubber down that

confounded hatchway! Egad! I feel as if I had been asleep, and been

dreaming I was at Court.”

The sound of heavy footsteps was now over his head. These noises were at

once an additional proof that he was in the hold, and an additional

stimulus to his calls to those on deck. In fact, these sounds were

occasioned by the Bohemians, who always rose before break of day; and

consequently, in a few minutes, the door of the stable opened, and the

Bohemian, with a lantern in his hand, entered.

“What do you want?” cried Essper.

“I want my donkey”

“You do?” said Essper. “You’re the Purser, I suppose, detected keeping a

jackass among the poultry! eating all the food of our live stock, and we

having kid every day. Though both my legs are off, I’ll have a fling at

you!” and so saying, Essper, aided by the light of the lantern,

scrambled out of the cradle, and taking up the sheep-tank, sent it

straight at the astonished Bohemian’s head. The aim was good, and the

man fell; more, however, from fright than injury. Seizing his lantern,

which had fallen out of his hand, Essper escaped through the stable door

and rushed into the house. He found himself in the kitchen. The noise of

his entrance roused the landlord and his wife, who had been sleeping by

the fire; since, not having a single bed beside their own, they had

given that up to Vivian. The countenance of the innkeeper effectually

dispelled the clouds which had been fast clearing off from Essper’s

intellect. Giving one wide stare, and then rubbing his eyes, the truth

lighted upon him, and so he sent the Bohemian’s lantern at his

landlord’s head. The postmaster seized the poker and the postmistress a

faggot, and as the Bohemian, who had now recovered himself, had entered

in the rear, Essper George stood a fair chance of receiving a thorough

drubbing, had not his master, roused by the suspicious noises and angry

sounds which had reached his room, entered the kitchen with his pistols.

CHAPTER III

As it was now morning, Vivian did not again retire to rest, but took

advantage of the disturbance in the inn to continue his route at an

earlier hour than he had previously intended.

Essper, when he found himself safely mounted, lagged behind a few

minutes to vent his spleen against the innkeeper’s wife.

“May St. Florian confound me, madam!” said Essper, addressing himself to

the lady in the window, “if ever I beheld so ugly a witch as yourself!

Pious friend! thy chaplet of roses was ill bestowed, and thou needest

not have travelled so far to light thy wax tapers at the shrine of the

Black Lady at Altoting; for by the beauty of holiness! an image of ebony

is mother of pearl to that soot-face whom thou callest thy wife. Fare

thee well! thou couple of saintly sinners! and may the next traveller

who tarries in the den of thieves qualify thee for canonisation by thy

wife’s admiring pastor, the cabbage-eating Vice-Principal of Molk.”

Before the end of an hour they had to ford a rivulet running between two

high banks. The scenery just here was particularly lovely, and Vivian’s

attention was so engrossed by it that he did not observe the danger

which he was about to incur.

On the left of the road a high range of rocky mountains abruptly

descended into an open but broken country, and the other side of the

road was occasionally bounded by low undulating hills, partially covered

with dwarf woods, not high enough to obstruct the view of the distant

horizon. Rocky knolls jutted out near the base of the mountains; and on

the top of one of them, overlooked by a gigantic grey peak, stood an

ancient and still inhabited feudal castle. Round the base of this

insulated rock a rustic village peeped above the encircling nutwoods,

its rising smoke softening the hard features of the naked crag. On the

side of the village nearest to Vivian a bold sheet of water discharged

itself in three separate falls between the ravine of a wooded mountain,

and flowing round the village as a fine broad river, expanded before it

reached the foundation of the castled rock into a long and deep lake,

which was also fed by numerous streams, the gulleys only of which were

now visible down the steep sides of the mountains, their springs having

been long dried up.

Vivian’s view was interrupted by his sudden descent into the bed of the

rivulet, one of the numerous branches of the mountain torrent, and by a

crash which as immediately ensued. The spring of his carriage was

broken. The carriage fell over, but Vivian sustained no injury; and

while Essper George rode forward to the village for assistance, his

master helped the postilion to extricate the horses and secure them on

the opposite bank. They had done all that was in their power some time

before Essper returned; and Vivian, who had seated himself on some

tangled beech-roots, was prevented growing impatient by contemplating

the enchanting scenery. The postilion, on the contrary, who had

travelled this road every day of his life, and who found no gratification

in gazing upon rocks, woods, and waterfalls, lit his pipe, and

occasionally talked to his horses. So essential an attribute of the

beautiful is novelty! Essper at length made his appearance, attended by

five or six peasants, dressed in holiday costume, with some fanciful

decorations; their broad hats wreathed with wild flowers, their short

brown jackets covered with buttons and fringe, and various coloured

ribbons streaming from their knees.

“Well, sir! the grandson is born the day the grandfather dies! a cloudy

morning has often a bright sunset’ and though we are now sticking in a

ditch, by the aid of St. Florian we may be soon feasting in a castle!

Come, my merry men, I did not bring you here to show your ribbons; the

sooner you help us out of this scrape the sooner you will be again

dancing with the pretty maidens on the green! Lend a hand!”

The calèche appeared to be so much shattered that they only ventured to

put in one horse; and Vivian, leaving his carriage in charge of Essper

and the postilion, mounted Max, and rode to the village, attended by the

peasants. He learnt from them on the way that they were celebrating the

marriage of the daughter of their lord, who, having been informed of the

accident, had commanded them to go immediately to the gentleman’s

assistance, and then conduct him to the castle.

They crossed the river over a light stone bridge of three arches, the

key-stone of the centre one being decorated with a splendidly

sculptured shield.

“This bridge appears to be very recently built?” said Vivian to one of

his conductors.

“It was opened, sir, for the first time yesterday, to admit the

bridegroom of my young lady, and the foundation stone was laid on the

day she was born.”

“I see that your good lord was determined that it should be a solid

structure.”

“Why, sir, it was necessary that the foundation should be strong,

because three succeeding winters it was washed away by the rush of that

mountain torrent. Turn this way, if you please, sir, through

the village.”

Vivian was much struck by the appearance of the little settlement as he

rode through it. It did not consist of more than fifty houses, but they

were all detached, and each beautifully embowered in trees. The end of

the village came upon a large rising green, leading up to the only

accessible side of the castle. It presented a most animated scene, being

covered with various groups, all intent upon different rustic

amusements. An immense pole, the stem of a gigantic fir-tree, was fixed

nearly in the centre of the green, and crowned with a chaplet, the

reward of the most active young man of the village, whose agility might

enable him to display his gallantry by presenting it to his mistress,

she being allowed to wear it during the remainder of the sports. The

middle-aged men were proving their strength by raising weights; while

the elders of the village joined in the calmer and more scientific

diversion of skittles, which in Austria are played with bowls and pins

of very great size. Others were dancing; others sitting under tents,

chattering or taking refreshments. Some were walking in pairs,

anticipating the speedy celebration of a wedding day happier to them, if

less gay to others. Even the tenderest infants on this festive day

seemed conscious of some unusual cause of excitement, and many an

urchin, throwing himself forward in a vain attempt to catch an elder

brother or a laughing sister, tried the strength of his leading-strings,

and rolled over, crowing in the soft grass.

At the end of the green a splendid tent was erected, with a large white

bridal flag waving from its top, embroidered in gold, with a true

lover’s knot. From this pavilion came forth, to welcome the strangers,

the lord of the village. He was a tall but thin bending figure, with a

florid benevolent countenance, and a quantity of long white hair. This

venerable person cordially offered his hand to Vivian, regretted his

accident, but expressed much pleasure that he had come to partake of

their happiness. “Yesterday,” continued he, “was my daughter’s wedding

day, and both myself and our humble friends are endeavouring to forget,

in this festive scene, our approaching loss and separation. If you had

come yesterday you would have assisted at the opening of my new bridge.

Pray what do you think of it? But I will show it to you myself, which I

assure you will give me great pleasure; at present let me introduce you

to my family, who will be quite happy to see you. It is a pity that you

have missed the Regatta; my daughter is just going to reward the

successful candidate. You see the boats upon the lake; the one with the

white and purple streamer was the conqueror. You will have the pleasure,

too, of seeing my son-in-law; I am sure you will like him; he quite

enjoys our sports. We shall have a fête champêtre to-morrow, and a dance

on the green to-night.”

The old gentleman paused for want of breath, and having stood a moment

to recover himself, he introduced his new guests to the inmates of the

tent: first, his maiden sister, a softened facsimile of himself; behind

her stood his beautiful and blushing daughter, the youthful bride,

wearing on her head a coronal of white roses, and supported by three

bridesmaids, the only relief to whose snowy dresses were large bouquets

on their left side. The bridegroom was at first shaded by the curtain;

but as he came forward Vivian started when he recognised his Heidelburg

friend, Eugene von Konigstein!

Their mutual delight and astonishment were so great that for an instant

neither of them could speak; but when the old man learnt from his

son-in-law that the stranger was his most valued and intimate friend,

and one to whom he was under great personal obligations, he absolutely

declared that he would have the wedding, to witness which appeared to

him the height of human felicity, solemnised over again. The bride

blushed, the bridesmaids tittered, the joy was universal.

Vivian inquired after the Baron. He learnt from Eugene that he had

quitted Europe about a month, having sailed as Minister to one of the

New American States. “My uncle,” continued the young man, “was neither

well nor in spirits before his departure. I cannot understand why he

plagues himself so about politics; however, I trust he will like his new

appointment. You found him, I am sure, a delightful companion.”

“Come! you two young gentlemen,” said the father-in-law, “put off your

chat till the evening. The business of the day stops, for I see the

procession coming forward to receive the Regatta prize. Now, my dear!

where is the scarf? You know what to say? Remember, I particularly wish

to do honour to the victor! The sight of all these happy faces makes me

feel quite young again. I declare I think I shall live a hundred years!”

The procession advanced. First came a band of young children strewing

flowers, then followed four stout boys carrying a large purple and white

banner. The victor, proudly preceding the other candidates, strutted

forward, with his hat on one side, a light scull decorated with purple

and white ribbons in his right hand, and his left arm round his wife’s

waist. The wife, a beautiful young woman, to whom were clinging two fat

flaxen-headed children, was the most interesting figure in the

procession. Her tight dark bodice set off her round full figure, and her

short red petticoat displayed her springy foot and ankle. Her neatly

braided and plaited hair was partly concealed by a silk cap, covered

with gold spangled gauze, flattened rather at the top, and finished at

the back of the head with a large bow. This costly head-gear, the

highest fashion of her class, was presented to the wearer by the bride,

and was destined to be kept for festivals. After the victor and his wife

came six girls and six boys, at the side of whom walked a very bustling

personage in black, who seemed extremely interested about the decorum of

the procession. A long train of villagers succeeded.

“Well!” said the old Lord to Vivian, “this must be a very gratifying

sight to you! How fortunate that your carriage broke down just at my

castle! I think my dear girl is acquitting herself admirably. Ah! Eugene

is a happy fellow, and I have no doubt that she will be happy too. The

young sailor receives his honours very properly: they are as nice a

family as I know. Observe, they are moving off now to make way for the

pretty girls and boys. That person in black is our Abbé, as benevolent,

worthy a creature as ever lived! and very clever too: you will see in a

minute. Now they are going to give us a little bridal chorus, after the

old fashion, and it is all the Abbé’s doing. I understand that there is

an elegant allusion to my new bridge in it, which I think will please

you. Who ever thought that bridge would be opened for my girl’s wedding?

Well! I am glad that it was not finished before. But we must be silent’

You will notice that part about the bridge; it is in the fifth verse, I

am told, beginning with something about Hymen, and ending with something

about roses.”

By this time the procession had formed a semicircle before the tent, the

Abbé standing In the middle, with a paper in his hand, and dividing the

two hands of choristers. He gave a signal with his cane, and the girls

commenced:--

_Chorus of Maidens_

Hours fly! it is Morn; he has left the bed of love! She follows him with

a strained eye when his figure is no longer seen; she leans her head

upon her arm. She is faithful to him as the lake to the mountain!

_Chorus of Youths_

Hours fly! it is Noon; fierce is the restless sun! While he labours he

thinks of her! while he controls others he will obey her! A strong man

subdued by love is like a vineyard silvered by the moon!

_Chorus of Youths and Maidens_

Hours fly! it is Eve; the soft star lights him to his home; she meets

him as his shadow falls on the threshold! she smiles, and their child,

stretching forth its tender hands from its mother’s bosom, struggles to

lisp “Father!”

_Chorus of Maidens_

Years glide! it is Youth; they sit within a secret bower. Purity is in

her raptured eyes, Faith in his warm embrace. He must fly! He kisses his

farewell: the fresh tears are on her cheek! He has gathered a lily with

the dew upon its leaves!

_Chorus of Youths_

Years glide! it is Manhood. He is in the fierce Camp: he is in the

deceitful Court. He must mingle sometimes with others, that he may be

always with her! In the false world, she is to him like a green olive

among rocks!

_Chorus of Youths and Maidens_

Years glide! it is Old Age. They sit beneath a branching elm. As the

moon rises on the sunset green, their children dance before them! Her

hand is in his; they look upon their children, and then upon each other!

“The fellow has some fancy,” said the old Lord, “but given, I think, to

conceits. I did not exactly catch the passage about the bridge, but I

have no doubt it was all right.”

Vivian was now invited to the pavilion, where refreshments were

prepared. Here our hero was introduced to many other guests, relations

of the family, who were on a visit at the castle, and who had been on

the lake at the moment of his arrival.

“This gentleman,” said the old Lord, pointing to Vivian, “is my son’s

friend, and I am quite sure that you are all delighted to see him. He

arrived here accidentally, his carriage having fortunately broken down

in passing one of the streams. All those rivulets should have bridges

built over them! I could look at my new bridge for ever. I often ask

myself, ‘Now, how can such a piece of masonry ever be destroyed?’ It

seems quite impossible, does not it? We all know that everything has an

end; and yet, whenever I look at that bridge, I often think that it can

only end when all things end.”

In the evening they all waltzed upon the green. The large yellow moon

had risen, and a more agreeable sight than to witness two or three

hundred persons so gaily occupied, and in such a scene, is not easy to

imagine. How beautiful was the stern old castle, softened by the

moonlight, the illumined lake, the richly-silvered foliage of the woods,

and the white brilliant cataract!

As the castle was quite full of visitors, its hospitable master had

lodged Vivian for the night at the cottage of one of his favourite

tenants. Nothing would give greater pleasure to Vivian than this

circumstance, nor more annoyance to the worthy old gentleman.

The cottage belonged to the victor in the Regatta, who himself conducted

the visitor to his dwelling. Vivian did not press Essper’s leaving the

revellers, so great an acquisition did he seem to their sports! teaching

them a thousand new games, and playing all manner of antics; but perhaps

none of his powers surprised them more than the extraordinary facility

and freedom with which he had acquired and used all their names. The

cottager’s pretty wife had gone home an hour before her husband, to put

her two fair-haired children to bed and prepare her guest’s

accommodation for the night. Nothing could be more romantic and lovely

than the situation of the cottage. It stood just on the gentle slope of

the mountain’s base, not a hundred yards from the lower waterfall. It

was in the middle of a patch of highly-cultivated ground, which bore

creditable evidence to the industry of its proprietor. Fruit trees,

Turkey corn, vines, and flax flourished in luxuriance. The dwelling

itself was covered with myrtle and arbutus, and the tall lemon-plant

perfumed the window of the sitting-room. The casement of Vivian’s

chamber opened full on the foaming cataract. The distant murmur of the

mighty waterfall, the gentle sighing of the trees, the soothing

influence of the moonlight, and the faint sounds occasionally caught of

dying revelry, the joyous exclamation of some successful candidate in

the day’s games, the song of some returning lover, the plash of an oar

in the lake: all combined to produce that pensive mood in which we find

ourselves involuntarily reviewing the history of our life.

As Vivian was musing over the last harassing months of his burthensome

existence he could not help feeling that there was only one person in

the world on whom his memory could dwell with solace and satisfaction,

and this person was Lady Madeleine Trevor!

It was true that with her he had passed some agonising hours; but he

could not forget the angelic resignation with which her own affliction

had been borne, and the soothing converse by which his had been

alleviated. This train of thought was pursued till his aching mind sunk

into indefiniteness. He sat for some little time almost unconscious of

existence, till the crying of a child, waked by its father’s return,

brought him back to the present scene. His thoughts naturally ran to his

friend Eugene. Surely this youthful bridegroom might reckon upon

happiness! Again Lady Madeleine recurred to him. Suddenly he observed a

wonderful appearance in the sky. The moon was paled in the high heavens,

and surrounded by luminous rings, almost as vividly tinted as the

rainbow, spreading and growing fainter, till they covered nearly half

the firmament. It was a glorious and almost unprecedented halo!

CHAPTER IV

The sun rose red, the air was thick and hot. Anticipating that the day

would be very oppressive, Vivian and Essper were on their horses’ backs

at an early hour. Already, however, many of the rustic revellers were

about, and preparations were commencing for the fête champêtre, which

this day was to close the wedding festivities. Many and sad were the

looks which Essper George cast behind him at the old castle on the lake.

“No good luck can come of it!” said he to his horse; for Vivian did not

encourage conversation. “O! master of mine, when wilt thou know the

meaning of good quarters! To leave such a place, and at such a time!

Why, Turriparva was nothing to it! The day before marriage and the hour

before death is when a man thinks least of his purse and most of his

neighbour. O! man, man, what art thou, that the eye of a girl can make

thee so pass all discretion that thou wilt sacrifice for the whim of a

moment good cheer enough to make thee last an age!”

Vivian had intended to stop and breakfast after riding about ten miles;

but he had not proceeded half that way when, from the extreme sultriness

of the morning, he found it impossible to advance without refreshment.

Max, also, to his rider’s surprise, was much distressed; and, on turning

round to his servant, Vivian found Essper’s hack panting and puffing,

and breaking out, as if, instead of commencing their day’s work, they

were near reaching their point of destination.

“Why, how now, Essper? One would think that we had been riding all

night. What ails the beast?”

“In truth, sir, that which ails its rider; the poor dumb brute has more

sense than some who have the gift of speech. Who ever heard of a horse

leaving good quarters without much regretting the indiscretion?”

“The closeness of the air is so oppressive that I do not wonder at even

Max being distressed. Perhaps when the sun is higher, and has cleared

away the vapours, it may be more endurable: as it is, I think we had

better stop at once and breakfast here. This wood is as inviting as, I

trust, are the contents of your basket!”

“St. Florian devour them!” said Essper, in a very pious voice, “if I

agree not with you, sir; and as for the basket, although we have left

the land of milk and honey, by the blessing of our Black Lady! I have

that within it which would put courage in the heart of a caught mouse.

Although we may not breakfast on bridecake and beccaficos, yet is a

neat’s tongue better than a fox’s tail; and I have ever held a bottle of

Rhenish to be superior to rain-water, even though the element be

filtered through a gutter. Nor, by All Saints! have I forgotten a bottle

of Kerchen Wasser from the Black Forest, nor a keg of Dantzic brandy, a

glass of which, when travelling at night, I am ever accustomed to take

after my prayers; for I have always observed that, though devotion doth

sufficiently warm up the soul, the body all the time is rather the

colder for stopping under a tree to tell its beads.”

The travellers accordingly led their horses a few yards into the wood,

and soon met, as they had expected, with a small green glade. It was

surrounded, except at the slight opening by which they had entered it,

with fine Spanish chestnut trees, which now, loaded with their large

brown fruit, rich and ripe, clustered in the starry foliage, afforded a

retreat as beautiful to the eye as its shade was grateful to their

senses. Vivian dismounted, and, stretching out his legs, leant back

against the trunk of a tree: and Essper, having fastened Max and his own

horse to some branches, proceeded to display his stores. Vivian was

silent, thoughtful, and scarcely tasted anything: Essper George, on the

contrary, was in unusual and even troublesome spirits, and had not his

appetite necessarily produced a few pauses in his almost perpetual

rattle, the patience of his master would have been fairly worn out. At

length Essper had devoured the whole supply; and as Vivian not only did

not encourage his remarks, but even in a peremptory manner had desired

his silence, he was fain to amuse himself by trying to catch in his

mouth a large brilliant fly which every instant was dancing before him.

Two individuals more singularly contrasting in their appearance than the

master and the servant could scarcely be conceived; and Vivian, lying

with his back against a tree, with his legs stretched out, his arms

folded, and his eyes fixed on the ground; and Essper, though seated, in

perpetual motion, and shifting his posture with feverish restlessness,

now looking over his shoulder for the fly, then making an unsuccessful

bite at it, and then, wearied with his frequent failures, amusing

himself with acting Punch with his thumbs; altogether presenting two

figures, which might have been considered as not inapt personifications

of the rival systems of Ideality and Materialism.

At length Essper became silent for the sake of variety, and imagining,

from his master’s example, that there must be some sweets in meditation

hitherto undiscovered by him, he imitated Vivian’s posture! So perverse

is human nature, that the moment Vivian was aware that Essper was

perfectly silent, he began to feel an inclination to converse with him.

“Why, Essper!” said he, looking up and smiling, “this is the first time

during our acquaintance that I have ever seen thought upon your brow.

What can now be puzzling your wild brain?”

“I was thinking, sir,” said Essper, with a very solemn look, “that if

there were a deceased field-mouse here I would moralise on death.”

“What! turned philosopher!”

“Ay! sir, it appears to me,” said he, taking up a husk which lay on the

turf, “that there is not a nutshell in Christendom which may not become

matter for very grave meditation!”

“Can you expound that?”

“Verily, sir, the whole philosophy of life seems to me to consist in

discovering the kernel. When you see a courtier out of favour or a

merchant out of credit, when you see a soldier without pillage, a sailor

without prize money, and a lawyer without paper, a bachelor with

nephews, and an old maid with nieces, be assured the nut is not worth

the cracking, and send it to the winds, as I do this husk at present.”

“Why, Essper!” said Vivian, laughing, “Considering that you have taken

your degree so lately, you wear the Doctor’s cap with authority! Instead

of being in your noviciate, one would think that you had been a

philosopher long enough to have outlived your system.”

“Bless you, sir, for philosophy, I sucked it in with my mother’s milk.

Nature then gave me the hint, which I have ever since acted on, and I

hold that the sum of all learning consists in milking another man’s cow.

So much for the recent acquisition of my philosophy! I gained it, you

see, sir, with the first wink of my eye; and though I lost a great

portion of it by sea-sickness in the Mediterranean, nevertheless, since

I served your Lordship, I have resumed my old habits, and do opine that

this vain globe is but a large football to be kicked and cuffed about by

moody philosophers!”

“You must have seen a great deal in your life, Essper,” said Vivian.

“Like all great travellers.” said Essper, “I have seen more than I

remember, and remember more than I have seen.”

“Have you any objection to go to the East again?” asked Vivian. “It

would require but little persuasion to lead me there.”

“I would rather go to a place where the religion is easier; I wish, sir,

you would take me to England!”

“Nay, not there with me, if with others.”

“With you, or with none.”

“I cannot conceive, Essper, what can induce you to tie up your fortunes

with those of such a sad-looking personage as myself.”

“In truth, sir, there is no accounting for tastes. My grandmother loved

a brindled cat!”

“Your grandmother, Essper! Nothing would amuse me more than to be

introduced to your family.”

“My family, sir, are nothing more nor less than what all of us must be

counted, worms of five feet long, mortal angels, the world’s epitome,

heaps of atoms which Nature has kneaded with blood into solid flesh,

little worlds of living clay, sparks of heaven, inches of earth,

Nature’s quintessence, moving dust, the little all, smooth-faced

cherubim, in whose souls the Ring of stars has drawn the image

of Himself!”

“And how many years has breathed the worm of five feet long that I am

now speaking to?”

“Good, my Lord, I was no head at calculating from a boy; but I do

remember that I am two days older than one of the planets.”

“How is that?”

“There was one born in the sky, sir, the day I was christened with a

Turkish crescent.”

“Come, Essper,” said Vivian, who was rather interested by the

conversation; Essper, having, until this morning, skilfully avoided any

discourse upon the subject of his birth or family, adroitly turning the

conversation whenever it chanced to approach these subjects, and

silencing inquiries, if commenced, by some ludicrous and evidently

fictitious answer. “Come, Essper,” said Vivian, “I feel by no means in

the humour to quit this shady retreat. You and I have now known each

other long, and gone through much together. It is but fair that I should

become better acquainted with one who, to me, is not only a faithful

servant, but what is more valuable, a faithful friend, I might now

almost add, my only one. What say you to whiling away a passing hour by

giving me some sketch of your curious and adventurous life? If there be

anything that you wish to conceal, pass it over; but no invention,

nothing but the truth, if you please; the whole truth, if you like.”

“Why, sweet sir, as for this odd knot of soul and body, which none but

the hand of Heaven could have twined, it was first seen, I believe, near

the very spot where we are now sitting; for my mother, when I saw her

first and last, lived in Bohemia. She was an Egyptian, and came herself

from the Levant. I lived a week, sir, in the Seraglio when I was at

Constantinople, and I saw there the brightest women of all countries,

Georgians, and Circassians, and Poles; in truth, sir, nature’s

masterpieces. And yet, by the Gods of all nations! there was not one of

them half so lovely as the lady who gave me this tongue!” Here Essper

exhibited at full length the enormous feature which had so much enraged

the one-eyed sergeant at Frankfort.

“When I first remember myself,” he continued, “I was playing with some

other gipsy-boys in the midst of a forest. Here was our settlement! It

was large and powerful. My mother, probably from her beauty, possessed

great influence, particularly among the men; and yet I found not among

them all a father. On the contrary, every one of my companions had a man

whom he reverenced as his parent, and who taught him to steal; but I

was called by the whole tribe the mother-son, and was honest from my

first year out of mere wilfulness; at least, if I stole anything, it was

always from our own people. Many were the quarrels I occasioned, since,

presuming on my mother’s love and power, I never called mischief a

scrape; but acting just as my fancy took me, I left those who suffered

by my conduct to apologise for my ill-behaviour. Being thus an idle,

unprofitable, impudent, and injurious member of this pure community,

they determined one day to cast me out from their bosom; and in spite of

my mother’s exertions and entreaties, the ungrateful vipers succeeded in

their purpose. As a compliment to my parent, they allowed me to tender

my resignation, instead of receiving my expulsion. My dear mother gave

me a donkey, a wallet, and a ducat, a great deal of advice about my

future conduct, and, what was more interesting to me, much information

about my birth.

“‘Sweet child of my womb!’ said my mother, pressing me to her bosom; ‘be

proud of thy white hands and straight nose! Thou gottest them not from

me, and thou shalt take them from whence they came. Thy father is a

Hungarian Prince; and though I would not have parted with thee, had I

thought that thou wouldst ever have prospered in our life, even if he

had made thee his child of the law and lord of his castle, still, as

thou canst not tarry with us, haste thou to him! Give him this ring and

this lock of hair; tell him none have seen them but the father, the

mother, and the child! He will look on them, and remember the days that

are passed; and thou shalt be unto him as a hope for his lusty years and

a prop for his old age.’

“My mother gave me all necessary directions, which I well remembered,

and much more advice, which I directly forgot.

“Although tempted, now that I was a free man, to follow my own fancy, I

still was too curious to sec what kind of a person was my unknown father

to deviate either from my route or my maternal instructions, and in a

fortnight’s time I had reached my future Principality.

“The Sun sank behind the proud castle of my princely father, as,

trotting slowly along upon my humble beast, with my wallet slung at my

side, I approached it through his park. A guard, consisting of twenty or

thirty men in magnificent uniforms, were lounging at the portal. I--but

sir, sir, what is the meaning of this darkness? I always made a vow to

myself that I never would tell my history. Ah! what ails me?”

A large eagle fell dead at their feet.

“Protect me, master!” screamed Essper, seizing Vivian by the shoulder;

“what is coming? I cannot stand; the earth seems to tremble! Is it the

wind that roars and rages? or is it ten thousand cannon blowing this

globe to atoms?”

“It is, it must be the wind!” said Vivian, agitated. “We are not safe

under these trees: look to the horses!”

“I will,” said Essper, “if I can stand. Out of the forest! Ah, look at

Max!”

Vivian turned, and beheld his spirited horse raised on his hind legs,

and dashing his fore feet against the trunk of a tree to which they had

tied him. The terrified and furious creature was struggling to disengage

himself, and would probably have sustained or inflicted some terrible

injury, had not the wind suddenly hushed. Covered with foam, he stood

panting, while Vivian patted and encouraged him. Essper’s less spirited

beast had, from the first, crouched upon the earth, covered with sweat,

his limbs quivering and his tongue hanging out.

“Master!” said Essper, “what shall we do? Is there any chance of getting

back to the castle? I am sure our very lives are in danger. See that

tremendous cloud! It looks like eternal night! Whither shall we go; what

shall we do?”

“Make for the castle!” said Vivian, mounting.

They had just got into the road when another terrific gust of wind

nearly took them off their horses, and blinded them with the clouds of

sand which it drove out of the crevices of the mountains.

They looked round on every side, and Hope gave way before the scene of

desolation. Immense branches were shivered from the largest trees; small

ones were entirely stripped of their leaves; the long grass was bowed to

the earth; the waters were whirled in eddies out of the little rivulets;

birds deserting their nests to shelter in the crevices of the rocks,

unable to stem the driving air, flapped their wings and fell upon the

earth: the frightened animals in the plain, almost suffocated by the

impetuosity of the wind, sought safety, and found destruction: some of

the largest trees were torn up by the roots; the sluices of the

mountains were filled, and innumerable torrents rushed down before empty

gulleys. The heavens now open, and lightning and thunder contend with

the horrors of the wind!

In a moment all was again hushed. Dead silence succeeded the bellow of

the thunder, the roar of the wind, the rush of the waters, the moaning

of the beasts, the screaming of the birds! Nothing was heard save the

splashing of the agitated lake as it beat up against the black rocks

which girt it in.

“Master!” again said Essper, “is this the day of doom?”

“Keep by my side. Essper; keep close, make the best of this pause: let

us but reach the village!”

Scarcely had Vivian spoken when greater darkness enveloped the trembling

earth. Again the heavens were rent with lightning, which nothing could

have quenched but the descending deluge. Cataracts poured down from the

lowering firmament. In an instant the horses dashed round; beast and

rider, blinded and stifled by the gushing rain, and gasping for breath.

Shelter was nowhere. The quivering beasts reared, and snorted, and sank

upon their knees. The horsemen were dismounted. Vivian succeeded in

hoodwinking Max, who was still furious: the other horse appeared nearly

exhausted. Essper, beside himself with terror, could only hang over

his neck.

Another awful calm.

“Courage, Essper!” said Vivian. “We are still safe: look up, man! the

storm cannot last long thus; and see! I am sure the clouds are

breaking.”

The heavy mass of vapour which had seemed to threaten the earth with

instant destruction suddenly parted. The red and lurid Sun was visible,

but his light and heat were quenched in the still impending waters.

“Mount, Essper!” said Vivian, “this is our only chance: five minutes’

good speed will take us to the village.”

Encouraged by his master’s example, Essper once more got upon his horse,

and the panting animals, relieved by the cessation of the hurricane,

carried them at a fair pace towards the village, considering that their

road was now impeded by the overflowing of the lake.

“Master!” said Essper, “cannot we get out of these waters?”

He had scarcely spoken before a terrific burst, a noise, they knew not

what, a rush they could not understand, a vibration which shook them on

their horses, made them start back and again dismount. Every terror

sank before the appalling roar of the cataract. It seemed that the

mighty mountain, unable to support its weight of waters, shook to the

foundation. A lake had burst on its summit, and the cataract became a

falling Ocean. The source of the great deep appeared to be discharging

itself over the range of mountains; the great grey peak tottered on its

foundations! It shook! it fell! and buried in its ruins the castle, the

village, and the bridge!

Vivian with starting eyes beheld the whole washed away; instinct gave

him energy to throw himself on the back of his horse: a breath, and he

had leaped up the nearest hill! Essper George, in a state of

distraction, was madly laughing as he climbed to the top of a high tree:

his horse was carried off in the drowning waters, which had now

reached the road.

“The desolation is complete!” thought Vivian. At this moment the wind

again rose, the rain again descended, the heavens again opened, the

lightning again flashed! An amethystine flame hung upon rocks and

waters, and through the raging elements a yellow fork darted its fatal

point at Essper’s resting-place. The tree fell! Vivian’s horse, with a

maddened snort, dashed down the hill; his master, senseless, clung to

his neck; the frantic animal was past all government; he stood upright

in the air, flung his rider, and fell dead!

Here leave we Vivian! It was my wish to have detailed, in the present

portion of this work, the singular adventures which befell him in one of

the most delightful of modern cities, light-hearted Vienna! But his

history has expanded under my pen, and I fear that I have, even now, too

much presumed upon an attention which I am not entitled to command. I

am, as yet, but standing without the gate of the Garden of Romance. True

it is, that as I gaze through the ivory bars of its Golden Portal, I

would fain believe that, following my roving fancy, I might arrive at

some green retreats hitherto unexplored, and loiter among some leafy

bowers where none have lingered before me. But these expectations may be

as vain as those dreams of Youth over which all have mourned. The

Disappointment of Manhood succeeds to the delusion of Youth: let us hope

that the heritage of Old Age is not Despair.

THE END