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THE 
 
 HOSE BUD: 
 
 BEING A SELECTION OF 
 
 / 
 
 INTERESTI^^G STORIES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF PETER PARLEY. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY NAFIS & CORNISH, 
 
 278 PEARL STREET. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, m the year 1841, 
 By S. G. Goodrich, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 STEREOTYPED AT THE 
 BOSXaN TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Dead and the Living Husband, - - 3 
 
 The Peasant Giii's Love, - - - 17 
 
 The Two Kates, . - - - 25 
 
 Count Rodolph's Heir, - - « . 44 
 
 The Parting Kiss, - - - . 75 
 
 The Lovely Lady, - - - . S5 
 
 Women are Fickle, - - - • 94 
 
 Love in the Olden Time, » » - « 204 
 
 The Muffled Priest, - - - . 209 
 
 Isabelle, her Sister Kate, &c. - - - 121 
 
 Spanish Duchess and Orphan Boy, - »- 127 
 
 Snow Storm in Scotland, - - - - 241 
 
 Bertha Cierville, ----- 156 
 
 Love's llecompence, . _ - - 172 
 
 The Young Minister and the Bride, - - 175 
 
 Tradition of Rolandseck, - - . - 186 
 
 A 
 
 On 
 
 > 
 1^ 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/rosebudbeingseleOOgood 
 
THE ROSE BUD. 
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 It is said that there are realities in life more sad 
 and wild than the boldest inventions of fancy ; and 
 when they occur at the gate almost of the calm dwell- 
 ing, and near the happy fireside, they startle us far 
 more than if met with m wilder scenes, on the stormy 
 wave, or on the desert shore. Yet the wave and the 
 bold shore were not wanting in the strange scene of 
 the following tale, which is perfectly authentic, and 
 occurred in the year 1812, in the mining district of 
 the west of Cornvv^all. 
 
 The shafts or excavation, from which the rich ores 
 were drawn, bordered, in some parts, so closely on 
 the sea, as to be carried here and there even under 
 its bed ; the miners often heard the rushing of the 
 waves above their heads, and the howling of the 
 winds: these sounds changed according to the weath- 
 er. It is surprising with what distinctness noises are 
 wafted, even in the very bowels of the earth. When 
 seated, in their intervals of leisure, on the rocks they 
 had just hewn asunder, these lonely men could dis- 
 tinctly hear the murmur of the Vv'aves, a few fathoms 
 only above them, and their quick dash on the cliffs. 
 On the face of these lofty cliffs some of the workings 
 were carried, by which the ore was borne above^. and 
 
« THE DEAD AKD THE LIVING HUSBAND. 
 
 the weight was seen moving in mid air over the 
 dizzy rocks, even when the tempest was wildest, for 
 the men were fearless and enterprising ; but the im- 
 mediate scene of the tale lies a little remoter from 
 the beach, and farther up the vale. The desert valley 
 where Sindbad found his diamonds was not more 
 unsightly than this place. Nature was all withered 
 up ; the blackened piles that lay around were as 
 cheerless as so many tombs — not the tombs where 
 the wild flower and the grass have gathered, but like 
 those of the suicide, cursed and forsaken. Crowds 
 of human beings, from the child to the old man, were 
 busily toiling here; the voices that rung around, and 
 were echoed by the caverns in the rocks, were gay 
 and loud ; and many a song was sung, for dearly they 
 loved their work. There was something fascinating, 
 no doubt, to all their minds in this wild and bold 
 pursuit of riches ; for miners prefer infinitely to hold 
 the smallest share in the fruits of their discoveries, 
 rather than accept the highest reefular wacres. I have 
 seen the common men stand and point to the heaps 
 thickening around them, with as much pride and tri- 
 umph as a soldier would display pointing to the field 
 of his victory ; then, folding his hands on his breast^ 
 the miner would gaze on the scene in silence, and 
 calculate fondly the probable gains, while his little 
 home, filled with added comforts and luxuries, his 
 wife and children handsomely attired, rose before his 
 eyes : it was a beautiful speculation ! 
 
 In the month of August, one of the chief directors 
 of this mine of Poldice, by name Captain William 
 Nicholas, went under ground, in his accustomed duty, 
 to see how the work advanced, and view the several 
 pitches or -tracts of earth that were then feeing ex- 
 cavated. He had been to the bottom levels, and was 
 on iiis way up, when he called at one of the pitches 
 
THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 5 
 
 that was worked by two men : it was the last he had 
 to enter, and was at the depth of about twenty-three 
 fathoms from the surface. 
 
 There is generally in a mine, as in a ship's crew, 
 one man, at least, more noted for his wit and intelli- 
 gence than his comrades, and a kind of oracle among 
 them, Pascoe, one of the two, was an old man, and 
 celebrated for his almost inexhaustible fund of stories, 
 and jokes, and conversation. His earlier life had 
 been passed at sea, and he had wandered to many 
 parts of the world, and his memory retained most 
 that he had seen. Their habits of life, that often 
 place these miners in lonely groups in the bowels of 
 the earth during the whole day or night, of necessity 
 make them social and communicative, Pascoe was a 
 treasure to these men, and glad v/as the party who 
 could get him among them. 
 
 The battle of Salamanca had just been fought, and 
 Captain Nicholas was very desirous, ere he ascended, 
 to have some talk with the old man, for he had been 
 in Spain, Fate does not leave its victim sometimes 
 without kindly whisperings, that, if obeyed, would 
 save. More than once he felt a strange reluctance to 
 stop, and again mounted the ladder to go to his home, 
 where his wife, whom he tenderly loved, was expect- 
 ing him. But curiosity prevailed, and he turned 
 aside towards the spot, which he soon after entered, 
 where the tv/o miners were now eating their repast 
 and conversing ; he stuck his candle against the wall, 
 and sat down beside the old man. He bade the other 
 go above ground : he was a young man, the son of 
 Pascoe ; and he said afterwards, that, as he was leav- 
 ing the spot at his captain's bidding, Nicholas turned 
 to him with a singular smile, and observed he did not 
 know v/hat was come over him, but believed that his 
 dream the night before had brought a gloom upon his 
 
6 THE BEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 
 
 mind ; that he thought he was buried in a vast tomb 
 in the middle of the earth, and the waves were rush- 
 ing all around him, and his lonely candle that he held 
 in his hand never went out. The miners are a very 
 superstitious people, and often have omens and warn- 
 ings of their fatal mischances. He had been married 
 but one year to a young and handsome woman, and 
 was himself in the prime of life, being much esteemed 
 for the gentleness and kindness of his manners, and 
 his skill in the conduct of the mine. His dwelling 
 was on the side of the hill that fell abruptly into this 
 wild valley : in spite of the sea winds and the soil, he 
 had raised a sweet little garden in front, and from his 
 windows could overlook every part of the busy scene 
 beneath. Here she was often seated, watching for 
 his coming — for the moment when he rose out of 
 the shaft, with his candle flickering in his hand at the 
 sudden gleam of day, his large flannel garments drip- 
 ping with water, and his face pallid with the damps of 
 the region belov/. 
 
 Their attachment was of many years' duration, and 
 was hopeless till he received this appointment; and 
 then they repaired joyful to their lonely dwelling, to 
 which the stranger's foot seldom came. A chance 
 relative, or a friend, at long intervals, would call and 
 taste of their hospitality, and look wistfully on the 
 waste scene around ; he did not envy them. The vale 
 had few exciting sights or sounds, save that, in the 
 dead of winter, — for it was a dangerous shore, — the 
 signal gun was fired, and the alarm lights hoisted, of 
 some vessel driving on the cliffs; and they could hear 
 the shrieks of despair, and see the wreck drifting, 
 not far from their walls. But for the excitement of 
 his profession, and its strong contrasts, the mind of 
 Nicholas might have wearied also of the scene; but 
 no Arab of the desert felt keener joy, as the lonely 
 
THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 7 
 
 palm and the fountain met his eye afar off, than Nich- 
 olas did, in the midst of his gloomy toils, as the hour 
 of his ascent to his beloved home approached. And 
 when he sat there beside the fire, and his wife was 
 nigh, and bent over him with warm kisses and en- 
 dearing wotds, and evening was closing on the bleak 
 cliffs, and on the restless deep, that fell with a hollow 
 sound on the beach — he felt that he was happy, in- 
 expressibly happy. Such a moment was never more 
 to come to the doomed man ! 
 
 In the mean time, he was still seated far beneath, 
 by the side of Pascoe, conversing earnestly, when 
 they suddenly heard a rumbling noise, as if the ground 
 was giving way near them. There was an instant 
 pause in the old man's talk ; they looked wildly 
 round for a moment on the gloomy sides of the cavern 
 that enclosed them, and then on each other. The 
 noise was like distant thunder, or the moan of the 
 rising tempest ; it lasted but a few moments, and then 
 died utterly away. " It is only the men working on 
 the opposite side of the shaft," said the old man, after 
 listening intensely : his companion seemed of the 
 same opinion, and they resumed their discourse with 
 the same ardor. The mine, in the centre of which 
 they were seated, is one of the oldest in Cornwall, 
 and was worked some hundred years since. It hap- 
 pened that the noise they heard, instead of arising 
 from the men working opposite, was occasioned by 
 the ground beginning to run in at a level about ten 
 fathoms under them ; there was an ancient shaft of 
 the former mine, unknown to any one, that yawned 
 like a gulf to receive them. The sound rose sudden- 
 ly again, with a quick trembling of the earth on which 
 they were seated: strongly alarmed, they sprang to 
 their feet, but all too late. The noise was incessant 
 and awful ; they saw the roof and the sides of the cav- 
 
9^ THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 
 
 em tremble on every side, as if by an earthquake. 
 In all the horror which men feel for the last few mo- 
 ments which precede inevitable death, they ran to and 
 fro, calling wildly for aid : no human power could 
 save them in that hour. The earth, that had given 
 way slowly on every side beneath, now sank at once, 
 and the whole extent, often fathoms deep, between 
 the mouth of the ancient shaft and the spot where 
 they had sat, glided down with the swiftness of an 
 avalanche, bearing the unhappy men with it, while 
 their candles, stuck in the Vv'ali above, still gave their 
 light, as if in mockery. The abyss into which they 
 fell was fifty fathoms deep, and half full of water : 
 there was a faint struggle for life, a dying cry ; the 
 old man's voice rose louder than that of his compan- 
 ion — and then all was silence. 
 
 The son of the former, who was bade to go above 
 ground by his captain, lingered in the ascent : it was 
 by his means that the event v^^as first known : he was, 
 at the moment of his parent's ingulfment, climbing 
 slowly, and turning aside from time to time in search 
 of discoveries, about fifty feet above the place where 
 he left his father and Nicholas seated. After the 
 noise, the cause of which he could not divine, had 
 subsided, he called out loudly to know if all was 
 right ; but was rather offended that he could not get 
 them to answer him, as he could see their candles 
 sticking fast to the walls underneath, and thought 
 that his father and Williams were still seated beside 
 them. He continued to pass over the brink of a tre- 
 mendous precipice, not aware at first of his danger; 
 but, still receiving no answer to his calls, he scrambled 
 nearer, and the dim horror of the scene was then 
 ■opened to him : the two solitary lights cast their glare 
 on that sudden grave ; he could see but a small part 
 ©f its depth: all below was the "blackness of dark- 
 
THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 9' 
 
 ness," up which came at intervals a sullen splash, 
 caused by the falling of fragments of rock or stones 
 into the water. Once he thought he heard a voice 
 calling for mercy, and that it was his father's : he 
 staid not long to look there, but ascended fast to the 
 summit, and shouted for succor. 
 
 The wife of Captain Nicholas was anxiously wait- 
 ing his coming ; the dinner hour, a very early one in 
 these scenes, was past : she thought some unexpected 
 occurrence or discovery had detained him; but as 
 the time passed on, she stood at the window, whence 
 every object in the mine was distinctly visible ; sud- 
 denly she saw a man appear at the mouth of the shaft, 
 with gestures of despair, and he cried with a loud 
 and bitter cry ; then there was a rushing of the peo- 
 ple to the spot. And she, too, rushed from her 
 dwelling, and descended the hill without a pause, and 
 mingled with the crowd : their looks were all turned 
 upon her, and she saw there was anguish in them. 
 But no one told her the cause of it ; on the contrary, 
 they said a part of the ground had merely fallen in„ 
 and obstructed the ascent of her husband, and that 
 they would quickly extricate him. It is easy to com- 
 mand our words, but untutored men cannot shroud 
 the strong emotions of the heart ; and in the gloomy 
 and pitying eyes of the stern miners around her, the 
 widow saw that all was over. 
 
 "My father — my father!" said the young man, 
 wildly; ''will you not save him? — you loved him in: 
 life — will you not rescue the old man ? " 
 
 Then a wild shriek passed over the crowd, and the 
 words of the youth were hushed, and the men, and 
 even the children, turned from him to the wife ; for 
 all felt that the love of woman was more commanding 
 than that of a son. She bent over the fatal gulf and 
 shuddered -^ '' My husband ! — is that your grave t " 
 
10 
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 
 
 Then a sudden movement rose among the people, 
 and they said one to another that all should be done 
 that men could do for their captain; and seizing 
 their heavy tools, they hastened under ground, by dif- 
 ferent ways, to the scene of death. And she stood at 
 the mouth listening : each sound of the heavy pile, as 
 it struck, and then the rolling away of the earth and 
 stones, came up the gulf faintly, yet horribly. 
 
 " O, harm him not ! " she said; " for God's sake, 
 do not let the stones fall upon him ! Canyon see him? 
 — can he move his hand? — take the black earth 
 from his face, that he may breathe." 
 
 It had been mercy had they found the body ; but 
 this last consolation was denied : they tried all that 
 day, and the following day, but the unhappy men 
 might as well have sunk in the heart of the ocean ; 
 it was not that the earth closed over and entombed 
 them ; but the water into which they fell was believed 
 to have consumed them quickly, even like fire, such 
 was the strong property of the mineral with which it 
 was impregnated : the mundic water they called it. 
 For experiment, they tied a piece of meat to a string, 
 and throwing it down into the v/ater, it was in a few 
 days totally eaten away: then they were persuaded 
 that the bodies also were consumed. 
 
 Soon after this, the working of the lower parts of 
 the mine was suspended ; a partial decay fell on the 
 concern ; many of the people sought other scenes of 
 toil and speculation. The aspect of the valley was 
 no longer the same. The cliffs rose as sublimely, 
 and the sweep of ocean beyond was as glorious ; but 
 fortune dwelt no longer there. 
 
 The widow lived alone for some time in the deso- 
 late dwelling, the only good one in the region ; the 
 others were only cottages of the miners or fishermen. 
 Beneath the bold precipices the boats were moored 
 
THE BEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. It 
 
 during the day, and at eve they pushed to sea with 
 the wind off shore. The vv^idow, still young and hand- 
 some, refused to forsake her husband's home. The 
 garden went to decay, like the once busy scene be- 
 neath. It was observed that she always shunned to 
 walk near the fatal place, but chose the summits of the 
 cliffs ; and would sit there for hours, looking at the 
 vessels in full sail, or at the fishermen on the sands 
 b^eneath, pursuing their toil. It so happened that, 
 alter five years, this state of life grew irksome. 
 Tjiere came a man in the prime of life, and of some 
 prL>pfcTty, who sought her love; and she married him; 
 and they continued in the same dwelling on the hill 
 side. Whether she was happy there, was doubtful. 
 A melancholy look settled on her countenance as« 
 well as her heart ; and the tenderness of this second 
 husband, who was strongly attached to her, could not 
 dispel it. 
 
 Ten or eleven years after the fatal occurrence, it 
 was determined to again work the mine to its full ex- 
 tent. Many of the old miners came eagerly back to 
 the vale; for the red stream, the decayed heaps, the 
 sea-beat cliffs, were dear to their eyes. With great 
 and prolonged efforts the water of the deep shaft was 
 drawn away ; for they sought to pursue their discov- 
 eries in that direction. The body of the old man 
 was found first ; and at last, standing in an upright 
 posture, even as it fell, that of the unfortunate Nich- 
 olas was discovered. But instead of being dissolved, 
 it was in a perfect state of preservation ; the hand of 
 corruption was not on it ; the strange property of the 
 water had congealed and preserved it. The limbs,, 
 the features, the clothes — all were there. The atti- 
 tude was not that of a man who had died in horror. 
 They looked on in astonishment for some time, and 
 then bore it to the surface. The men gathered 
 
12 
 
 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND . 
 
 Strangely round the form of their ancient captain, and 
 after consulting briefly, resolved to bear it to his wid- 
 ow's dwelling. When they drew nigh, the people 
 carae in such numbers around that it was difficult to 
 pass through them. 
 
 The second husband and his wife were seated in 
 their parlor, when a confused clamor, that grew 
 louder every moment, approached their door ; and at 
 last they heard the voices of many people in pity, in 
 wonder, and fear. But ere they could know the 
 cause, the door opened, and the miners entered, and 
 laid the dead husband at the feet of the living one. 
 The wife looked wildly for a moment into the face of 
 the latter, and then knelt beside the body. Those 
 who witnessed it said it was an awful thing to see her 
 dabbling with the hair and fingers, and kissing the 
 cheek and lips of the dead, who had been the prey of 
 the grave for twelve years. The love of woman has 
 been called by a great writer " a fearful thing ; " here 
 it was a glorious and indelible thing, that could thus 
 laugh the king of terrors to scorn, and gain the vic- 
 tory over him. The living husband did not think 
 so ; he sat in gloomy silence ; he dared not speak 
 his feelings, that second husband ; but he could not 
 bear this outpouring of tenderness — this bursting 
 forth anew of affection, that he had thought buried in 
 the tomb. Perhaps no man could support unmoved 
 the sight of his wife's kisses lavished on the former 
 husband of her bosom, and her tears falling in tor- 
 rents on his cheeks, and her moans, coming from a 
 heart tried almost more than it could bear ; for he 
 had been the love of her youth — a handsome, a 
 gentle, a generous being : such was not the partner 
 of her life. 
 
 " Wiliiam, my own William," she said, clasping his 
 nerveless hand almost in frenzy in her own ; *' sent 
 
THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 13 
 
 to me back again thus ! God has sent you back — • 
 in mercy ! O, in mercy ! " 
 
 The husband could endure no longer, and strove 
 to lead her away ; but she passionately refased, say- 
 ing that they had been parted twelve years — that the 
 grave had been made to forsake its prey, and should 
 she forsake it 1 And then she spoke wildly and hur- 
 riedly, as if addressing him — that his aged mother 
 had died of grief — that their infant child, tha" she 
 had borne after his loss — then she rose suddenly, 
 and rushed from the apartment. The friends and 
 relatives, and the rest of the people who had looked on 
 # in strange surprise, and even horror, strove to prevent 
 her design, and entreated her not to persist in it. 
 But the mother was awake ; and neither bars, nor 
 bolts, nor armed men, could withstand her power in 
 this moment. She drew with her into the chamber 
 her only child, a girl of nearly ten years of age, and 
 pointing to the body, made her kneel beside it, nnd 
 said it was her father ! The child shrieked and drev/ 
 back, and refused to put its hand into the cold one of 
 the dead, or to press her lips to his. The second 
 husband was the only father she ever knew, and what 
 was the lost to her ? Nothing but a fearful and 
 ghastly object, she would not love it, or embrace 
 it, she said. But *' the worms were not around 
 it; " he could not say to them, " Thou art my moth- 
 er and my sister." What a world of meaning is 
 in this ! We cannot know, perhaps, for v;e have 
 never been tried, with what fondness, what ardor, we 
 should hang over them v/e have loved and lost, if de- 
 cay never came there ; would the husband turn away 
 from the wife of his youth, if the parting smile and 
 look still slept on her face, and the beauty of that face 
 fell not, and knew no change? Would the mother 
 not lie down beside her lost one, and press the cold 
 
14 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 
 
 hut imperishable form to her breast, as if life and joy 
 could wake there again? So felt, no doubt, the tried 
 and agonized woman. " Just as he fell 1 — O God ! just 
 as he fell ! " — she murmured, as her thoughts fell back 
 to the vale by the sea, where they had lived so happi- 
 ly, till the morn when he dreamed of death ere it came, 
 and took a sad and kind farewell of her, as if a fore- 
 boding even then was on his mind. 
 
 And now the husband sternly interposed, and said 
 ;that he would endure no longer-; that for years he 
 had striven to soothe her mind and chase away the 
 gloomy remembrances of her loss, and the dreadful 
 manner of it ; and now the wound was opened afresh, 
 and would never close, and the kindness of the living 
 would be lost, in the woman's heart, in the love of the 
 dead. They looked on him, and saw that his mind 
 was greatly troubled, and that his passions were 
 roused. Strange that jealousy of the dead should 
 thus enter the mind of the living ! 
 
 He stooped and spoke some v/ords to her as she 
 knelt, that were not heard by those around: they 
 seemed to move her strongly for the moment, for she 
 looked wistfully in his face, the expression of which 
 was sad and menacing : then she rose slowly, took 
 her child by the hand, and left the apartment. Her 
 relatives saw there was no time to be lost; that to 
 leave the unperished form of her first husband beneath 
 lier roof would only sow dissension and useless sor- 
 row ; that it could not and must not be. What had 
 he to do in this breathing and busy world ? Why was 
 'he thus cast forth, after his time, when the wife could 
 not claim, and the child would not own him? With 
 all care and reverence, they removed the body to an 
 upper chamber, where the same attentions and duties 
 were given as if he had been newly slain; but no 
 ^nourners came : no one wept over him : he was so 
 
THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBAND. 15 
 
 long lost as to be almost forgotten : to the second 
 husband he had ever been a stranger. The latter, 
 after the form was removed from his sight, as well as 
 the misery of his wife, behaved well and calmly. 
 After a time he spoke, in words suited to the sad oc- 
 casion, to those around, and said that the remains 
 should be treated with as much honor as if they were 
 those of his brother. There was another trial of his 
 temper : the wife insisted that the body should be laid 
 in their own bed — it was the same in which she had 
 slept with her first husband ; the head rested on the 
 same pillow. It was night vv'hen it was placed there, 
 for many hours had now passed. He came and stood 
 beside it a few moments in silence, but showed no 
 emotion; her hands had strewed flowers around it, 
 and placed lights at the head and feet; but nothing 
 could ever induce him to sleep in that bed again. 
 
 On the third day after this, Nicholas was borne to 
 the grave, followed by his wife and child, and a gieat 
 concourse of people. Andrews also followed, but not 
 as a mourner. The deceased was buried in the parish 
 churchyard that stood solitary on the summit of a hill 
 at no great distance : the great tower could be seen 
 far off at sea, and often served the mariners as a land- 
 inark. Three years after this, Andrews died also, 
 and was buried in the same spot, but not in the same 
 grave. The widow was again left desolate. This 
 desolation was, however, less bitter than the first': 
 she no more gave way to useless repinings ; the dwell- 
 ing on the hill side that overlooked the mine was no 
 longer that of despair ; the garden was kept carefully 
 neat, for j^ificholas had loved it, and trimmed it every 
 day with his own hand, when he ascended from the 
 depths of the mine, and his daily toil was over. The 
 care of her child was a sweet and endless office ; and 
 now she could tell of her father ; of his strange end 
 
16 THE DEAD AND THE LIVING HUSBANn. 
 
 and Stranger restoration ; how fond, how kind a man 
 iie had been ; how suddenly he was taken away ; and 
 how God had restored him, but for a few moments only, 
 to comfort her ; and she wept bitterly on the neck of 
 his first-born, and the child wept also. The stern eye 
 of the second husband was no more upon them; he 
 slept in peace ; and to his grave the widow sometimes 
 repaired — to the burial-ground on the hill — at even- 
 ing, but not to his grave — at least the neighbors said 
 so. There was another beside it, planted with flowers, 
 and a handsome tablet over it. The children of the 
 hamlet, who sometimes played wildly in the cemetery, 
 and chased each other over the fresh as well as the 
 neglected graves, never dired to tread on his ; they 
 remembered his strange finding, and they looked on 
 it with awe. She knelt there, and the child knelt 
 beside her ; her little hands were taught to pluck 
 every stray weed away ; and she gazed in silence and 
 love on her mother, as she prayed, with clasped hands 
 and tears fast falling. The prayer was too deep and 
 heartfelt for words; but the moving of the lip, the 
 heaving of the breast, the eager, agonizing expression 
 of the eye, appeared as if a strange and wild hope 
 mingled with her petition to Heaven. To the stran- 
 ger's eye she seemed to say, " Is corruption yet on 
 Ihee, my husband ? Wilt thou again burst the cere- 
 ments of the grave ? Ten years he lay undecayed ! — 
 Surely, surely, the worm is not on thee ! " 
 
 She had many offers, even after this, to marry 
 again. She was not yet more than thirty, and sorrow 
 had not quite wasted her comeliness; but she never 
 would listen to them, and continued to reside in the 
 lonely dwelling on the hill side, looked upon by all as 
 a woman with whom Heaven had dealt strangely, yet 
 mercifully. The rude fishermen, who plied their 
 trade near the noble cliffs ju-t beyond, would oflea 
 
THE PEASANT GIRT.'^S LOVE. 17 
 
 bring to her door their choicest fish, ere they travelled 
 inland to seek a market. The miners, whenever she 
 passed by the scene of their toils, paid her marked re- 
 spect, and looked curiously on the only child, who, as 
 years passed away, grew to a beautiful yet delicate 
 girl : the women of the hamlet said how like she was 
 to her father, yet that no good would come to her, ' 
 born in such a way, and under so dark a doom. 
 
 THE PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE. 
 
 The county assizes had commenced in my native 
 town, when a new batch of Irish tithe arrangers were 
 brought in prisoners by a strong party of police. 
 They had attacked, the previous evening, a gentle- 
 man's house, for the purpose of rifling it of arms ; 
 had been repulsed by the police, who, aware of their 
 intentions, lay in ambush for them; and lives were 
 lost on both sides. I was idling on one of the bridges, 
 when they passed by the jail, bound with ropes and 
 buckles to the common cars of the country. Some 
 of them were wounded, too — the brow, or hand, or 
 clothing, giving vivid evidence of the fact. 
 
 But, although the general impression made by the 
 whole of the wretched group was painful, one face 
 among them strongly interested me. It was that of a 
 young man, not more than nineteen or twenty ; his 
 features were comely, and, I would have it, full of 
 ^goodness and gentleness. His clear blue eye, too, 
 %vas neither sulky, nor savage, nor reckless ; but 
 seemed to express great awe of his situation, unless 
 U'hen from sudden mental recurrence to home, it 
 
18 THE PEASANT GIRL's LOVE. 
 
 quailed or became sufFased with tears. I involun- 
 tarily followed the melancholy procession towards the 
 jail, thinking of that young man. After all the pris- 
 oners had been ushered into their new abode, a pop* 
 ular anti-tithe attorney, whom I knew, accosted me. 
 He was always ready to conduct, gratis, the defences 
 of poor wretches thus situated • and he told me his 
 intention of going into the jail, that ipoment, to try 
 and collect materials for saving the lives of some, at 
 least, of the new comers. I expressed a wish to 
 assist him in his task ; he readily consented, observ- 
 ing that, as the unfortunate men would certainly be 
 put on their trials the next day, no offer of aid, in 
 their favor, was to be disregarded: so we entered the 
 jail together. 
 
 It fell to my lot to visit the cell, among others, of 
 the young man who had so much interested me. His 
 assertions, supported, or, at any rate, not contradicted, 
 by most of his band, seemed to argue that I had not 
 formed a wrong opinion of his character — -nay, better* 
 still, that there was a good chance of snatching him 
 from the gallows, even though he must leave his na- 
 tive land forever. He had been forced, he said, to 
 accompany the others upon their fatal sortie — had 
 never been "out" before — and had not pulled a trig- 
 ger or raised a hand against the police: his more 
 guilty associates supported, or else did not contravene, 
 his statement. So, confident that the police would 
 also bear him out at the really critical moment, I took 
 notes of his defence for my friend the attorney, and 
 passed on to the other cells ; but of the resilts of my 
 investigation I will not now speak. 
 
 The sagacious attorney was right. By twelve 
 o'clock next day, four of the men, including my fa- 
 vorite client, were placed at the bar of their country: 
 three others v/ere too ill of their wounds to be at 
 
THE PEASANT GIRL's LOVE. IS* 
 
 present produced. All was soon over — and over to. 
 my affliction, and almost consternation. Instead of 
 swearing that the young man had been comparatively 
 forbearing during the battle outside the gentleman's 
 house, the police, one and all, from strange mistake — 
 for surely they thought they were in the right — dis- 
 tinctly deposed that his was the hand which slew one 
 of their force, and badly wounded another. In vain 
 did he protest, with the energy of a young man plead- 
 ing for life and all its array of happy promise, against 
 their evidence ; in vain did his fellow-prisoners sup^- 
 port him ; he and they were found guilty in common. 
 Eut his fate was the terrific one — of him the exam- 
 ple was to be made ; and while the other men were 
 only sentenced to transportation for life, he was 
 doomed to be hanged by the neck within forty-eight 
 hours, and his body given for dissection. 
 
 As the judge ushered in the last words of his seur 
 •tence, a shriek — (I shall never forget it) — a wo- 
 man's shriek — and a young woman's too — pierced 
 up the roof of the silent court-house, and then I 
 heard a heavy fall I The young culprit had been 
 trembling and swaying from side to side, during the 
 sentence : at the soul-thrilling sound, he started into- 
 upright and perfect energy ; his hands, which had 
 grasped the bar of the dock, were clapped, together 
 with a loud noise; the blood mounted to his very 
 forehead; his lips parted widely, and, having shouted, 
 *' Moya ! it's she ! I knew she would be here ! " — he 
 suddenly made a spring to clear the back of the dock. 
 Obviously no desire to escape dictated the action : he 
 wanted to raise Moya — his betrothed Moya — from 
 the floor of the court-house, and clasp her in his , 
 arms — and that was all. And, doubtless, in his vig- 
 orous and thrice-nerved strength, he would have suc- 
 ceeded in his wild attempt, but that the sleeve of one: 
 
20 THE PEASANT GIRL's LOVE. 
 
 arm and one of his hands got impaled on the sharp 
 iron spikes which surmounted the formidable barrier 
 before him. Thus cruelly impeded, however, he was 
 easily secured, and instantly led down, through a trap 
 door in the bottom of the dock, to his " condemned 
 cell," continuing, till his voice was lost in the depths 
 beneath us, to call out, " Moya, cuishlamachree, 
 Moya!" 
 
 I hastened, v/ith many others, into the body of the 
 court, and there learned, from her, from her father 
 and mother, and other friends, the connection be- 
 tween her and the sentenced lad. They were to have 
 been married at Easter, This did not lessen my in- 
 terest in him. My attorney joined me, and we spoke 
 of all possible efforts to obtain a commutation of 
 his sentence, after Moya's parents had forced her out 
 of the court-house, on the way to their home, reject- 
 ing all her entreaties to be led into the jail, and — 
 married. 
 
 We thought of hearing what the wounded police 
 man might say. But he was fourteen miles distant, 
 v/here the affray had occurred ; and even though his 
 evidence might be favorable, we knew we must be 
 prepared to forward it to Dublin, as the judge would 
 leave our tcwn that day. We set to work, however, 
 mounted two good horses, and within three hours 
 learned from the lips of the wounded man that the 
 Hockite who had fired at him was an elderly and ill- 
 favored fellow. It was our next business to convey 
 our new evidence into town : we did so, in a carriage 
 borrowed from the person whose house had been at- 
 tacked. He was confronted Vv'ith all the prisoners. 
 We cautioned him t3 say nothing that might give a 
 false hope to the object of our interest ; but, after 
 leaving the cell, he persisted in exculpating him from 
 having either killed his comrade or wounded himself. 
 
THE PEASANT GIRL's tOVE. 21 
 
 and, moreover, pointed out the real culprit among 
 those who had not yet been put on their trial. 
 
 This was a good beginning. An affidavit was soon 
 prepared, which the policeman signed. A few min- 
 utes afterwards the attorney started for Dublin, as 
 fast as four horses could gallop. Ten hours, out of 
 the forty-eight allowed to the condemned to prepare 
 for death, had already elapsed. Our good attorney 
 must now do the best he could within thirty-seven 
 hours — it was fearful not to leave an hour to spare 
 — to calculate time when it would just be merging 
 into eternity. But we had good hopes. If horses 
 did not fail on the road, going nor returning, and if 
 the judge, and, after him, the lord lieutenant, could 
 be rapidly approached, it was a thing to be done. 
 That if, however! — I scarce slept a wink through 
 the night. Next morning early, I called on the 
 clergyman whose sad duty it was to visit the poor lad 
 in his condemned cell : he and I had been school-fel- 
 lows, and he was a young man of most amiable char- 
 acter. He told me " his poor penitent " was not unfit 
 to die, nor did he dread the fate before him, notwith- 
 standing his utter anguish of heart at so sudden and 
 terrible a parting from his young mistress. I com- 
 municated the hopes we had, and asked the clergy- 
 man's opinion as to the propriety of alleviating the 
 lad's agony by a slight impartation of them. My rev- 
 erend young friend would not hear of such a thing : 
 his conscience did not permit him. It was his duty, 
 he said, his sacred duty, to allow nothing to distract 
 the mind and heart of his penitent from resignation 
 to his lot; and should he give him a hope of life, and 
 then see that hope dashed, he would have helped to 
 kill a human soul, not to save one. I gave up the 
 point, and endeavored to seek occupations and amuse- 
 ments to turn my thoughts from the one subject which 
 
'^'i THE PEASANT GIRL S LOVE. 
 
 absorbed and fevered them. But in vain ; and when 
 night came, I had less sleep than on the first. 
 
 Early on the second morning, I took a walk into 
 the country, along the Dublin road, vaguely hoping 
 to meet, even so early, our zealous attorney returning 
 to us, with a white handkerchief streaming from the 
 window of his post chaise : that idea had got into my 
 head, like a picture, and would recur every moment. 
 I met him not. I lingered on the road. I heard our 
 town clock pealing twelve — the boy had but an hour 
 to live : I looked towards the county jail, whither he 
 had been removed for execution — the black flag was 
 waving over its drop-door. Glancing once more along 
 the Dublin road, I ran as fast as I could towards the 
 jail. Arrived at the iron gate of its outer yard, I was 
 scarce conscious of the multitude who sat on a height 
 confronting it, — all was hushed and silent, — or of the 
 very strong guard of soldiers at the gate, till one of 
 them refused me way. I bribed the sergeant to con- 
 vey my name to the governor of the prison, and was 
 admitted, first into the outer-yard, then by the guard- 
 room door, and along a colonnade of pillars, connected 
 with iron work at either hand, into the inner courts 
 of the jail. The guard-room was under the execu- 
 tion-room, and both formed a building in themselves, 
 separated from the main pile; the colonnade, of which 
 I have spoken, leading from one to the other. What 
 had sent me where I now found myself, was an im- 
 pulse to beseech the sheriff (whom I knew, and who 
 was necessarily in the jail to accompany the con- 
 demned to the door of the execution-room) for some 
 short postponement of the fatal moment. He came 
 out to me, in one of the courts at either side of the 
 colonnade ; we spoke in whispers, as the good and 
 kind-hearted governor had done — though there was 
 not a creature to overhear us, in the deserted and 
 
THE PEASANT GIRL's LOVE. 23 
 
 sunny spaces all around. I knew the sheriff would 
 at his peril make any change in the hour ; but I told 
 him our case, and his eyes brightened with zeal and 
 benevolence, while he put back his watch three 
 quarters of an hour, and asseverated, with my uncle 
 Toby's oath, I believe, that he would swear it was 
 right, and that all their clocks were wrong, and, "let 
 them hang himself for his mistake." 
 
 Our point arranged, we sunk into silence. It was 
 impossible to go on talking, even in our conscious 
 whispers. One o'clock soon struck ! The governor, 
 pale and agitated, appeared making a sad signal to 
 the sheriff. We beckoned him over to us, and he 
 was shown the infallible watch, and retired again 
 without a word. My friend and I continued standing 
 side by side in resumed silence. And all was silence 
 around us too, save some few most melancholy, most 
 appalling sounds; one caused by the step of a senti- 
 nel under the window of the condemned cell, at an 
 unseen side of the prison; another by the audible 
 murmurings of the condemned and his priest, heard 
 through that window — both growing more fervent in 
 prayer since the jail clock had pealed one ; and a 
 third was made by some person, also unseen, striking 
 a single stroke with a wooden mallet, about every 
 half minute, upon a muffled bell, at the top of the 
 prison. Yes — I can recall two other sounds which 
 irritated me greatly ; the chirping of sparrows in the 
 sun, — and I thought their usual pert note was now 
 strangely sad, — and the tick, tick, of the sheriff's 
 watch, which I heard distinctly in his fob. The 
 minutes flew. I felt pained in the throat — burning 
 with thirst — and losing my presence of mind. The 
 governor appeared again. My friend entered the 
 prison with him. I remained also confused and ag- 
 onized. In a few minutes, the governor came out. 
 
24 THE PEASANT GIRL^S LOVE. 
 
 bareheaded, and tears on his cheeks. The clergymso 
 and his penitent followed ; the former had passed ai2> 
 arm through one of the manacled ones of the latter^, 
 and the hands of both were clasped, and both were 
 praying audibly. — - My old school-fellow wept like a 
 child. My poor client had passed the threshold into* 
 the colonnade, with a firm step, his knees kept pecu- 
 liarly stiff, as he paced along, and his cheeks and fore-' 
 head were scarlet, while his eye widened and beamedy. 
 and was fixed on the steps going up to the execution- 
 room straight on before him. He did not yet see me 
 gazing at him. As the sheriff appeared behind, and. 
 his priest, also bareheaded, I rapidly snatched my hat 
 from my head. The action attracted bis attention — - 
 our glances met — and O! how the Hush instantly 
 forsook his forehead and his cheek — and how his- 
 eyes closed — while cold perspiration burst out oo; 
 his brow, and he started, stopped, and faltered F Did 
 he recognize me as the person who had spoken kindly 
 to him in his cell, before his trial, and perhaps, with 
 all my precaution, given him a vague hope ? or was 
 it that the unexpected appearance of a human crea*- 
 ture, staring at him in utter commiseration, in that 
 otherwise lonely courtyard, had touched the chord of 
 human associations, and called him back to earthy 
 out of his enthusiastic vision of heaven ? I knew 
 jiot; I cannot even guess; loho can? As he faltered, 
 the young priest passed his arm round his body, and 
 gently urged him to his knees, and knelt with him, 
 kissing his cheeks, his lips pressing his hands, and in 
 tender whispers manning him again for facing shame, 
 and death, and eternity. The governor, the sheriff, 
 and I, instinctively assumed the attitude of prayer at 
 the same moment, Moya's " own boy " never even 
 mounted the steps of the execution-room. We were 
 first, startldd, while we all knelt, as it afterwards 
 
THE TWO KATES. 25 
 
 proved — by her shrieks at the outer gates ; she had 
 ^escaped from the restraints of her family, and had 
 come to the jail, insisting on being married to him 
 *' with the rope itself round his neck, to live a widow 
 for him forever ; " and next there was a glorious 
 shout from the multitude on tke rural heights before 
 the prison, and my one ceaseless idea of our attorney, 
 with a white handkerchief streaming through the 
 ■window of his post chaise, was realized, though every 
 one saw it but I. And Moya, self-transported for 
 iife, went to Van Diemen's Land, some weeks after- 
 wards, a happy and contented wife, her family having 
 yielded to her wishes at the instance of more advo- 
 cates than herself, and put some money in her purse 
 also. 
 
 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 "I CANNOT help observing, Mr. Seymour, that I 
 think it exceedingly strange in you to interfere with 
 the marriage of my daughter : marry your sons, sir, as 
 you please — but my daughter! that is quite another 
 matter." 
 
 And Mrs. Seymour, a stately, sedate matron, of the 
 high-heei and hoop school, drew herself up to her full 
 height, which (without the heels) was five foot seven, 
 and fanning herself with a huge green fan, more 
 rapidly than she had done for many months, looked 
 askance upon her husband, a pale, delicate man, who 
 seemed in the last stage of a consumption. 
 
 " A little time, Mary ! " (good lack ! could such a 
 person as Mrs. Seymour bear so sweet a name ? ) *' a 
 
26 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 little time, Mary, and our sons may marry as they 
 list for me ; but I have yet to learn why you should 
 have more control over our Kate than I. — Before I 
 quit this painful world, I should like the sweet child 
 to be placed under a suitable protector." 
 
 " You may well call her child, indeed — little more 
 than sixteen. Forcing the troubles of the world upon 
 her so young ! I have had my share of them, Heaven 
 knows, although I had nearly arrived at the age of 
 discretion before I united my destiny to yours." 
 
 " So you had, my dear — you were, I think, close 
 upon forty ! " 
 
 It is pretty certain that a woman who numbers 
 thirty without entering " the blessed state," had better 
 deliberate whether she is able to take up new ideas, 
 forego " her own sweet will," and sink from an inde- 
 pendent to a dependent being ; but a woman of forty 
 who is guilty of such an absurdity merits the punish- 
 ment she is sure to receive. And though Mr. Sey- 
 mour was a kind, amiable, and affectionate man, his 
 lady was far from a happy woman ; she had enjoyed 
 more of her own way than generally falls to the lot of 
 her sex, and yet not near so much as she desired or 
 fancied she deserved. If Mr. Seymour would have 
 held his tongue, and done exactly as she wished, it 
 would have been all well ; but this course he was not 
 exactly prone to — he having been, at least ten years 
 before his marriage, what is generally termed an old 
 bachelor. Let it not be imagined that Mrs. Seymour 
 was one of your "shall and will" ladies — no such 
 thing; she was always talking of "female duties," 
 of " genteel obedience," of " amiable docility," and 
 with her eyes fastened upon a piece of tent-stitch 
 which she had worked in her juvenile days, represent- 
 ing Jacob drinking from Rebecca's pitcher, she would 
 lecture her husband by the long winter hours^, and 
 
THE TWO KATES. ^7 
 
 the midsummer sunshine, as to the inestimable treas- 
 ure he possessed in her blessed self> 
 
 *' Think, Mr. Seymour, if you had married a gad- 
 about; lolw would have watched over mij children ? " 
 (she never by any chance said our children.) " I have 
 Jiever been outside the doors (except to church) these 
 four years ! If you had married a termagant, how she 
 would have flown at, and abused all your little — did 
 I say little 1 — I might with truth say, ^qwx great pecu- 
 liarities. I never interfere, never ; 1 only notice — for 
 your own good — that habit, for instance, of always 
 giving Kate sugar with her strawberries, and placing 
 the toD.gs to the left instead of the right of the poker 
 — it is very sad ! " 
 
 " My dear," Mr. Seymour would interrupt, " what 
 does it signify whether the tongs be to the right or 
 left?" 
 
 "Bless me, dear sir! you need not^fly out so; I 
 was only saying that there are some women in the 
 world who would make that a bone of contention ; 
 I never do, much as it annoys me — much as it and 
 other things grieve and Vv'orry my health and spirits ; 
 1 never complain — never. Some men are strangely 
 insensible to their domestic blessings, and do not 
 know how to value earth's greatest treasure — a good 
 wife ! but I am dumb ; I am content to suffer, to melt 
 away in tears — it is no matter." Then, after a pause 
 to recruit her breath and complainings, she would 
 rush upon another grievance with the abominable 
 whine of an aggrieved and much injured person ; a 
 sort of mental and monotonous wailing, which, though 
 nobody minded, annoyed every body within her 
 sphere. Her husband was fast sinking into the grave ; 
 her sons had gone from Eton to Cambridcre; and, 
 when they were at home, took good care to be con- 
 tinually out of earshot of their mother's lamentations^; 
 
28 THE TWO KATEf. 
 
 the servants changed places so continually, that tli^ 
 door was never twice opened by the same footman;' 
 and the only fixture at Seyniour Hall, where servants 
 and centuries, at one time, might be almost termed 
 synonymous, was ttie old^ deaf housekeeper, who, 
 luckily for herself, could not hear* her mistress's voices 
 To whom, then, had Mrs. Seymour to look forward, as 
 the future source of her comforts — i. e, of her tor-» 
 rnenting? even her daughter Kate— -the bonny Kate, 
 the merry Kate, the thing of smiles and tears, who 
 danced under the shadow of the old trees ; who sang 
 with the birds ; who learned industry from the bees, 
 and cheerfulness from the grasshopper ; whose voice 
 told, in its rich, full melody, of young Joy and his 
 ]"iUghing train ; whose step was as liglit on the turf as 
 the dew or the sunbeam ; whose shadow was blessed 
 as it passed the window of the poor and lowly cot- 
 tager, heralding the coming of her who comforted 
 her own soul by comforting her fellow-creatures. 
 " How can it be possible," said every body, " that such 
 a lovely, cheerful, cheering creature can be the child 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Seymour? the father, dear man, 
 kind and gentle, but so odd; the mother!'^ and then 
 followed a look and a shrug, that told of much disap- 
 probation, and yet not half as much as was most jjen- 
 erously bestowed on the melancholy-dealing Mrs. 
 Seymour. 
 
 Kate's father well knew that his days were num- 
 bered ; and he looked forward with no very pleasura- 
 ble feeling to his daughter's health and happiness be- 
 ing sacrificed at the shrine whereon he had offered up 
 his own. Kate, it is true, as yet had nothing suffered ; 
 .she managed to hear and laugh at her mother's re- 
 })inings, without being rendered gloomy iliereby, or 
 £:iving offence to the mournful and discontented pa- 
 rent. She v/ould, in her ov/n natural and unsophis- 
 
THE TWO KATEg. 29 
 
 ticated manner, lead her forth into the sunshine, sing 
 her the gayest songs, read to her the most cheerful 
 books, and gather for her the freshest flowers; and 
 sometimes even Mrs. Seymour would smile, and be 
 amused, though her heart quickly returned to its bit- 
 terness, and her soul to its discontent ; but Mr. Sey- 
 mour knew that this buoyant spirit could not endure 
 forever, and he sought to save the rose of his exist- 
 ence from the canker that had destroyed him. She 
 was earnestly beloved by a brave and intelligent offi- 
 cer, who had ah-eady distinguished himself, and who 
 hoped to win fresh laurels wherever his country need- 
 ed his exertions. It would be difficult to define the 
 sort of feeling with which Kate received his atten- 
 tions; like all young, very young girls, she thought 
 that affection ought to be kept secret from the world^ 
 and that it was a very shocking thing to fall in love; 
 phe consequently vowed and declared to every body^ 
 that " she had no idea of thinking of Major Caven- 
 dish: that she was too young, much too young, 
 to marry; that her mamma said so." She even 
 steeped her little tongue so deeply in love's natural 
 hypocrisy, as to declare, hut only once, " that she ha- 
 ted Major Cavendish." If he addressed her in com- 
 pany, she was sure to turn away, blush, and chatter 
 most inveterately to her cousin, long Jack Seymour ; 
 if he askied her to sing, she had invariably a sore 
 throat ; and if he asked her to dance, she had 
 sprained her ankle ; it was quite marvellous the quan- 
 tity of little fibs she invented^ whenever Major Caven- 
 dish was in the way; and it is probable that the 
 calm, dignified, and gentlemanly soldier would never 
 have declared his preference for the laughter-loviog 
 and provoking Kate, but for one of those little epi- 
 sodes which either make or mar the happiness of 
 life. 
 
00 
 
 Tlffi TWO KATES, 
 
 I must observe that Kate's extreme want of resem- 
 blance to either her mournful mother or her pale and 
 gentle father, was not more extraordinary than that 
 Major Cavendish, as we have said, — the calm and dig- 
 nified Major Cavendish, — at six-and-twenty, should 
 evince so great an affection for the animated and girl- 
 ish creature, whom, four years before his " declara- 
 tion," he had lectured to, and romped with ; but no, 
 ??o? romped— -Major Cavendish was too dignified to 
 romp, or to flirt either; what shall I call it then? 
 laughed — yes, he certainly did laugh — generally 
 after the most approved English fashion, — his lips 
 separated with a manifest desire to unite again as 
 {30on as possible, and his teeth, v/hite and even, ap- 
 peared to great advantage during the exertion. No- 
 body thought that, though young and handsome, he 
 would think of marriage, " he was so grave;" but 
 on the same principle, 1 suppose, that the harsh and 
 terrible thunder is the companion of the gay and 
 brilliant lightning, majestic and sober husbands often 
 most desire to have gay and laughing wives. Now 
 for the episode. — Mrs. Seymour had fretted herself 
 to sleep, Mr. Seymour had sunk into his afternoon 
 nap, and Kate stole into her ovm particular room, to 
 coax something like melody out of a Spanish guitar, 
 the last gift of Major Cavendish : the room told of a 
 change, effected by age and circumstances, on the 
 character of its playful mistress. A very large Dutch 
 baby-house, that had contributed much to her amuse- 
 ment a little time ago, still maintained its station 
 upon its usual pedestal, the little Dutch ladies and 
 gentlemen all in their places, as if they had not been 
 disturbed for som.e months : on the same table were 
 battledores, shuttlecocks, and skippino;-ropes ; while 
 the table at the other end was covered with English 
 and Italian books, vases of fresh flowers^ music, and 
 
THE TWO KATES. 3l 
 
 ls6me richly ornamented boxes, containing many im- 
 plements that ladies use both for wor'k and drawing; 
 respectfully apart stood a reading stand supporting 
 Kate's Bible and prayer-books; and it was pleasant to 
 observe, that no other books rested upon those holy 
 volumes. 
 
 The decorated walls would not have suited the 
 present age; and yet they were covered with em- 
 broidery, and engravings, and mirrors, and carvings 
 — showing a taste not developed, yet existing in the 
 beautiful girl, whose whole powers were devoted to 
 the conquest of some music which she was practising 
 both with skill and patience. There she sat on a 
 low ottoman, her profile thrown into full relief by the 
 back ground ; being a curtain of heavy crimson vel- 
 vet, that fell in well-defined folds from a golden arrow 
 in the centre of the architrave, — while summer dra- 
 pery of white muslin shaded the other side — her fea- 
 tures hardly defined, yet exhibiting the tracery of 
 beauty, — her lips, rich, full, and separated, as ever 
 and anon they gave forth a low, melodious accom- 
 paniment to her thrilling chords* There she sat, 
 practising like a very good girl, — perfectly uncon- 
 scious that Major Cavendish was standing outside 
 the window listening to his favorite airs played 
 over and over again; and he would haVe listened 
 much longer — but suddenly she paused, and, look- 
 ing carefully round, drew from her bosom a small 
 case, containing a little group of flowers painted on 
 ivory, which he had given her, and which, poor fel- 
 low ! he imagined she cared not for, — because, I 
 suppose, she did not exhibit it in public! How little 
 does mighty and magnificent man know of the work- 
 ings of a young girl's heart! — Well, she looked at 
 the flowers, and a smile bright and beautiful spread 
 over her face, and a blush rose to her cheek, and 
 
32 
 
 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 suffused her brow, — and then it paled away, and hef 
 eyes filled with tears. What were her heart's imagin- 
 ings Cavendish could not say ; but they had called 
 forth a blush, — a smile, — a tear, — love's sweetest 
 tokens, and, forgetting his concealment, he was seat- 
 ed by her side, just as she thrust the little case 
 under the cushion of her ottoman ! — How prettily 
 that blush returned, when Cavendish asked her to 
 sing one of his favorite ballads, — the modest, half- 
 coquettish, half-natural air, with which she said, "I 
 cannot sing, sir, — I am so very hoarse." "Indeed 
 Kate ! you were not hoarse just now." " How do 
 you know? " 
 
 " I have been outside the window for more than 
 half an hour. " 
 
 The blush deepened into crimson, — bright glow- 
 ing crimson, — and her eye unconsciously rested on 
 the spot where her treasure was concealed. He 
 placed his hand on the cushion, and smiled most pro- 
 vokingly, saying, as plainly as gesture could say, — 
 *' Fair mistress Kate, I know all about it; you need 
 not look so proud, so shy, — you cannot play the 
 impostor any longer!" But poor Kate burst into 
 tears, — she sobbed, and sobbed heavily and heartily 
 too, when her lover removed the case, recounted the 
 songs she had sung, and the feeling with which she 
 had sung them ; and she did try ver?/ hard to get up 
 a story, about " accident " and " wanting to copy the 
 flowers," — with a heap more of little things that 
 were perfectly untrue; and Cavendish knew it, for 
 his eyes were now opened ; and after more, far more 
 than the usual repetition of sighs, and smiles, and prot- 
 estations, and illustrations, little Kate did say, or per- 
 haps (for there is ever great uncertainty in these 
 matters) Cavendish said, "that if papa, or mamma, 
 had no objection — she believed, — she thought, — 
 
THE TWO KATES. 33 
 
 she even hoped ! " and so the matter terminated; — 
 and that very evening she sang to her lover his fa- 
 vorite songs; and her father that night blessed her 
 with so deep, so heartfelt a blessing, that little Kate 
 Seymour sav/ the moon to bed before her eye 
 v»'ere dry. 
 
 How heavily upon some do the shadows of life 
 rest ! Those who are born and sheltered on the sun- 
 ny side of the walk know nothing of them; they live 
 on sunshine! they wake i' the sunshine — nay, they 
 even sleep in sunshine. 
 
 Poor Mr. Seymour, having gained his great object, 
 married, in open defiance of his wife's judgment, his 
 pretty Kate to her devoted Cavendish ; laid his head 
 upon his pillow one night about a month after, with 
 the sound of his lady's complaining voice ringing its 
 changes from bad to worse in his aching ears, — and 
 awoke, before that night was passed, in another world. 
 Mrs. Seymour had never professed the least possible 
 degree of affection for her husband ; — she had never 
 seemed to do so, — never affected it until then. But 
 the truth was, she had started a fresh subject; — her 
 husband's loss, her husband's virtues, nay, her hus- 
 band's faults, were all new themes ; and she was 
 positively charmed, in her own way, at having a 
 fresh cargo of misfortunes freighted for her own es- 
 pecial use : she became animated and eloquent un- 
 der her troubles; and mingled with her regrets for 
 her "poor dear departed," were innumerable wail- 
 ings for her daughter's absence, 
 
 Kate Cavendish had accompanied her husband, 
 during the short, deceitful peace of Amiens, to Paris; 
 and there the beautiful Mrs. Cavendish was distin- 
 guished as a wonder "si aimable," — "si gentille," 
 — "sinaive,'^ — " si mignone : " — the most accom- 
 plished of the French court could not be like her, 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 for they had forgotten to be natural ; and the novekf 
 and diffidence of the beautiful English woman ren- 
 dered her an object of universal interest. Petted and 
 feted she certainly was, but not spoiled. She was not 
 insensible to admiration, and yet it was evident to all 
 'he preferred the affectionate attention of her hus- 
 Dand to the homage of the whole world; nor was she 
 ever happy but by his side. Suddenly the loud war- 
 whoop echoed throughout Europe, — the First Con- 
 sul was too ambitious a man to remain at peace with 
 England, — and Major Cavendish had only time to 
 convey his beloved v^ife to her native country, when 
 he was called upon to join his regiment. Kate Cav- 
 endish was no heroine ; she loved her husband with 
 so entire an affection, a love of so yielding, so re^ 
 lying a kind — she leaned her life, her hopes, her 
 very soul upon him, with so perfect a confidence, 
 that to part from him was almost a moral death. 
 
 " How shall I think? how speak? how act, when 
 you are not with me?" she said; " how support my- 
 self? who will instruct me now, in all that is great, 
 and good, and noble? who will smile when I am 
 right, who reprove me when I err, and yet reprove sa 
 gentle that I v/ould rather hear him chide than others 
 praise ! " It v/as in vain to talk to her of glory, honor, 
 or distinction — was not her husband in her eyes 
 sufficiently glorious, honorable, and distinguished ;. 
 whom did she ever see like him? she loved hini! 
 with all the rich, ripe fondness of a young and affec- 
 tionate heart; and truly did she think that heart 
 would break, when he departed. Youth little knows 
 what hearts can endure ; they little think what they 
 must of necessity go through in this work-a-day 
 world; they are ill prepared for the trials and tur- 
 moils that await the golden as well as the humbler 
 pageant of existence. After-life tells us how wise 
 
THE TWO KATES. 35 
 
 it is that we have no prospect into futurity. Kate 
 Cavendish returned to her mother's house, without 
 the knowledge of the total change that had come 
 over her thoughts and feelings : her heart's youth 
 had passed away, though she was still almost a child 
 in years; and her mother had a new cause for lamen- 
 tation. Kate was so dull and silent, so changed ; 
 the greenhouse might go to wreck and ruin for 
 aught she cared. And she sat a greater number of 
 hours on her father's grave than she spent in her 
 poor mother's chamber. This lament was not with- 
 out foundation ; the beautiful Kate Cavendish had 
 fallen into a morbid and careless melancholy that 
 pervaded all her actions; her very thoughts seemed 
 steeped in sorrow; and it was happy for her that a 
 new excitement for exertion occurred, when, about 
 five months after her husband's departure, she be- 
 came a mother. Despite Mrs. Seymour's prognosti- 
 cations, the baby lived and prospered, and by its 
 papa's express command was called Kate — an ar- 
 rangement which very much tended to the increase 
 of its grandmamma's discontent; "It was such a 
 singular mark of disrespect to her not to call it 
 Mary." 
 
 How full of the true and beautiful manifestations 
 of maternal affection were the letters of Mrs. Caven- 
 dish to her husband I "little Kate was so very like 
 him — her lip, her eye, her smile;" and then, as 
 years passed on, and Major Cavendish had gained a 
 regiment by his bravery, the young mother chroni- 
 cled her child's wisdom, her wit, her voice, the very 
 tone of her voice was so like her father's ! her early 
 love of study — and, during the night watches, in 
 the interval of his long and harassing marches, and 
 his still more desperate engagements. Colonel Caven- 
 dish found happiness and consolation in the perusXil 
 
36 
 
 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 of the outpourings of his own Kate's heart and soui. 
 In due time, his second Kate could and did write 
 those misshapen characters of affection^ pot-hooks 
 and hangers, wherein parents, but only parents, see 
 the promise of perfection : then came the fair round 
 hand, so en hon-pointy with its hair and broad strokes; 
 then an epistle in French ; and at last a letter in very 
 neat text, bearing the stamp of authenticity in its dic- 
 tion, and realizing the hopes so raised by his wife's 
 declaration, that " their Kate was all heart couM de- 
 sire, so like him in all thmgs.'" The life of Cotonei 
 Cavendish conthmed for some years at full gallop ; 
 days and hours are composed of the same number of 
 seconds, whether passed in the solitude of a cottage 
 or the excitement of a camp ; yet how differently are 
 they numbered ! how very, very different is the retro- 
 spect ! 
 
 Had Colonel Cavendish seen his wife, still in her 
 early beauty, with their daughter half sitting, half 
 kneeling by her side, the one looking younger, the 
 other older than each really was, he would not have 
 believed it possible that the lovely and intelligent girl 
 could be indeed his child, the child of his young" 
 Kate. A series of most provoking, most distressing 
 occurrences had prevented his returning even on 
 leave to England; he had been ordered, during a 
 long and painful v*^ar, from place to place, and from 
 country to country, until at last he almost began ta 
 despair of ever seeing home again. It was^ not in the 
 nature of his wife's love to change. And it was a 
 beautiful illustration of woman's constancy, the ha- 
 bitual and affectionate manner in which Mrs. Caven- 
 dish referred all things to the remembered feelings 
 and opinions of her absent Husband. Poor Mrs. 
 Seymour ejsigted on to spite humanity, discontent- 
 ed and complaining — a living scourge to good na- 
 
THE TWO KATES. 37 
 
 tore and sympathy, under whatever semblance it ap- 
 pear^d^ — or, perhaps, for the sake of contrast, to 
 show her daughter's many virtues in more glowing 
 colors. The contrast was painful in the extreme, 
 and no one could avoid feeling for the two Kates, 
 worried as they both were with the unceasing com- 
 plainings of their wo-working parent. If a month 
 passed without letters arriving from Colonel Caven- 
 dish, Mrs. Seymour was sure to tell them " to pre- 
 pare for the worst," — and concluded her observations 
 by the enlivening assurance " that she had always 
 been averse to her marriage with a soldier, because 
 she felt assured that, if he went away, he would never 
 return ! " 
 
 At last, one of the desolating battles that filled 
 England with widows, and caused multitudes of or- 
 phans to weep in our highways, sent agony to the 
 heart of the patient and enduring : the fatal return 
 at the head of the column, " Colonel Cavendish ??i?ss- 
 ing," was enough; he had escaped so many perils, 
 not merely victorious, but unhurt, that she had in her 
 fondness believed he bore a charmed life ; and were 
 her patience, her watchings, her hopes, to be so re- 
 warded? was her child fatherless? and was her heart 
 desolate? Violent was indeed her grief, and fearful 
 her distraction; but it had, like all violent emotion, 
 its reaction ; she hoped on, in the very teeth of her 
 despair; she w^as sure he was not dead — how could 
 he be dead? he that had so often escaped — could it 
 be possible, that at the last he had fallen ? Providence, 
 she persisted, was too merciful to permit such a sor- 
 row to rest upon her and her innocent child ; and 
 she resolutely resolved not to put on mourning, or 
 display any of the usual tokens of affection, although 
 every one else believed him dead. One of the ser- 
 geants of his own regiment had seen him struck to 
 
88 
 
 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 the earth by a French sabre, and immediately after 
 a troop of cavalry rode over the ground, thus leaving 
 no hopes of his escape ; the field of battle in that spot 
 presented the next day a most lamentable spectacle; 
 crushed were those lately full of life, its hopes and 
 expectations; they had saturated the field with their 
 life's blood ; the torn standard of England mingled 
 its colors with the standard of France ; no trace of 
 the body of Colonel Cavendish was found ; but his 
 sword, his rifled purse, and portions of his dress, 
 were picked up by a young officer. Sir Edmund Rus- 
 sell, who had ever evinced towards him the greatest 
 affection and friendship. Russell wrote every par- 
 ticular to Mrs. Cavendish, and said, that, as he was 
 about to return to England in a few weeks, having 
 obtained sick leave, he would bring the purse and 
 sword of his departed friend with him. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Cavendish murmured over the word 
 ^' departed;^' paled, shook her head, and then looked 
 up into the face of her own Kate, with a smile beam- 
 ing with hope, which certainly her daughter did not 
 feel. — "He is not dead," she repeated; and in the 
 watches of the night, v.'hen in her slumbers she had 
 steeped her pillow with tears, she would start, — 
 repeat, " He is not dead," — then sleep again. 
 There was something beautiful and affecting in the 
 warm and earnest love, the perfect friendship exist- 
 ing between tb»s youthful mother and her daughter ; 
 it was so unlike the usual tie between parent and 
 child ; and yet it was so well cemented, so devoted, 
 so respectful ! The second Kate, at fifteen, was more 
 womanly, more resolute, more calm, more capable of 
 thought, than her mother had been at severi-and- 
 twenty ; and it was curious to those who note closely 
 the shades of human character, to observe how, at 
 tvvo-and-thirty, Mrs. Cavendish turned for advice and 
 
THE TWO KATES. .39 
 
 consolation to her high-minded daughter, and leaned 
 upon her for support. Even Mrs. Seymour became 
 in a great degree sensible of her superiority, and 
 felt something like shame at complaining, before her 
 granddaughter, of the frivolous matters which consti- 
 tuted the list of her misfortunes. The beauty of 
 Miss Cavendish was like her mind, of a lofty bearing 
 
 — lofty, not proud. She looked and moved like a 
 young queen ; she was a noble girl ; and when Sir 
 Edmund Russell saw her first, he thought, — alas ! I 
 cannot tell all he thought, — but he certainly '* fell," 
 as it is termed, " in love," and nearly forgot the 
 M'ounds inflicted in the battle-field, when he acknowl- 
 edged to himself the deep and everliving passion he 
 felt for the daughter of his dearest friend. 
 
 '* It is indeed most happy for your mother," he 
 said to her some days after his arrival at Sydney Hall, 
 
 — " it is indeed most happy for your mother, that she 
 does not believe what I know to be so true. I think, 
 if she was convinced of your father's death, she 
 would sink into despair." 
 
 " Falsehood or false impressions," replied Kate, 
 *' sooner or later produce a sort of moral fever, which 
 leaves the patient weakened in body and in mind. 
 1 would rather she knew the worst at once; — de- 
 spair by its own violence works its own cure." 
 
 " Were it you, Miss Cavendish, I should not fear 
 the consequences ; but your mother is so soft ,and 
 gentle in her nature." 
 
 "Sir Edmund, — she ^-/jm' my father — lived witli 
 him — worshipped him; the knowledge of his exist- 
 ence was the staff of hers ; he was the soul of her 
 fair frame. Behold her now; — how beautiful she 
 looks! — those sunbeams resting on her head, and 
 her chiselled features upturned towards heaven, tra- 
 cing my father's portrait in those fleecy clouds, or 
 
40 
 
 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 amid yonder trees ; and do you mark the hectic on 
 her cheek? Could she believe it, 1 know she would 
 be better : there's not a stroke upon the bell, there's 
 not an echo of a foot-fall in the great avenue, but 
 she thinks it is his. At night she starts, if but a 
 mouse do creep along the wainscot, or a soft breeze 
 disturb the blossoms of the woodbine that press 
 against our window ; and then exclaims, ' I thought 
 it was your father ! ' " 
 
 With such converse, and amid the rich and vari- 
 ous beauties of a picturesque, rambling old country 
 house, with its attendant green meadows, pure trout 
 stream, and sylvan grottoes, — sometimes with Mrs. 
 Cavendish, sometimes v/ithout her, — did Kate and Sir 
 Edmund wander, and philosophize, and fall in love. 
 
 One autumn evening, Mrs. Seymour, fixing her 
 eyes upon the old tent-stitch screen, said to her daugh- 
 ter, who had, as usual, been thinking of her husband — 
 
 " Has it ever occurred to you, my dear Kate, that 
 there is likely to be another fool in the family ? I 
 say nothing. Thanks to your father's will, I have 
 had this old rambling place left upon my hands for 
 my life, which was a sad drawback ; — better he had 
 left it to your brother." 
 
 " You might have given it up to Alfred, if you had 
 chosen, long ago," said Mrs. Cavendish, who knew 
 well that, despite her grumbling, her mother loved 
 tSydney Hall as the apple of her eye. 
 
 " What, and give the world cause to say that I 
 doubted my husband's judgment! — No, — no; I 
 am content to suffer in silence. But do you not per- 
 ceive that your Kate is making a fool of herself, just 
 as you did, my dear, — falling in love with a sol- 
 dier, marrying misery, and working disappointment ? " 
 More, a great deal more, did the old lady say; but 
 fortunately nobodv heard her; for when her daush- 
 
THE TWO KATES. 41 
 
 ter perceived that her eyes were safely fixed on the 
 tent-stitch screen, she made her escape, and, as fate 
 would have it, encountered Sir Edmund at the door. 
 In a few minutes he had told her of his love for her 
 beloved Kate; but, though Mrs. Cavendish had freely 
 given her own hand to a soldier, the remembrance of 
 what she had suffered, — of her widowed years, the 
 uncertainty of her present state, anxiety for her 
 child's happiness, a desire, a fear of her future well- 
 being, — all rushed upon her with such confusion, 
 that she became too agitated to reply to his entrea- 
 ties; and he rushed from the chamber, to give her 
 time to compose herself, and to bring another, whose 
 entreaties would be added to his own. He returned 
 with Kate, pale, but almost as dignified as ever. 
 Mrs. Cavendish clasped her to her bosom. 
 
 *'You would not leave me, child, — would not 
 thrust your mother from your heart, and place a 
 stranger there?" 
 
 "No, — no," she replied; "Kate's heart is large 
 enough for both." 
 
 " And do you love him ? " 
 
 The maiden hid her face upon her mother's bo- 
 som ; yet, though she blushed, she did not equiv- 
 ocate, but replied, in a low, firm voice, " Mother, 
 I do." 
 
 " Sir Edmund," said the mother, still holding her 
 child to her heart, " I have suffered too much to 
 give her to a soldier." 
 
 " Mother," whispered Catherine, " yet, for all 
 that you have suffered, for all that you may endure, 
 you would not have aught but that soldier husband, 
 were you to 2Dcd again ! " 
 
 No other word passed the lips of the young wid- 
 ow; again, again, and again, did she press her 
 child to her bosom ; then, placing her fair hand with- 
 
42 THE TWO KATES. 
 
 in Sir Edmund's palm, rushed, in an agony of tears, to 
 the solitude of her own chamber. 
 
 *' Hark ! how the bells are ringing!" said Anne 
 I^eafy to Jenny Fleming, as they were placing white 
 roses in their stomachers, and snooding their hair 
 with fine satin ribbon. " And saw you ever a brio-hter 
 morning? — Kate Cavendish will have a blithesome 
 bridal : though I hear that Madam Seymour is very 
 angry, and says no luck will attend this, no more 
 than the last wedding!" The words had hardly 
 passed the young maid's lips, when a bronze counte- 
 nance pressed itself amid the roses of the little sum- 
 mer-house in which they sat arranging their little 
 finery, and a rough and travel-soiled man inquired, 
 *' Of whom speak ye ? " 
 
 " Save us! " exclaimed Jenny Fleming, who was a 
 trifle pert. "Save us, master! — why, at the wed- 
 ding at the Hall, to be sure, — Kate Cavendish's wed- 
 ding, to be sure; she was moped long enough, for 
 certain, and now is going to marry a brave gentle- 
 man. Sir Edmund Russell ! " The stranger turned 
 from the village girls, who, fearful of being late at 
 the church, set away across the garden of the little 
 inn, leaving the wayfarer in quiet possession, but 
 with no one in the dwelling to attend the guests, ex- 
 cept a deaf waiter, who could not hear the "strange 
 gentleman's " questions, and a dumb ostler, who was 
 incapable of replying to them. 
 
 The youthful bride and the young bridecrroom 
 stood together at the altar; and a beautiful sight it 
 was to see them on the threshold of a new existence. 
 Mrs. Cavendish might be pardoned for that she wept 
 abundantly, — partly tears of mf^raory, partly of hope, 
 — and the ceremony proceeded to the words, "If 
 
THE TWO KATES. 43 
 
 either of you know any impediment," — when there 
 was a rush, a whirl, a commotion outside the porch, 
 and the stranger of the inn rushed forward, exclaim- 
 ing, "I know an impediment, — she is mine! " 
 
 A blessing upon hoping, trusting, enduring wo- 
 man ! A thousand blessings upon those who draw 
 consolation from the deepness of despair ! — Wife was 
 right — her husband was not dead — and as Colonel 
 Cavendish pressed his own Kate to his bosom, and 
 gazed upon her face, he said, " I am bewildered ! 
 
 — they told me false, — they said Kate Cavendish 
 was to be married ! and — " 
 
 '• And so she is," interrupted Sir Edmund Russell; 
 " but from your hand only will I receive her : are there 
 not TWO Kates, my old friend ? " 
 
 What the noble soldier's feelings were. Heaven 
 knows; — no human voice could express them, no 
 pen write them; — they burst from, and yet were 
 treasured in his heart. 
 
 " My child ! — that my daughter ! — two Kates ! 
 
 — wife and child!" he murmured. Time had gal- 
 lopped with him ; and it was long ere he believed that 
 his daughter could be old enough to marry. The 
 villa2:ers from without crowded into the sweet village 
 church, and, moved by the noise, Mrs. Seymour put 
 on her new green spectacles, and stepped forward to 
 where Colonel Cavendish stood trembling between 
 his wife and child ; then, looking him earnestly in the 
 face, she said, "After all, it is really you! — Bless 
 me ! how ill you look ! — I never could bear to make 
 people uncomfortable ; but if you do not take great 
 care, you will not live a month ! " 
 
 " I said he was not dead," repeated his gentle 
 wife; *' and I said — " But what does it matter what 
 was said? — Kate the second was married; and that 
 
44 COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. 
 
 evening, after Colonel Cavendish had related his hair- 
 breadth 'scapes, and a sad story of imprisonment, 
 again did his wife repeat, "/ said he was not 
 dead!" 
 
 COUNT RODOLPH'S HEIR. 
 
 The rich glow of an autumn sun reddened the 
 evening sky when Count Rodolph von Lindensberg 
 flung himself on a couch to rest, after a long day's 
 journey. He had apparently been unsuccessful, for 
 no grisly boar's head with its grinning tusks had been 
 borne homewards by his triumphant followers ; yet 
 there was a gleam of proud satisfaction in his eye, 
 and a curl on his lip, such as they wear who bring the 
 news of a victory ; and when Leona, his beautiful 
 Italian mistress, offered him a cup of Rhenish wine, 
 he waved it from him, as though his thirst had been 
 already quenched at the purer fountain of the torrents 
 on his native hills. 
 
 Leona softly replaced the massy goblet on a table 
 which stood near ; she unbuckled from his breast the 
 leathern and velvet belt, to which was suspended his 
 ivory hunting-horn, and on which was traced, in 
 cunning embroidery, the motto, " Thy voice is ever 
 welcome!" She shook the velvet cushion, filled 
 with light eider-down, whereon that beloved head 
 was to repose, and sate down to watch his slumbers, 
 and guard them against interruption. For a while 
 she sang, in a low, modulated voice, the wild airs of 
 the country to which her lover belonged ; then the 
 mellower music of Italy stole, as if involuntarily, to 
 
COUNT RODOLPIl's HEIR. 45 
 
 lips which had learned, for Rodolph's sake, to speak 
 a harsher language ; and in a little space even that 
 ceased : a tear, shed perhaps for many a dear mem- 
 ory in her own forsaken land, trembled on her long, 
 black eyelashes, till, hastily shaking the gathered drops 
 away, she turned to gaze upon the sleeper. Long 
 she watched and gazed with intense and eager love, 
 her dark eyes dwelling on every feature, as though 
 earth held no parallel to their beauty. Sometimes 
 she looked on the broad, determined brow, and 
 thought of the majesty and inspiration which sate on 
 it as a throne — sometimes the bold and exquisitely 
 chiselled profile fixed her attention, and recalled those 
 early days of affection, when she saw in him the 
 realization of all the dreams Grecian sculptor or 
 painter ever wrought; then the calm, statue-like 
 curve of the lip caught her eye, and she drew the 
 lines, as it were, in her heart a hundred and a hun- 
 dred times; or her glance would wander, with some 
 stray beam of the evening sun, to those short and 
 shining curls of brown, which seemed nearly auburn 
 in its golden light. And still, as she leaned and 
 gazed, listening all the while to his deep and meas- 
 ured breathing, as though it had been music, she 
 brought to mind some trait of character, some act 
 of frank generosity or daring bravery, some kind 
 deed or gentle word — of the thousand she had treas- 
 ured up — and dwelt separately on each; smiling to 
 herself as she mused, and feeling as though such 
 thoughts increased a love already approaching to 
 idolatry. 
 
 And yet was he she loved only as other men ! Nay, 
 not so frank, or brave, or quick, or valiant as some, 
 but one of a hasty temper and proud mind ; a vio- 
 lent spirit, and a faint, inconstant heart; wayward. 
 
46 COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. 
 
 Vain, and weak, save in the common-place courage, 
 that strikes when it is struck, revenges when it is in^ 
 suited, and shields the feeble from injury. 
 
 But who shall blame thee, Leona, or who shall call 
 thy choice unwise ? Do we not all daily wonder at others 
 for the insufficiency or unworthiness of the object to 
 whom they devote their hearts? Does not each secret- 
 ly undervalue and marvel at the choice of his or her 
 neighbor ? And wherefore ? Because the ideal is so 
 mingled with our love, that we do, as it were, glorify 
 the objects of our affection — we bestow our dream- 
 ing love of what might he on that which is — we 
 love a mortal nature with all the strength of our 
 immortal souls — we desire to imbody our dream of 
 affection, and clothe it in clay, that it may be a 
 *'help meet for us" — and we strive in vain! 
 
 But the spell was ^strong on Leona's heart as she 
 gazed on her lover's face by the light of the autumn 
 sky. The red sun sank lower and lower, the hills 
 grew purple and dark, the clear moon rose faintly in 
 the twilight, as if impatient to begin her reign — 
 but Leona still sate quiet and motionless ; nor let us 
 think the time long, or deem that tedious in the 
 telling, which was to her the last, brief, closing hour 
 of a seven years' happiness. 
 
 Count Rodolph moved and murmured in his sleep. 
 Gently, almost imperceptibly she bent, as though 
 afraid to wake him, and yet loath to lose even those 
 few murmured syllables. The smile forsook her lip, 
 the color fied from her cheek as she listened, and a 
 fierce jealousy flashed from her dark, dilated eyes. 
 Again the sleeper uttered those fatal words, and 
 Leona, starting up, exclaimed, " Awake, Rodolph ! " 
 "Awake, traitor!'^ she would have added, but the 
 word died on her lips. " Of what wert thou dream- 
 
COUNT RODOLPh's IIEIU. 47 
 
 ing?'' asked she, in a choked tone, as her lover's 
 angry glance turned full on her, questioning what had 
 disturbed his slumber, 
 
 A cliange passed over Count Rodolph's face ; but 
 he took her hand, and answered, with a forced sniile^ 
 " Must we remember dreams, when the reality is 
 again present to us?" 
 
 Leona drew not away her hand, but it lay in his 
 warm grasp, chill and cold as ice; and her voice 
 sounded hoarse to his ear as she replied, " The real- 
 ity of thy dream is not present to thee ; for in that 
 dream thou didst call upon Adelaide von Ringhen." 
 
 " Thou mockest, Leona ! " 
 
 " Thou mockest ! " exclaimed the Italian, while 
 her whole frame shook with convulsive passion, 
 *' Twice thou didst call on her — twice thy slumber- 
 ing lips murmured Adelaide von Ringhen, my beloved 
 bride! " 
 
 " We are not accountable for our dreaming 
 thoughts," muttered Rodolph, in a tone of vexation. 
 
 " Then wherefore shrink from avowing them ? 
 But it is not so; that which we think of waking, is 
 present to us in sleep ; we act and suffer in impossi- 
 ble scenes, perhaps, and in impossible situations — 
 but there is no other change. It were long, Ro- 
 dolph, before / should murmur in my dreams any 
 name but thine ; and there hath been a time when, 
 if I bent to catch thy slumbering thoughts, the word 
 Leona fell gently on my ear, in the same tone of 
 fondness with which thou hast just pronounced the 
 name of another." 
 
 Count Rodolph answered not, but seemed to muse, 
 unconscious of her presence ; and when, at length, 
 checking a painful sigh, he turned to speak to her, 
 there was an ominous expression in his countenance, 
 which jstartled the young Italian, The anger and 
 
48 
 
 COUNT RODOLPH'S HEIR. 
 
 jealousy which had possessed her but a moment be- 
 fore, vanished ; a fearful terror fell upon her; a be- 
 wildering faintness numbed every limb; and, falling at 
 his feet, she stretched out her arms wildly and be- 
 seechingly towards him, and exclaimed, '* O Ro- 
 dolph ! these seven years my head hath lain on thy 
 bosom — these seven years ! Home, mother, country, 
 
 — I left all to follow thee. Forsake me not! for- 
 sake me not ! " 
 
 "Be patient, beloved Leona; I Vv'ill never forsake 
 thee; but thou hast demanded an explanation of the 
 words I uttered unwittingly in my sleep ; and per- 
 haps destiny so ordered it, that thou shouldst partly 
 guess from those idle sentences what is to be thy fate 
 
 — and mine. Seat thyself near me, and listen." 
 Leona obeyed : she neither wept nor changed 
 
 countenance, while he told of his proud uncle's de- 
 sire to see him wedded to the wealthy and noble 
 heiress of Ringhen, and of the consequent arrange- 
 ments made between the two families. She listened 
 calmly, while he confessed how often the boar hunt 
 had been made a pretext for his absence, while, in 
 fact, he was endeavoring to win the heart of the cold 
 and gentle Adelaide; and how, as the certainty of 
 his success became apparent, he imagined various 
 methods of breaking the intelligence to his faithful 
 companion. Once only, as he alluded to his uncle's 
 wish to see an heir to his proud domains, Leona 
 bovv^ed her head still lower, and spoke. 
 
 " If my child had lived, then," said she, moodily, 
 "thou wouldst not have cast me off!" 
 
 " Thy child! alas, Leona!" said her lover, while 
 a smile of regret and bitterness curled his lip; "dost 
 thou vainly imagine thy child could have been heir 
 to Lindensberg? No! I would indeed have done a 
 father's part by him, and he should have stood proud- 
 
COUNT RODOLPIl's HEIR. 49 
 
 ly among the best ; but nobler blood must flow in the 
 veins of Count Rodolph's heir." 
 
 A- wild, searching expression shot into the eyes 
 of the unhappy Italian, as they turned for a moment 
 upon Rodolph; but he saw it not; his heart was 
 brooding over the future triumph of presenting his 
 young son to the vassals of Lindensberg. 
 
 With equal patience Leona heard all the arrange- 
 ments for her future comfort; how she was to be 
 provided for, and in what way she should return to 
 her native land ; but it was the calm of despair. As 
 they parted, after this long explanation. Count Ro- 
 dolph bent and kissed her cheek ; it was pale and 
 cold as death. 
 
 '• We part not in anger," murmured he. " I shall 
 never love another as I have loved thee. Dost thou 
 believe me, Leona? " 
 
 The young Italian answered not; a shudder ran 
 through her frame, and a mist was before her eyes. 
 When she again raised them, Count Rodolph had 
 Jeft the apartment. 
 
 Leona moved towards the high and narrow arched 
 window; the moon was risen, and the broad lands of 
 Lindensberg lay stretching far as eye could discern 
 in the white, misty light. She thought of the days of 
 her girlhood — of all her passionate love — her pa- 
 tient tenderness — the tenderness that never dreamed 
 of change. She thought of the vows Rodolph had 
 then uttered, and to which she had listened with the 
 confident credulity of affection: she retraced the 
 scenes where they had wandered together, and the 
 words they had spoken. Her lost mother's reproach- 
 ful countenance rose distinctly as on the day when 
 her daughter's shame was made known to her ; and, 
 musing on the utter desolateness of her position, 
 should she return to the land where she once had 
 4 
 
50 
 
 COrNT RODOLrH'S HEIR. 
 
 many friends, Leona wept. Long, long she wept, 
 and wildly and often she clasped her feverish hands, 
 and stretched them to Heaven ; but at length the 
 fountain of her tears seemed dried. She rose from 
 the ground, where she had knelt in despair; she 
 smoothed back her tangled, raven hair, and, lifting 
 the veil which had fallen from her shoulders, she 
 turned once more to the window. Dark and terrible 
 was the expression of her pale face as she did so, and 
 the white, quiet moonlight fell on a brow convulsed 
 with agony. " Thou art mine enemy; thou who art 
 to inherit hill, and dale, and river," muttered Leona, 
 wildly, as she gazed on the tracts of forest and plaint 
 which lay below — "-thou art mine enemy, heir to 
 Lindensberg." 
 
 The morrow of that dark day came. Its morning 
 was fair and bright ; and, as Rodolph sprang from his 
 couch, his heart felt lighter than for many weeks, for 
 he had nothing now to dread or to conceal; and Le- 
 ona had heard him far, far more calmly than he had 
 expected. "I was wrong," said he, as he hastily 
 s^lung on the hunting-belt embroidered by her hand — 
 *' I was VsTong in my estimate of a woman's strength 
 of feeling. Perhaps she, too, began to feel the ties 
 irksome which bound us together, and will return to 
 her native land with pleasure. Now to the chase ! " 
 and, as he lifted the hunting bugle to his lips, he 
 carelessly uttered the words, to which the young 
 Italian had assigned a double meaning, " Thy voice 
 is ever welcome! " 
 
 The chase was long and the day sultry ; and when, 
 on his return. Count Rodolph came round by the 
 torrent's fall, from whence he could command a view 
 of his own castle, he checked his horse, and wound 
 his bugle three times. As its sweet, mellow tones 
 Hoated past, and died upon the hill, he said, smiling 
 
COUNT RODOLPIl's HEIR. 51 
 
 slightly to himself, "Now shall I judge of the mood 
 iin which I shall find Leoiia; if she be gentle, she 
 will sound the silver-tipped horn, wherewith I taught 
 her long since playfully to reply to this notice of 
 my approach, and give me welcome ; if she be sad 
 and sullen, I shall miss the accustomed answer." 
 
 There was a pause, a longer pause than for seven 
 long years had ever been, between the blast of Ro- 
 dolph's hunting-horn and his welcome home. The 
 fitful autumn wind swept in a sudden gust among the 
 trees which grew on the banks of the torrent, and 
 scattered a shower of yellow, withered leaves past 
 his plumed cap, as he sat, bending forward on his 
 weary, but impatient steed, listening for the signal. 
 In spite of his carelessness and inconstancy, a sud- 
 den and stinging melancholy smote on Rodolph's 
 heart; the mocking smile left his lip; twice he lifted 
 his bugle, and twice his pride struggled against the 
 desire to hear an assurance that she he was for- 
 saking loved him in spite of all. At last, that desire 
 conquered ; he might not have been heard ; the wind 
 was high, although the noon had been oppressively 
 hot. He blew a loud, strong blast, and listened in- 
 tently, lifting his velvet bonnet from his head. Again 
 there was a pause; and, with a feeling of deep irri- 
 tation, Rodolph struck the spurs in his horse's side. 
 Rearing at the unexpected correction, the gallant 
 animal sprang forward, trampling the withered boughs 
 and loose stones by the torrent's side; when, just at 
 that moment, faint and mournful, but distinctly clear, 
 the answering signal reached Count Rodolph. Three 
 times it answered his thrice-repeated summons ; and 
 there was tenderness as well as triumph in his tone, 
 as he m.urmured, " Bless thee, Leona ! " But the ear 
 of the experienced huntsman told him that it was not 
 from his home that the answering note was sent, but 
 
^2 r.oTJNT rocolph's heir. 
 
 from a hill to the left, where a ruined castle stood 
 mouldering to decay, untenanted and forsaken, and 
 avoided by the peasantry as the scene of a foul mur- 
 der done by a son upon his aged father. ** She hath 
 been wandering from home, musing over the change 
 in her condition ; perhaps weeping for my sake," he 
 thought; and his heart softened towards the fond 
 companion of his youthful years. 
 
 That evening was a long and lonely one to Count 
 Rodolph. With his own hot and weary hands he 
 unbuckled the clasps of his hunting-vest, and awk- 
 wardly arranged the mantle and pillow, whereon he 
 was accustomed to rest, lulled by the sweet melody 
 of Leona's songs; his thirsty lips drank from a gob- 
 let brought by a serving-man; he could not close his 
 tired eyes, but evermore gazed sorrowfully at the 
 embrasure and fretted oak-work of the Gothic win- 
 dow at which they had stood the preceding evening. 
 They! He had thought without a sigh of sending 
 Leona from him forever, of uniting his destinies with 
 another; and nov/ he could not bear to spend one 
 evening awaiting her return ; he could not bear the 
 fond and foolish reflection that 7/s. and we, and ours, 
 would no longer refer to himself and the young 
 Italian, but to some newer partner, to whom half 
 the joys and sorrows of his life were unknown. He 
 thought he had ceased to love Leona; perhaps he 
 had ; but the habit of seven years is strong; he could 
 not imagine to himself a future in which she was to 
 be nothing, who had been all the world to him. He 
 shrank from the novelty and strangeness of a life 
 which must, as it v>'ere, begin anew; throughout 
 the course of which one haunting sorrow must ever 
 pursue him, which he dared not confide, and in which, 
 unlike the joys and sorrows of the past, he could 
 expect no sympathy. 
 
COUNT RODOLPIl's HEIIl. 5ti 
 
 He closed his eyes, and courted rest in vain. H« 
 missed the gentle hand that was wont to lie clasped 
 in iiis, till his slumbering arm sank nerveless and 
 Unconscious by his side. He missed the ringing, 
 Warbling notes of her young voice; he missed the 
 deep, watchful tenderness of her gaze, as he remem- 
 bered it through countless evenings, when his eyelids, 
 heavy with slumber, unclosed for a moment to turn 
 on her a last look of love. 
 
 " How shall I live without thee, Leona?" sighed 
 he ; *' and vvhy dost thou linger out so late, when the 
 evenings are numbered that we may spend together?'' 
 And again he gazed towards the window, while dreams 
 of relinquishing the noble alliance proposed to him, 
 urid thoughts, less honorable, of concealing Leona 
 in some secure retreat, where he might yet see and 
 visit her, passed through his mind. But still Leona 
 returned not. 
 
 And when the next day, and the next, passed on, 
 and all search for the young Italian proved vain, 
 Count Rodolph felt to the core of his remorseless 
 heart that he had underrated the sorrow of the de- 
 serted girl, and that she had departed to hide he-r 
 shame and despair, where none — not even he — ■ 
 might find her, 
 
 At length the lonely castle of Lindensberg was 
 again the scene of festivity and rejoicings. The 
 sound of wassail and merriment was heard in the 
 great hall, choral songs were chanted, flowers were 
 strown, and the fair Adelaide Von Ringhen became 
 Count Rodolph's bride. A.s the bridal procession 
 passed through the long gallery which led from the 
 chapel, a wreath of flowers, flung from above, fell at 
 the Lady Adelaide's feet. Several of the group im- 
 mediately near the young bride looked up to discover 
 by whose hand the offering was made; but Rodolph'8 
 
64 COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. 
 
 keen eye alone discerned the shrinking form of Le« 
 ona retreat behind one of those gigantic stone statues, 
 which, at regular distances, adorned the gallery. The 
 discovery sent a chill to his heart; and it was the 
 space of a minute before he recollected himself suf- 
 ficiently to pick up the wreath, which he did, and 
 with a forced smile tendered it to the bride. An 
 exclamation burst from her lips; and, as her maidens 
 crowded round, the wreath fell from her hands, while 
 faint, and pale, and trembling, she looked up in her 
 husband's face. He snatched the garland, and ex- 
 amined it more closely : a label, in a well-known 
 hand-writing, dedicated it to " The Mother of Count 
 jRodolph's Heir" and he perceived that it was com- 
 posed of nightshade, yew, and other mournful, sepul- 
 chral, or supposed poisonous plants. He commanded 
 it to be removed, and, flinging it from him, passed on 
 as rapidly as the faint and tottering steps of Adelaide 
 would permit; but none of the attendants, unedu- 
 cated and superstitious as they were, dared to pick 
 up '* The Garland of Death," and many a fearful 
 look was cast back, by the last loiterers of the pro- 
 cession, to the spot on the stone pavement where 
 it lay. 
 
 Uneasy and wretched, yet gratified, in spite of 
 what had occurred, at this proof that Leona had not 
 abandoned Lindensberg, Rodolph burned for the 
 moment when he might escape from the noble com- 
 pany by whom he was surrounded, and speak a few 
 words of explanation with the Italian. Three mortal 
 hours passed away, and the bridal feast had passed 
 untasted either by Adelaide or Rodolph, when the 
 former, complaining of weariness, desired to be con- 
 ducted to her chamber. Rodolph supported her from 
 the hall, watched her slight form, as, leaning on her 
 favorite maid, she ascended the oaken staircase — » 
 
COUNT RODOLPh's HEIR. 55 
 
 waited till the last of the white-robed attendants 
 passed under the dark arch which led to the apart- 
 ments of the lady of Lindensberg, and then, with 
 a checked sigh, turned hastily to the chapel gallery. 
 In vain he sought ; in vain he even ventured to 
 breathe Leona's name aloud. No sign of life was 
 in that long and dimly-lighted apartment; and he 
 remained standing alone, disheartened and stupefied,, 
 gazing on the statues behind which he had perceived 
 Leona in the morning. 
 
 He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and", 
 looking eagerly forwards, perceived two of the Lad)^ 
 Adelaide's attendants, who, trembling and uncertain, 
 advanced hesitatingly into the apartment. 
 
 "What seek ye here?" asked Count Rodolph, 
 sternly, provoked alike at the interruption, and the 
 disappointment it occasioned him. 
 
 '' We come for the Garland of Death, my lord ; 
 the Lady Adelaide desires that it be brought instantly 
 to her chamber." 
 
 "Fools!" exclaimed their irritated master, "see' 
 ye not the garland hath been borne away by some 
 one of you this morning? Go! return to the Lady 
 Adelaide, and say Count Rodolph will attend her, 
 and chase these foolish fears; bid the minstrels m 
 the outer hall strike up the ' Welcome to Lindens- 
 berg/ and desire Caspar — " 
 
 What more Count Rodolph intended was lost; for 
 at that moment three faint blasts were heard, and 
 well the master of Lindensberg knew the sound. A 
 cold dew stood on his forehead, his muscular frame 
 shook with an emotion he could not control, and his 
 cheek blanched like that of a woman. 
 
 " Begone ! " shouted he furiously, as he perceived 
 the attendants observing these signs of agitation; 
 "^begone! and tell your mistress I come." 
 
56 
 
 COUNT RODOLPH'S HEIR, 
 
 His young bride received him in tears. 
 
 " Alas ! " said she, " some evil will fall on thy house 
 because of me. The Garland of Death hath disap- 
 peared, no one can tell how ; for none of my attend- 
 ants ventured this morning to take it up; and — " 
 
 " Bush, my beloved," said Count Rodolph, caress- 
 ing her; '* if that be all, /can certify to thee that the 
 garland was given and reclaimed by a living hand." 
 
 But, at this moment, a chill doubt stole over the 
 mind of the stout knight himself, remembering the 
 ominous sound of the bugle-horn just at the moment 
 when he desired to hear " Welcome to Lindensberg." 
 Was that indeed the result of accident? or did the 
 spirit of the lost Leona haunt her once happy home? 
 Adelaide gazed on her husband in fear and dread: 
 he saw her not — thought not of her — 
 
 " His eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away; " 
 
 and from that hour, the Garland of Death was a for- 
 bidden subject in the castle. 
 
 Time passed heavily with Rodolph. Involuntarily 
 he tormented himself with conjectures as to what 
 had been the fate of Leona ; involuntarily he con- 
 trasted the cold and gentle manner, the reserved and 
 timid disposition of his wife, with those which had 
 charmed his youth. She feared him; she feared all 
 things ; she understood him not : she had not the 
 power to amuse him ; and of her affection it might 
 rather be said that she loved no other, than that she 
 was passionately attached to Jiim. Her very beauty 
 was that of the snow — fair, cold, and dazzling. 
 The glow of life that animated his lost Leona was 
 wanting. 
 
COUNT RODOLPIl's HEIR. 57 
 
 The chase now became Rodolph's principal de- 
 light ; and a shade of fierceness, such as comes to 
 those who love only savage pleasures, altered his 
 once frank and even temper. He grew, too, less 
 social ; the feast and the wine-cup brought no smile 
 to his lip ; he was an altered man. Meanwhile the 
 Lady Adelaide was soon to become a mother, and 
 her haughty relatives, as well as his own, looked 
 forward to the birth of an heir with deep anxiety. 
 As the eventful period approached. Lady Adelaide's 
 terror increased; and though, in obedience to her 
 husband's command, she spoke not her thoughts, 
 yet the Garland of Death was ever present to her 
 mind, and she marvelled whether the strange sum- 
 mons was meant for her, or the little unborn. 
 
 Rodolph's absences from home were shortened, and 
 all he could do to cheer her sinking spirits was done ; 
 but in vain. 
 
 It was exactly a year from the day when Leona 
 had disappeared, that Count Rodolph happened to 
 ride home by the same path which he had pursued 
 on that eventful evening. As he came to the torrent, 
 he checked his horse, and looked sadly round. The 
 evening was still and clear, and the glow of sunlight 
 was rich on the changing foliage of the trees. Op- 
 pressed by dispiriting thoughts, Rodolph dismounted 
 from his horse, and flung himself on the brown turf, 
 where he remained idly dreaming of the past, and 
 yet more idly planning for the future. Long years 
 passed in review before him, and he recalled the 
 sensations with which he used to listen for the sound 
 of Leona's ivory hunting-horn. He took off his belt 
 and gazed upon it; he perused and reperused the 
 embroidered words, *' Thy voice is ever welcome ! " 
 and a stifled sigh escaped him. " How she wor- 
 
58 COUNT RODOLPH's HEIH. 
 
 shipped me ! " was his thought, as he lifted the bugle 
 listlessly, and applied it to his lips. Three slow, 
 mournful blasts he blew, and, flinging himself with 
 his face to the earth, he wept. 
 
 Why starts Count Rodolph from his resting-place? 
 Why does his eye glare wildly with a mixture of 
 living hope and superstitious fear? He hears the 
 answering signal float across the hill, mournfully 
 replying to his own. Without a moment's pause, 
 he threw himself on his horse, and gallopped towards 
 the ruin of the hill. He saw her — he saw his own 
 Leona ! She was seated on the edge of the inner 
 wall of the dried up moat, habited in a black velvet 
 hunting-dress, such as she was wont to wear whea 
 she accompanied him to the chase; her eyes were 
 turned towards the distant castle of Lindensberg; 
 they were dim and sunken, and her hair was tangled, 
 and had lost its glossy blackness, apparently by ex- 
 posure to the elements. One hand supported her 
 head, and the other rested on the ivory bugle which 
 lay by her side. Leona was no longer beautiful ; 
 and yet Rodolph felt as though he loved her more 
 than ever. She did not seem to perceive him as he 
 crept towards her; and when, at length, kneeling be- 
 side her, he took her hand, and faltered out her 
 name, she gazed around, as if bewildered, and un- 
 certain from whence the sound proceeded. Again 
 he spoke, pressing that cold hand within his own, 
 and sobbing in the agony of his emotion. She 
 turned — she gazed on him; and that glance was 
 present to him till his dying day, for he perceived 
 that she knew him not. Yet was her gaze kind and 
 sorrowful ; and, parting his dark hair on his forehead, 
 she murmured, 
 
 '' Thou weepest ! Hast thou been forsaken? " 
 
COUNT RODOLPIl's HEIR. 59 
 
 *'Leona! O beloved Leona! I am Rodolph, thy 
 unhappy and penitent Rodolph ! Where hast thou 
 been, that I have never beheld thee?" 
 
 ''I've been to Italy," answered she, in a calm, 
 collected voice — '* I've been to Italy, to see my poor 
 mother's grave." 
 
 The heart of the inconstant lover beat within him, 
 as the even tones fell on his ear. "She recovers; 
 she will know me now," thought he. 
 
 *' And why lingerest thou in this mournful spot?" 
 
 " Knowest thou not ? " she answered, turning quick- 
 ly towards him with a wild smile. "I wait" — and 
 she put her lips close to his ear — *• I wait for Count 
 Rodolph's heir." 
 
 He shrank away, and rose from her side. Then, 
 gazing at her with bitter sadness, he said, " Collect 
 thy thoughts, Leona, and strive to comprehend me. 
 I am Rodolph: I grieve for thee; rise, and let me 
 conduct thee to the house of one of my vassals, 
 where thou shalt be attended and cared for as though 
 thou wert indeed the lady of Lindensberg. And I 
 will come and see thee, Leona," continued he, pas- 
 sionately ; " I will cheer thee, and love thee still. 
 God knows, I love none better ! " 
 
 There was a pained and perplexed expression on 
 Leona's brow while he spoke, as though she struggled 
 to understand. For a few moments she mused, and 
 then she answered, in a tone of quiet courtesy, 
 
 " It is impossible for me, noble stranger, to accom- 
 pany thee even so far on thy way, or to do thee this 
 service, because I expect Count Rodolph, who re- 
 turns, even now, from the chase : so farewell, and 
 God speed thee." And she rose and bowed gracefully 
 to her stupefied companion. 
 
 *'0! if I could but leave thee in safety!" ex- 
 claimed he aloud, as he passionately gazed on her 
 
60 
 
 COUNT KODOLPH'S HEIF, 
 
 impassive face. And then the method so often re- 
 sorted to, of humoring partial madness, occurred to 
 him, and he said, " The way is long, and the path is 
 steep, which Count Rodolph hath to tread ; he cannot 
 be home so soon. Come with me but a little way." 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Leona, shaking her head and 
 smiling, " he is nearer than thou thinkest; he is with- 
 in sight of Lindensberg ; I have heard the signal, and 
 answered it," And she held on high the ivory bugle. 
 *' I will watch from the western gallery." So saying, 
 she turned and ran swiftly towards the ruin, and 
 commenced ascending the broken staircase, which 
 led to what had been the principal apartment of the 
 castle ; but between the ruins of the staircase (which 
 were of a great height) and the solid building, where- 
 in a dark arch showed the entrance of the ruined 
 hall, there was a space which no mortal could trav- 
 erse ; and as Leona still ascended, and at length neared 
 the summit of the broken steps, Rodolph shaded his 
 eyes, that he might not see her dashed into the dis- 
 tant court below. He tried to call, but his voice was 
 hoarse and v/hispering with fear. He waited, but the 
 suspense was too terrible ; he uncovered his eyes, and 
 looked up; and there, gliding slowly, but securely, 
 across the abyss, he beheld Leona! She disappeared 
 beneath the arch ; and, rushing up the ruined stair, 
 crumbling the loose stones downwards as he went, he 
 followed. " There must be some frail support, some 
 connection betv/een the steps and the building, which 
 my eye cannot perceive from below," thought he, as 
 lie struggled on ; but when he stood on the last of 
 that broken flight of steps as on a pinnacle, there was 
 nothing to afford a chance of reaching the arch, and 
 his head grew dizzy as he looked below. Again 
 6uperstitious thoughts crossed his mind, and one of 
 the songs Leona used to sing to him after his hunting 
 
COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. 61 
 
 excursions, seemed to ring in his ear. lie turned, 
 and slowly descended, while the gathering shades 
 of evening warned him to lose no time in reaching 
 Lindensberg. As he at length approached the castle, 
 he perceived a confused group waiting to receive him. 
 Caspar, his favorite follower, advanced. 
 
 ** My lord count," said he, " I am the bearer of 
 evil news. Thy lady liveth, but she hath been sorely 
 terrified ; there hath been born an heir to Lindens- 
 berg, but already he is no more! " 
 
 *' What terrified the Lady Adelaide ? " asked Ro- 
 dolph, with forced calmness. 
 
 *' My lord, you may remember, on the wedding- 
 day, when the attendants of the Lady Adelaide were 
 sent to the gallery of the chapel to search for the 
 Garland of Death, — they found it not, nor hath it 
 ever been explained how it was conveyed away, since 
 none in the castle laid hands on it. But, on that day, 
 my lord, and at the time of their search, three faint 
 blasts of a hunting-bugle were blown, and — " 
 
 "Enough," sternly shouted Rodolph; "what hath 
 this to do with to-day's misfortune?" 
 
 " My lord, the Lady Adelaide was in grievous 
 pain, and fearing to die before your return, when we 
 heard the welcome sound of your returning signal. 
 But scarcely had a smile passed over her lips at a few 
 congratulating and comforting words spoken by her 
 women, when we heard three blasts, as on that day 
 in the chapel gallery ; the women shrieked, and the 
 Lady Adelaide spoke not. Only when the evening 
 closed in, and still you appeared not, she bowed her 
 head and murmured, 'It is for him, then; for my 
 good and noble Rodolph, that the signal of death is 
 sent ! O ! rather for my little one, dear as he is ! — 
 rather, far rather, for me!' And as she spoke, the 
 infant gave a wailing cry, and died 1 " 
 
b^ COUNT RODOLPH's HEIK 
 
 '' Fool ! loitering fool, not to come home, instead 
 of seeking the ruined tower," thought Rodolph, as 
 he slowly sought the chamber of his wife. And 
 though in his own secret soul a lingering superstition 
 might be found, he resolved to cheer the Lady- 
 Adelaide by telling her the truth, and soliciting her 
 forgiveness. 
 
 " This girl, whom I once loved," said he, after he 
 had explained his early history to the shrinking Ad- 
 elaide, " was in the habit of answering my hunting 
 signal. It was she who, in her jealousy and anger, 
 flung down the garland thou hast deemed of such 
 evil omen; and doubtless, after we had left the 
 chapel, she reclaimed the gift and departed, sound- 
 inop the bugle from the distant hill, in order to excite 
 regret and pity in my mind. She is a wayward thing 
 — nay, I fear, crazed by her misery; and I have 
 thought it better to tell thee this, because that bugle- 
 horn may sound again ; and I would not that thou 
 shouldst be a slave to such terrors." 
 
 Adelaide pressed her husband's hand, and sighed 
 deeply. Rodolph spoke again — 
 
 '' Sigh not for thy little one, but look forward with 
 hope to the future ; nor deem the death of so weak 
 a blossom the result of supernatural agency," 
 
 ''I sigh not for my child," said Adelaide; and 
 she drew her faint hand away, and moaned as though 
 with pain. 
 
 Perhaps, of all who inhabited the castle. Count 
 Rodolph himself was the most wretched after this 
 explanation. He recalled Leona's words, that ^' she 
 VJdiS waiting for the heir;" he shuddered as he re^ 
 membered hor gliding form between the ruined stair 
 and the hall ; and it struck him as strange and omi-* 
 
COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. 63 
 
 sious, that she never answered his signal except when 
 he sounded the horn from that one spot by the tor- 
 rent's side. At other times he felt that she was in- 
 deed his unhappy Leona; and a feverish desire to 
 discover how far this one ray of recollection illumined 
 that benighted mind, oppressed and tortured him. 
 At length a plan suggested itself, which he resolved 
 to adopt. He obser^ied the time which his ride from 
 the torrent to the ruin generally occupied, and desired 
 Caspar to remain by the torrent for that period, and 
 then to sound the hunting-bugle three times, while 
 he himself rode to the hill, and watched the effect on 
 Leona. But the experiment was only attended with 
 fresh bitterness. For a few moments, indeed, the 
 deserted girl seemed to recover her memory and 
 reason: she started up on hearing the signal, and ex- 
 claiming, in a tone of joyful tenderness, " Rodolph ! 
 dear Rodolph ! " returned the expected answer, and 
 smiled to hear the echo float over the hill. But then 
 her countenance fell ; tears gathered in her large 
 black eyes, and she moaned and wept, repeating at 
 intervals the single sentence, "Why hast thou for- 
 saken me, beloved ? " In vain Rodolph addressed her ; 
 she answered him indeed, but it was as a stranger ; 
 and he relinquished the painful experiment, satisfying 
 himself with ordering his tenantry in the nearest vil- 
 lage to supply the crazed being with all the necessa- 
 ries and comforts of life, and never, on any pretext, 
 to approach the castle — a command which the su- 
 perstitious fears of the ignorant peasantry rendered 
 superfluous. 
 
 Again the Lady Adelaide made Rodolph a father. 
 The babe was strong and beautiful ; and, as she 
 watched its growth, the mother of the heir of Lindens- 
 berg smiled at her own past fears. The count, too, 
 became passionately fond of his infant son, and the 
 
64 
 
 COUNT RODOLPK'S HEIS. 
 
 misery of Leona's situation preyed less constantly cm 
 his spirits than heretofore. 
 
 The fatal day came, nevertheless, which was to de- 
 prive them of this object of mutual tenderness. Ther 
 German nurse returned not with her charge at th© 
 usual hour; and, after days of ag;onizing suspense and 
 search, the body of the woman was found drowned in 
 the pool beneath the torrent, into which she must have 
 fallen. No trace of the infant could be discovered, 
 except the silken mantle which it had worn ; and the 
 dark whirlpool was unsearchable and unfathomable. 
 
 It would be vain to attempt describing the effect of 
 this blow on the mother of the lost child. She sank 
 under it, gradually indeed, but securely; and all the 
 superstition of fear returned to her mind. She would 
 not at first believe that it was dead; continually in- 
 sisting upon seeing the body, and starting at every 
 unusual sound, as though she deemed it the herald of 
 intelligence respecting the fate of her beloved infant. 
 At length a low, nervous fever reduced her to a state 
 of weakness, both of body and mind, which it was 
 painful to see ; and Rodolph availed himself of this 
 opportunity, when she could not leave her chamber, 
 to pretend that the body of the young heir had been 
 found, and interred in the chapel. A marble monu- 
 ment was placed there ; and, on the recovery of the 
 unhappy Adelaide, she was led to weep over the 
 empty tomb. 
 
 But for Rodolph there was not even the melan- 
 choly satisfaction of believing his little son interred, 
 where he might from time to time visit him, and in- 
 dulge his grief. To him was ever present the struggle 
 of the helpless woman, and the whelming waters which 
 had closed alike over her and hm child : to him was 
 ever present the haunting doubt of Leona's double 
 existence. 
 
COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. OS 
 
 Threx5 years rolled away, and Rodolph had never 
 joined his companions in the chase, nor ever sound- 
 ed the bugle whose eternal answer wrung his heart, 
 Caspar brought, from time to time, the intelligence 
 that Leona came at regular intervals to the scattered 
 village nearest the Hill of the Ruined Tower, for fruit, 
 meal, chestnuts, and other necessaries — -that she ac- 
 cepted silently what was offered her, and seemed 
 greatly pleased at a present of two goats, which one 
 of the peasants gave her, and which she had since kept 
 in the grass-grown court of the old castle. If ques- 
 tioned, she became restless and suspicious in manner, 
 and sometimes answered with a fierce haughtiness ; 
 but, for the most part, she departed when spoken to, 
 and ran swiftly towards the hill, looking back, from 
 time to time, as if fearful of being pursued. 
 
 Meanwhile a new misfortune visited Count Ro- 
 dolph ; the Lady Adelaide died, a prey to regret and 
 nervous depression. He mourned for her with sin- 
 cerity ; nor was his sorrow untinged by remorse, when 
 he reflected on the strange circumstances which had 
 shortened her existence. The Lord Ulric of Lin- 
 densberg, his uncle, vehemently reproached him for 
 having suffered "that Italian witch" to remain on 
 the territory, lamented the untimely decease of the 
 rich Lady Adelaide, and tormented himself and his 
 nephew with calculations to bring about a second 
 union for Rodolph, with Gertrude von Ringhen, her 
 cousin, who would now inherit. But far other were 
 the schemes of Count Rodolph. To quit Lindens- 
 berg, and carry the distracted Leona to her native 
 land, and there, by the most soothing attentions, and 
 the advice of skilful physicians, to restore her to 
 health and to reason ; to visit old scenes with her, 
 and endeavor to renew the broken links of memory , 
 5 
 
66 
 
 COUNT PvODOLPH'S HEIR. 
 
 — these were the plans which now formed the day- 
 dreams of the widower. 
 
 For this purpose he went daily to the ruined tower, 
 and watched and called, but in vain. Leona appeared 
 not. Burning with anxiety, he at length resolved to 
 await her at one of the huts, the outskirts of the 
 hamlet, where she was wont to come for food ; but 
 the moment she perceived him approaching her, she 
 fled precipitately. He pursued and overtook her ; 
 when she paused, and turning her pale face full upon 
 him, she said mournfully, " What wouldst thou with 
 me, dark stranger ? And wherefore in Rodolph's ab- 
 sence dost thou steal upon me thus?" 
 
 " Rodolph is here, and loves thee, and is free, be- 
 loved Leona!" murmured the unhappy man, as she 
 again moved onwards. Leona made no reply ; and 
 side by side they toiled together up the steep ascent 
 which led immediately to the castle; the slant beams 
 of evening streamed through the broken arches, and 
 gave a vivid and supernatural light and shadow to the 
 mouldering building. " It is the hour he should re- 
 turn," said Leona; " but I hear not the horn." This 
 hint was not lost on Rodolph ; and at the same hour 
 on the succeeding evening, having stationed Caspar 
 on the fatal spot which he himself had never revisited, 
 he sought the retreat of Leona. She was tending 
 the two solitary goats in the inner court of the castle, 
 and having fastened them to the root of a larch tree, 
 which had crept through a fissure in the wall, she sate 
 down on a block of stone, apparently faint and fa- 
 tigued, when the blast of the hunter's horn pealed 
 over the echoing hills. Instantly she started up ; a 
 wild expression of pleasure and tenderness overspread 
 her attenuated features; and lifting the ivory bugle 
 to her lips, she exclaimed, "I hear thee Rodolph; I 
 bless thee! I welcome thee!'' 
 
COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. 67 
 
 Alas ! he that was so beloved, even in madness, 
 stood by, unblest, unwelcomed, chilled and agonized, 
 cursing his fate and hers ! 
 
 He attempted not to converse with her ; he at- 
 tempted not to detain her, as she passed him up the 
 ruined staircase; he gazed not after her. Utterly 
 broken, and bowed in spirit, he hid his face in his 
 bands, and wept. The tears of a man are painful. 
 Rodolph conquered the weakness, and leaning his 
 head back on the broken step above him, and lifting 
 his gaze to the soft evening sky, he indulged in a rev- 
 erie, as to the possibility of bringing from Rome a 
 physician who had been acquainted with Leona from 
 her childhood, and who, from his knowledge of her con- 
 stitution, might yet, perhaps, restore her to reason. 
 
 So deep was Count Rodolph's reverie, that he per- 
 ceived not its object stealing down the broken flight 
 of steps, till she had approached the one above that 
 on which his head rested. She stooped; she gazed 
 into his startled eyes; and O! the thrill of hope and 
 expectation that swelled the heart and quickened the 
 pulse of the inconstant lover, when she murmured 
 close to his ear, " Rodolph ! it is late, and thou art 
 weary ! " 
 
 " She knows me at length," thought he ; " we shall 
 yet be happy ! " Then, turning to her, and taking her 
 unresisting hand, he murmured, " I am indeed weary 
 — sing to me, Leona ! " — And she sang. Her haunt- 
 ing voice rang in his ear as it had done long years 
 ago ; and when, oppressed by the recollection, his 
 bosom heaved, and his breath came gaspingly, she 
 seemed to think he slumbered, and lowered the mod- 
 ulated tones to a gentle, murmuring harmony. Her 
 arm stole beneath his head ; he dared not open his 
 heavy eyes, lest the illusion should be broken ; but 
 he felt her breath warm on his cheek, and he knew 
 
68 
 
 COUNT RODOLPH'S HEIK. 
 
 that she bent over him, and watched him, as in by- 
 gone days. Dimly from beneath his own quivering 
 lashes, he perceived her dark, loving eyes fixed upon 
 him ; and his heart ached with excess of hope. 
 
 Suddenly she rose ; she grasped his arm with un- 
 natural strength. " Of what wert thou dreaming 7 " 
 said she, in a tone of passionate jealousy. 
 
 " I dreamed not ; I slept not. Beloved, hear me ! " 
 '* Thou didst — thy dream was of Adelaide von 
 Ringhen ! " shouted the unhappy girl. Then, kneel- 
 ing, with her head on his knees, she murmured, 
 " Forsake me not ! Rodolph, forsake me not ! " 
 With bitter agony he strove to make her compre- 
 hend him, but in vain; the ray was quenched, and 
 when he attempted to detain her, she looked wildly on 
 him, and disengaging her hands, with a shrill scream 
 she flev/ up the staircase, and in the dim, uncertain 
 light, appeared, after a moment's pause, to flit across 
 the empty space into the arch beyond. 
 
 Count Rodolph departed. He sought the southern 
 sky of Italy ; he wandered in scenes familiar to him 
 in youth ; a heavy sickness fell on him, and months 
 passed away ere he was sufficiently strong to resume 
 his journey. The physician on whose skill he had 
 depended to cure the disease under which his once- 
 loved Leona suffered, was in Spain, attending a case 
 of much difficulty, and in some respects similar, since 
 the patient was afflicted with aberration of intellect, 
 caused by a sudden shock. A messenger was de- 
 spatched to Spain, and brought for answer, that a year, 
 at least, must expire before the dottore could leave his 
 present patient. That year and part of the next were 
 passed by Count Rodolph in wandering from place 
 to place, without any aim except a restless desire of 
 change. At If'ngth he received the welcome intima- 
 tion, that he might meet the dottore at Rome, and 
 
COUNT RODOLFIl's HEIR. 69 
 
 thence proceed on their journey together. He was 
 informed of the successful termination of the case 
 which had been the cause of the delay, and once 
 more hope entered into his heart and abode there. 
 
 On his arrival at Lindensberg, the faithful Caspar 
 gave but a melancholy account of the poor crazed 
 being in whom he was so deeply interested. He de- 
 scribed her as more distracted than ever; coming 
 frequently to the hamlet, and desiring velvets of light 
 and rich colors to be sent for, which was complied 
 with ; and yet she never appeared in any other cos- 
 tume than the black hunting-dress. She had also 
 latterly become most sad and dispirited ; weeping bit- 
 terly, and believing herself to be in attendance on some 
 sick or dying person, for whom she ordered medi- 
 cines, and chose the most tempting fruit, ail which 
 was procured and executed for her in compliance with 
 the count's parting orders. Rodolph's heart sank ; 
 but the physician bade him to be of good cheer, 
 for that this new delirium showed the disorder to be 
 coming to a crisis. It was agreed between them, that 
 the dottore should meet the poor maniac in the ham- 
 let, and endeavor to make her comprehend who he 
 was, and his desire to be of service to the sick person 
 she attended; and that Rodolph should await them 
 at the ruined tower. Contrary to all expectation, 
 Leona no sooner saw the physician, than she recog- 
 nized him ; and falling at his feet, she kissed his 
 hands repeatedly, weeping, and inquiring into the 
 circumstances of her mother's death, and alluding to 
 scenes and people mutually familiar to both. 
 
 " There is hope," said the dottore to himself, as he 
 soothed and answered her. Then, suddenly changing 
 her manner, she eagerly asked his advice respecting 
 the sick person she was in imaginary attendance upon, 
 saying he had a fever, and was weakly, and she feared 
 
70 
 
 COUNT RODOLPH S HEIR. 
 
 he would sink under it. She hesitated, and appeared 
 restless, when he offered to visit the invalid • but at 
 length she nodded her head in token of assent. 
 
 Rodolph sate by the broken staircase awaiting their 
 arrival in an agony of anxiety. He desired ardently 
 to behold the effect of the signal, after the lapse of 
 time during which he had been absent, and that the 
 dottore likewise should witness the only symptom of 
 recollection which had hitherto been given by the un- 
 happy Leona. 
 
 To this end he had ordered Caspar to remain by the 
 torrent, and when a messenger from the hamlet should 
 give him notice of Leona's return homewards, to blow 
 three blasts, as usual, on the hunting-bugle. 
 
 ¥/hen Leona perceived Rodolph, a faint smile of 
 puzzled recognition stole over her wan features. 
 She paused and hesitated; at length she said, "It is 
 long since we have met, noble stranger, and I can 
 hardly now give you welcome, for Rodolph is still 
 absent, and I am much troubled because of the sick- 
 ness of one I love; nevertheless But come on^ 
 
 dear friend; why loiter we?" said she to the physi 
 cian, with a sudden change of tone ; " perhaps even 
 now he dies ! " 
 
 So saying, she swiftly ascended the flight of steps. 
 When she reached the summit, she knelt down, and, 
 lifting up a stone, drew from beneath it a coil of 
 rope ; this she wound patiently round, till a shattered 
 plank which hung unperceived under the arch oppo- 
 site, gray as the walls, and like them moss-grown and 
 mouldering, was sufficiently raised to enable her, by 
 a small exertion of strength, to lift the end and rest it 
 on the last step. 
 
 "Great Heaven!" said Rodolph, shuddering^ "is 
 she about to cross on that plank ? " 
 
 ''Hush ! " said the physician. 
 
COUNT RODOLPh's HEIR. 71 
 
 *' This is my drawbridge," said Leona, smilinf^ 
 with a sort of triumph at the dottorc, and without 
 noticing the question of Rodolph. Then, laying her 
 hand on his arm, she added earnestly, " Once it 
 cracked beneath me — once, when I was carrying 
 him across. But I never brought him out again." 
 
 *' He who is now sick?" said the physician, in the 
 voice of a person who humors a child in some 
 folly. 
 
 *' Yes," answered Leona, sighing, *' he is very 
 sick." Then, stooping toward the dottore^ she add- 
 ed, in a tone of great importance, ''He is the heir 
 to Lindensberg." 
 
 It was with a cold, shuddering regret that Rodolph 
 heard this explanation of the illusion that possessed 
 her. " The heir to Lindensberg is dead, Leona," 
 said he, mournfully. The maniac shook her head. 
 
 "The woman died," answered she; " she fled, and 
 fell into the dark waters; / took /aV/?, but could not 
 kill him, although I know he is my enemy ! " 
 
 It was well for Rodolph, that the dizzy stupefac- 
 tion which came over him at these v/ords, prevented 
 all evidence of emotion on his part. 
 
 " Well, Leona, I cannot cure him unless I see him," 
 said the physician, in a composed tone; and, as he 
 spoke, he laid his hand heavily on Rodolph's shoulder. 
 Leona crossed the narrow, quivering plank, and disap- 
 peared beneath the archway. 
 
 ''Think you this is true? O God! think you it is 
 true?" murmured Rodolph. 
 
 " It may be," said his friend ; " or the unhappy 
 woman may have heard broken snatches of the story 
 from the peasantry who supply her with food, and so 
 have grown to imagine herself an actor in the events 
 she has heard related. This is not an uncommon 
 eymptom of madness ; but, true or visionary, a word 
 
72 
 
 COUNT kodolph's heir. 
 
 from you is fatal. Speak not, move not ; and perhaps 
 yoQ may regain at once Leona and your son." 
 
 Rodolph groanedy and hid his face. There was a 
 long pause. 
 
 " She mocks us, or she hath forgotten,'^ said the 
 unhappy man at length, raising his haggard eyes to 
 his friend's countenance. The daitore motioned for 
 silence. 
 
 " Leona," said he, in a loud, clear tone, "I have 
 other patients to visit: — is the boy there? " 
 
 "I do but adjust his mantle," was the reply; and 
 suddenly there appeared in the archway, as in a framed 
 picture, two living figures; Leona, and a child of six 
 or seven years of age, tall, pale, and meagre, with 
 long, silky, brown hair, curling down to his waist; 
 and large, blue eyes, that seemed painfully dazzled 
 even by the mellow light of the evening. His exces- 
 sive paleness was rendered yet more apparent by the 
 varied brilliancy of the colors which composed hi:s 
 dress, a scarlet velvet mantle being fastened on a 
 suit of glowing purple, trimmed with white miniver, 
 and a small cap of emerald green, embroidered witifi 
 pearls, set on his head. His cheeks were hollow, 
 and his lips looked as though they had never learned 
 to smile, so wan, and stiff, and feverish, did they ap- 
 pear. He leaned against his companion for support, 
 and one thin little white hand clung to the folds of her 
 drapery. At the unusual sound of a strange voice he 
 started, and as his unaccustomed eyes sought to dis- 
 tinguish objects, and beheld the count and his friend, 
 a faint shriek of terror escaped him. 
 
 "' Hush," said Leona, soothingly ; *' be not terrified, 
 and thou shalt soon see Rodolph ; " and the child's 
 wan lips moved, and he repeated with the exactitude 
 of tone, and the faint sadness of an echo, " Rodolph ! " 
 
 She lifted him in her armSj and smiling sadiy ai 
 
COUNT RODOLPH's HEIR. 73 
 
 the physician, she said, *' Shall I bring him to thee, 
 or will the cold air hurt him? " 
 
 ** Bring him," calmly replied the physician, as he 
 measured with his eye the strength of the plank, and 
 the additional weight it would sustain in the passage 
 of the attenuated and frail little being, so miraculous- 
 ly preserved. Lightly and steadily Leona advanced, 
 while Rodolph's outstretched arms seemed already 
 nearly to clutch his long lost child. She had 
 reached the centre, when suddenly Caspar blew the 
 three blasts on the signal-horn, Leona paused ; the 
 blood rushed to her colorless cheek, the light to her 
 sunken eye. 
 
 " I hear thee, Rodolph ! " exclaimed she ; and press- 
 ing the pale child closely to her heart, she raised the 
 ivory bugle to her faded lips. 
 
 There was a crash — a wild cry — and all was 
 over. 
 
 Rodolph and the physician gazed on the archway. 
 Where was the maniac, and the pale child with its 
 silken hair? Where was the frail plank which stood 
 between them and that living tomb, wherein his little 
 son had so long been buried? What had gone down 
 into that dark abyss ? 
 
 Rodolph and the physician descended the broken 
 stairs slowly, quietly, stupidly : to what purpose 
 should they hurry their pace ? A dock grew on the 
 last step but one ; the physician switched it with his 
 cane: it was a rank weed, unsightly, and the impulse 
 was to destroy it: he had not observed it as he ascend- 
 ed. They came to the end of the broken flight of 
 steps, and stood in the court below. Something lay 
 close to the dottore's feet : he looked down ; it was 
 a little, pale corpse, in a gaudy dress. 
 
 '* In a fall from a very great height," said he, speak- 
 ing very slowly, and glancing upwards, *' the subject 
 
COUNT RODOLPH^S HEIR. 
 
 generally dies from suffocation before the ground is 
 touched ; it is not, therefore, commonly, a death of 
 pain." 
 
 Count Rodolph groaned, and pressed the hand of 
 his friend. A little beyond lay the maniac Leona. 
 She still breathed ; and, as Rodolph approached, she 
 opened her large, dark eyes, as if instinctively aware 
 of his presence. 
 
 " Rodolph, beloved," said she, " I have been dream- 
 ing a dreadful dream. Even now, methinks, I suffer 
 pain — I cannot rise ; the cold has struck my limbs 
 with a numbing pain ; thou shouldst not have allowed 
 me to slumber in the open air. I dreamed (alas! 
 what torturing pain I suffer !) that thou didst forsake 
 me for another — that thou wert wedded — that there 
 was an heir to Lindensberg. O, rather than sa 
 dream again, I would wish to die now, on thy bosom." 
 And she flung her arms round his neck, and moaned„ 
 and a slight shivering ran through her limbs. Her 
 eyes, which had been gazing in his face, closed sud- 
 denly. — She was dead. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "We are apt," said the old physician, when re- 
 turning with Count Rodolph from one of his annual 
 visits to Leona's tomb, — " we are apt to pity people 
 for dying, and for the manner of their death, as 
 though it were the crowning agony of nature ; yet 
 there may have been hours of unendurable misery in 
 a man's life, to which his death may seem like a 
 pleasant dream. Which, think you, was the bitterer 
 hour to her who now rests in peace — that in which, 
 bruised and dying, but with her arms twined round 
 thy neck, she imagined herself waking from a slum- 
 ber in the cold autumn wind, or that in which she 
 first answered the blast of thy hunting-bugle^ after 
 thy confession of intended separation?" 
 
THE PARTING KISS. 
 
 THE PARTING KISS. 
 
 *' His act did not o'ertake his bad intent, 
 And therefore must be buried as an intent 
 That perished by the way." — Shakspeare. 
 
 TifE driver sounded his horn^ and in one hour 
 more I was to depart in the stage for my native state. 
 The idea of revisiting the home of my childhood, 
 of meeting with my brothers and sisters, and behold- 
 ing, once mere, my aged parents, before the grave 
 should hide them forever from my view, filled me 
 with rapture which I never had experienced before. 
 Already transported in imagination over the long 
 Journey, I received the joyous welcome of the happy 
 family. My good old father met me at the gate with 
 the kindest demonstrations of affection; my moth- 
 er, now feeble with years, and trembling with afflic- 
 tion, tottered half way down the steps to grasp my 
 hand, and unable to restrain her feelings, burst into 
 tears, whilst my little serious sister Clara ran to my 
 arms, and folding hers about my neck, could not re- 
 frain, even in the midst of her gladness, from affec- 
 tionately chiding me for not answering her letters. 
 Blessed little sister! I kissed her pretty black eye, 
 and promised to do better in future ; and there was a 
 Joy — ay, a rapture — even in this reverie of imagina- 
 tion, which, if it could but last, I would not barter 
 for the wide world's wealth, and all its honors be- 
 sides. 
 
 But every bliss has its bane. The reflection that I 
 Siad to part with Fanny Morrison, whom I had so 
 mfacii loved, even unto adoration, soon put an end to 
 this glow of happy feeling, and spread in my heart a 
 coorrespondiiig poignancy of misery. This is the na- 
 
?G 
 
 PAHTING K1S3. 
 
 ture of happiness. There is not a glad em<?don of 
 the breast which is not quickly chased by some ob* 
 trusive care. The visits of Joy are as short as those 
 of the votaries of fashionable life ; and the bosom 
 that is elated by her transitory presence will assured- 
 ly experience an equal depression at her departure. 
 Her smiles are like the vivid flashes of lightning that 
 play upon the brown cheek of night, but vanish in an 
 instant, and leave behind fourfold darkness. I thought 
 of home, and my soul expanded; I thought of Fanny „ 
 and it sank in dejection. I loved this fair and excel- 
 lent creature, not that the beauty of her whole sex 
 seemed epitomized in her form and face, but more 
 for the higher brilliancy of her polished mind ; and 
 above all, because of her unsophisticated purity of 
 heart. My love was reciprocated. Daily we renewed 
 our vows of perpetual constancy, and the green-eyed 
 monster. Jealousy, never sullied our minds or dis- 
 turbed our repose ; but, mutually confiding, we en- 
 joyed all the luxury of tenderest affection, unmixed 
 with the bitterness of doubt and distrust; and if there 
 be such as positive happiness on earth, " it is this, it 
 is a thing." From my first acquaintance with Fanny, 
 I had never been separated from her even for a week 
 at a time : to part with her now, and possibly forever 
 " — it seemed like death, 
 
 I had already taken leave of her on the evening of 
 the preceding day ; but now that I was about to enter 
 upon my journey almost immediately, I could nc^t re- 
 sist the inclination, Vv^hich increased in ardor as the 
 time of departure drew nearer, once more to seize 
 the fair, soft hand, and say, ''Good by." I hastened 
 to her dwelling. She was at her piano, playing the 
 plaintive air of " Boi/s Wife" the very tune which 
 of all others I most delighted to hear ; and she could 
 play, tooj with such enchanting skill — so touching ta 
 
THE PARTING K1S8. 77 
 
 the heart! As I entered the room, she ceased the 
 music, but quickly resumed it at my request, and ac- 
 companied the instrument with a voice that breathed 
 all the magic harmony of Nourhamal. She sang, 
 
 " Fare thee well, since thou must leave me ; ' 
 
 But O, let not our parting grieve thee, 
 For I will still be thine, believe me." 
 
 And there was an applicability in these words to 
 my situation, such a suitableness of sentiment to the 
 occasion, that made them sink deep into my burning 
 heart; and although 1 cannot say that the music, like 
 St. Cecilia's, '* drew an angel down," I will say that 
 she sang like an angel, and wore all the celestial love 
 liness of one. Could the song never close, and her 
 beauty never die, who would ask for a brighter 
 heaven f 
 
 As she finished the strain, she closed the lid of the 
 piano, and turning her beautiful face, with " bonny 
 blue eyes," upon me, she said, "I now have a task for 
 you to perform." "And what is that task?" I in- 
 quired. *' It is," said she, " a compliance with your 
 promise, made a long time ago, to, write an original 
 piece in my album ; the evening is favorable for 
 poetry, and I insist upon your writing." At first I 
 thought this was merely intended to divert my mind 
 from the melancholy which she perceived was gather-^ 
 ing around it; for I was so far from ever being guilty 
 of writing poetry, that 1 really could not believe for a 
 moment that she seriously thought me capable of such 
 a perpetration ; but in a ^qw minutes she took from 
 the book-case a neatly-bound album, and spreading 
 it on the table where pen and ink were previously 
 placed, she invited me to the task with an air of so- 
 lemnity, which could not fail to convince me that the 
 request was made more in earnest than through eour- 
 
78 
 
 THE PARTING KISS. 
 
 tesy. What could I do? I had not the heart to re- 
 fuse, nor the genius to comply. My brain was as 
 dry as '* the remainder biscuit after a voyage." 
 Never did I stand so much in need of mind, or deplore 
 this want so much, as on this occasion. True, the 
 evening was serene and beautiful, and might have 
 warmed the breast that had the least spark of poetical 
 feeling about it ; but mine had no dormant energies 
 of this nature to awaken, and neither the kindling 
 influence of fine weather, nor the more inspiring 
 power of Fanny's presence, could remove my con- 
 stitutional inability to rhyme. To attempt it, I knew 
 very well that the failure would be so completely 
 shameful that I should lose much of her esteem, and 
 yet not to do it, must inevitably incur her most seri- 
 ous displeasure. I determined, however, to risk the 
 attempt ; and seating myself by the table, I seized the 
 pen in despair, dipped it in the stand, and turning my 
 <^yes upwards, but not in "fine frenzy rolling," I 
 began cogitating on what subject I should fix my fan- 
 ciful eftusion. 
 
 I had remained in this attitude but a short time, 
 before my musings appeared to be unceremoniously 
 interrupted. The whole family were in busy uproar. 
 The servants were running in every direction, from 
 room to room, all actively engaged in cleaning and 
 decorating the mansion. Some were hanging new 
 damask curtains over the windows, some regulating 
 the glasses on a well-loaded sideboard, others re- 
 plenishing the fiower-pots with water and fresh roses, 
 whilst Fanny's youngest sister was fantastically orna- 
 menting a pair of large silver candlesticks with paper 
 leaves. The Turkey carpet was removed, and the 
 floor dry rubbed : indeed, all the preparations usually 
 made for a dancing party were going on, and appa- 
 rently for that purpose. Presently a servant girl en- 
 
THE PARTING KISS. 79 
 
 tered the room with a bundle of evergreens, with 
 which she commenced decorating the mantel-piece, 
 and then proceeded to a large mirror, that hung on 
 the wall opposite to me, in such a position that it re- 
 flected to my view the image of Fanny, as she lay re- 
 clining on the sofa in a thoughtful and pensive man- 
 ner. Her countenance is frequently tinged with a 
 slight melancholy ; but now it seemed to wear a deep 
 gloom. I certainly had never seen her face so cloud- 
 ed by sadness before; it was pale; her eyes pored on 
 the floor ; her mind appeared to be abstracted, for 
 she took no notice of what was going on till the ser- 
 vant maid inquired if she designed to have the walls 
 of the parlor festooned with vines. " Do as you 
 please," she replied ; and rising from the sofa, she left 
 the room with a tear, as I thought, quivering in her 
 soft blue eye. 
 
 What was the meaning of all this? I could form no 
 possible conjecture. I inquired of the servant — her 
 words were as a dagger to my heart. " Why, have 
 you not heard," said she, " that this is Miss Fanny's 
 wedding night?" — I could hear no more; the maid 
 would have proceeded, but my brain reeled, and 1 fell 
 upon the floor in a state of insensibility. How long I 
 remained in that situation I know not; but I was 
 awakened from it by the entrance of a tall young 
 gentleman, of handsome deportment, and splendidly 
 attired, with a " broad felicity of face," bespeaking a 
 light mind and happy heart. It was for his coming 
 that all these preparations were made ; for he was my 
 happy rival, who was that very night to be married to 
 the fair Fanny. Prompted by desperation, I seized 
 at the villain's throat. He fled. He was my friend ; 
 we were born in the same village, educated at the 
 same school, and had been intimate from our boyish 
 days; I wore him in *' my heart's core," and not n 
 
89 
 
 THE rAHTING KISS. 
 
 drcumsiance had ever transpired, until the present 
 occurrence, to weaken the band of brotherhood that 
 bound us together. Of all my acquaintance, he was 
 the only one to whom I had communicated the secret 
 of my attachment to Fanny. He abused that confi- 
 dence to supplant me in her affections. And shall I 
 bow in degrading humiliation to the wrong? No — 
 rather let me perish first. Cursed be the coward arm 
 that falters in a just revenge. With imprecations on 
 my rival's head, I fled the habitation. 
 
 All idea of my journey was now banished from my 
 mind; my every thought was devoted to revenge; my 
 heart v/as a furnace of exasperated passions; my 
 very blood boiled with vengeance. Retiring to my 
 room, I whetted my dagger and reloaded my pistol. 
 *' 1 will mar his mirth," said I to myself *' I will 
 burst upon him in the midst of his anticipated heaven 
 like an unexpected Abeli?io." And let not mistaken 
 piety denounce all human vengeance as unrighteous. 
 The serpent is crushed in the earth because of his 
 guile, which converted the bloom of Eden into a wil- 
 derness of woe ; and so should the demon still be 
 crushed, when, forsaking his reptile shape, he assumes 
 the human form, and spreads over the paradise of 
 the heart a wintry desolation. Reader, when you 
 liave loved as I have loved, and be supplanted by a 
 wretch calling himself your friend, but whose smiles 
 are the very " fiend's arch mock," then will you be 
 ready to exclaim with me, "Who'll sleep in safety 
 that hath done this wrong?" 
 
 I know not how the time passed off, but night-fall 
 had now come on. Dressing myself in apparel suited 
 for the wedding, thither I went, sternly determined to 
 *' speak daggers" to the bride, and to use one on the 
 treacherous author of my misery. The guests had 
 assembled, and the nuptial hour had almost arrived; 
 
THE PARTING KISS. SI 
 
 the bride's-maid was placing the last flower in the 
 bridal wreath, and as she twined it in the shinini^ 
 curl, I heard her distinctly singing the beautifal 
 lines by Mrs. Hemans — 
 
 " Bring flowers, bring flowers for the bride to wear; 
 They were born to blush in her sliini ng hair. 
 She is leaving the scenes of her childish mirth ; 
 Her place is now by another's side. 
 Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride.' 
 
 The long parlor was splendidly illuminated. The 
 chandelier, suspended in the centre, threw around 
 a brilliant light, which the mirrors augmented by re- 
 flection, whilst the warm flashes from the sparkling 
 eyes of the laughing girls still added to the blaze, and 
 made the room glow with the lustre of the skies. 
 The light of heaven was there, and merriment was 
 there. The young voices, mingling in sprightly con- 
 versation, were so many separate tones of melody; 
 and mirth was in all — all was gladness; and to one 
 whose heart had not been rendered impenetrable to 
 joy, it was so sweet to look upon the innocent faces, 
 and to witness the unaffected vivacity that prevailed ! 
 Once I could have enjoyed the scene ; but the chord in 
 my bosom that might have vibrated in unison was now 
 snapped asunder ; and amidst all this gayety, and joy, 
 and beauty, my heart retained its midnight darkness, 
 still brooding over its ruin, and nourishing its gloomy 
 wrath. I mixed not with the joyous company, but 
 retiring to the remotest comer of the room, I folded 
 my arms, and impatiently awaited the coming of the 
 bridegroom and his bride, where I might take, even 
 at the altar of Hymen, that sanguinary vengeance 
 which despair prompted, and my wrongs justified. 
 
 They soon came. There was a silence in the hall. 
 I raised my eyes, and beheld the happy couple gtand- 
 6 
 
82 THE PARTING KISS. 
 
 ing on the floor, their attendants ranged on either 
 side. The whole company pressed forward to look 
 upon the fair young bride. Never had one shone so 
 beautiful ; never had Fanny appeared so lovely to my 
 eyes as then. A long, white veil fell lightly over her 
 forehead, like a milk-white cloud floating before the 
 evening star ; she blushed, and the carnation on her 
 cheek shone like the glancing sunbeam on the " Hill 
 of Benlomen." Her tresses were darker than the 
 raven's wing; they rolled in glossy curls down her 
 neck, and spread upon her ivory shoulders. Her form 
 was the perfection of human symmetry ; she was the 
 statue of Medici animated to life by the v/armest, 
 brightest fire of heaven, exhibiting a constellation of 
 beauty, where every charm mingled its light in one 
 unbounded blaze. I gazed upon her, and the recol- 
 lection of former times came rushing on my soul. I 
 thought of the many evenings I had spent with her in 
 this same hall, under happier circumstances; of the 
 many protestations of eternal love exchanged between 
 us as we walked, arm in arm, to church of Sabbath 
 mornings, and of the times that we have loitered on 
 the banks of a neighboring river, and sitting beneath 
 the umbrageous oaks, would talk of the fairest pros-*- 
 pect of happiness w^hen we should be united in mar- 
 riage as we were in affection. Often has she told me, 
 in these delightful rambles, that Heaven had designed 
 us for each other — I for her and she for me ; and little 
 did I dream that I should ever behold her the bride 
 of another. I should not behold it. A thousand 
 times would I have rather gone with a sprig of rose- 
 mary in my fingers to view her in the ruins of death. 
 And here let me beg the reader to forgive my weak- 
 ness. Mock not my misery. If you cannot sympa- 
 thize with the afflicted, let us part. I write for those 
 of softer mould, with more of the '* milk of human 
 
THE PARTING KISS. 83 
 
 kindness" in their nature, who can feel another's woe, 
 who love to bind the broken spirit, and to pour the 
 balm of consolation into the agonized bosom of de- 
 spair. There are such ; and, ye generous few, I thank 
 you in the name of the afflicted, whose sorrows you 
 delight to soothe; I thank you in the name of all 
 who have experienced the blight of ruined affection. 
 Cheer them by thy kindness if thou canst, for their 
 hearts have become desolate, and they stand in need 
 of all the consolation to be derived from the tender- 
 est sympathies of friendship: the virtuous will ever 
 extend it ; the vicious have none to bestow. 
 
 But to return to my story. The venerable minis- 
 ter who was to unite the happy couple in wedlock, 
 now assumed his station on the floor ; and in a mo- 
 ment all was silence. Whilst he was addressing to 
 them a few prefatory admonitions, I silently made my 
 way through the crowd, and planted myself at my 
 rival's back. I laid my hand upon my dagger : 
 'twas strange my heart began to falter in its steadi- 
 ness. Then it was that the enormity of the act which 
 I was about to perpetrate, flashed across my mind in 
 all its horror. He still looked like the friend of my 
 youth: to imbrue my hands in his blood — to mur- 
 der him — it seemed too horrid; I trembled in every 
 joint, and a cold perspiration bedewed my forehead. 
 And yet must he triumph in my ruin? Hath he not 
 wronged me? Is not vengeance mine, and shall I 
 shrink from the meditated blow? There was a 
 mighty conflict in my bosom between its gentle im- 
 pulses and its angry passions; but vengeance tri- 
 umphed. I thought my rival beheld me ; and in the 
 look which he bestowed, there seemed to be an air of 
 exultation and haughty defiance that reinvigorated my 
 nerve, reanimated my resentment. Again he stood 
 before me in all the blackness of his guilt; a perfidi- 
 
^4 
 
 THE PARTING KISS. 
 
 ous demon, who had mercilessly robbed me of my 
 *"' life's life." The aged minister proceeded in the' 
 marriage ceremony — " li any know a lavvfal reason 
 why this couple should not be joined in the holy state 
 of matrimony, let them speak." He paused as if for 
 a reply. Now was my time. I touched the bride 
 upon the shoulder ; she turned. "Be not alarmed," 
 I cried, " for I meditated no injury to you, O, Fanny, 
 when I admired the diamond brightness of your 
 beauty, I did not think your bosom had the diamond's 
 hardness too." I could say no more ; utterance for- 
 sook me ; and in the frenzy of despair, twisting my 
 fingers in the locks of the bewildered bridegroom, 
 at one convulsive effort I felled him on the floor, and 
 planted my knee upon his breast. The whole com- 
 pany vv^ere petrified to marble. Before they could 
 sufficiently recover from their panic, to render assist- 
 ance to the imploring victim at my feet, I snatched 
 my pistol from the belt, and cocked it at his throbbing 
 temple. At this moment the fair Fanny caught me 
 by the hand, and giving it a gentle and affectionate 
 pressure, she said, " Come, come ; are you not going 
 to write in my album? It has been :dmost an hour 
 since you seated yourself down for that purpose." 
 '' Write in your album, fair creature ? " said I; " why^ 
 yes, I will write in your album." And so saying, I 
 aroused me from the reverie into which I had fallen 
 from the time I took my seat by the table, and was 
 much relieved on finding that the above dreadful cir- 
 cumstances existed only in a dream of imagination. 
 Again I dipped my pen in the stand, and having 
 nothing poetic about me, I penned the above. The 
 stage horn summoned me as I finished, and I just 
 had time to print on Fanny's lip — tiie Parting 
 Kiss. 
 
THE LOWLY LADY. 85 
 
 THE LOWLY LADY. 
 
 The sad but stately procession had passed into the 
 church, and even the aisles of the venerable build- 
 ino; were thronged with persons. One might have 
 thought, who looked upon the coronet, glittering on 
 the cushion of crimson velvet, and all the other insig- 
 nia of high rank, that curiosity alone had drawn 
 thither such a crowd ; but a deeper interest was 
 marked on every countenance; and the firm voice 
 of the minister had faltered more than once, as he 
 read the solemn service. Yet the coffin was that of 
 a child, a little, tender infant, who had died in its 
 first, unconscious helplessness. Every one thought of 
 the flither, standing up among them, and looking so 
 desolate in his grief. More than one fond mother 
 wept, and drew her red cloak closely round the in- 
 fant on her bosom, as she gazed round upon the 
 mournful pomp, and the little coffin, and the young 
 nobleman — childless, and worse than widowed — 
 O yes ! worse than widowed 1 as he stood there, and 
 followed with his eyes the movement of the men then 
 placing the coffin of his child in the shadowy dark- 
 ness of the open vault below him. That church was 
 a place of agonizing recollection to the young earl 
 of Derby. Often had he entered it a happy husband ; 
 and, as he walked slowly down the aisle to his car- 
 riage, he could not help recalling the day when his 
 beautiful and modest bride had clung, in trembling 
 bashfulness, to his arm, when he had there, for the 
 first time, called her his wife. " I am sick of all this 
 idle pomp I" he said to himself, as he entered the 
 wide hall of his own magnificent residence, attended 
 by his train of servants, and met by the obsequious bows 
 
0\> THE LOWLY LADY. 
 
 of the men who had conducted the funeral ; " I am 
 sick of all this mockery ! I will bear it no longer. 
 Would that I were a poor, hard-working peasant, 
 with some honest hearts to care for me, and love me. 
 I am heartily tired of your great people ! " 
 
 Not many weeks after the funeral of the heir of 
 the noble house of Derby, a solitary wayfaring man 
 stopped at the turning of a little foot-path, which led 
 down the sloping side of the hill overlooking the vil- 
 lage of H —. He had been leisurely wandering 
 
 on since the early hours of the morning, and had not 
 yet found the place where he would rest for the night. 
 *' Here, at least, is a happy scene," he said, as he 
 looked down upon the little village at the foot of 
 the hill. About fifty or sixty persons were scat- 
 tered, in careless groups, about the pleasant green. 
 Some of them were dancing beneath a venerable 
 grove of elms ; others were crowded round the only 
 booth which had been raised in the rustic fair. 
 *' At least, I may witness their enjoyment, though I 
 cannot share it," he said; and, in a few moments, he 
 was standing beneath the old trees on the green. 
 
 But, although he was not recognized as the earl 
 of Derby, and disgusted by the attentions paid to his 
 rank and station, he found the familiarity of vulgar 
 minds and low manners not quite so agreeable as he 
 had perhaps expected. Q,uietly he turned away from 
 the noisy scene. He passed over the old bridge, 
 which crosses the clear and shallow stream, and 
 turned down a lane, the banks of which were over- 
 grown with wild flowers, and straggling bushes of 
 birch, sufficiently high and thick to meet overhead, 
 and form a perfect bov/er of grateful shade. A poor 
 woman was returning home through the lane with her 
 children, her infant sleeping soundly on her bosom, 
 and a curly-headed urchin distending his cheeks with 
 
THE LOWLY LADV. 87 
 
 pufling at a little painted trumpet, the horrid grating 
 of which had all the charm of nove-lty and noise to 
 him. The young mother looked so hot and tired, 
 and withal so good-humored, that the earl could not 
 resist asking her if she could direct him to a lodging. 
 "Not in that merry village we have just left," he said, 
 " for I am unwell and tired." 
 
 The woman pointed to a little path, not very far 
 from the spot where they stood, which turned sudden- 
 ly out of the lane into a wood, overhanging the river; 
 and directed him to follow it through a larg-e corn- 
 field, and up a very steep, sandy lane, and then, for 
 ahout half a mile over; — but such directions are 
 tiresome enough, when one is obliged to listen to 
 them to learn one's own way; here, they would be 
 even more so. Besides, I am not sure the earl at- 
 tended to the poor woman, for he lost his way. He 
 walked on, wrapped in his own melancholy thoughts, 
 but soothed, in every sense, by the cool, fresh air, the 
 gurgling flow of the river, and all those distant sounds, 
 which, in the quiet fields, on a fair, calm evening, fall 
 so sweetly indistinct upon the ear. But the sun had 
 set before the wanderer awoke to the recollection of 
 the purpose before him. He looked around him; he 
 saw green and sloping hills, many stately trees, and 
 the same calm river flowing gently below, but no 
 house. At last, where the leafy shade was deepest, 
 he discovered a pile of old, quaintly-shaped chimneys, 
 opposed against the glowing sky. He had not pro- 
 ceeded far in the direction of the farm-house, which 
 now plainly appeared among the trees, when a light 
 step seemed to approach him, and then stopped sud- 
 denly ; and he heard the sound of unrestrained weep- 
 ing. A hazel copse separated him from the mead- 
 ow whence the sound proceeded ; but, on peeping 
 through a little opening, he saw that a young girl 
 
S8 THE LOWLY LACY* 
 
 VcsiS sitting on the bank of the meadow on the Otbs 
 side. For a little while she continued weeping—^ 
 only for a little while — then, clasping her hands to- 
 gether, she raised her head, and her whole hearV 
 seemed to look up to Heaven in her meek and stead- 
 fast gaze. 
 
 Still she sat there, almost without stirring, except 
 that, once or twice, she looked down upon the greeiA 
 grass, and her hand dropped, half forgetfully and 
 half playfully, among the flowers that grew in wild 
 luxuriance beside her, as if she was pleased with, but 
 scarcely knew she noticed them. Just then the rich 
 Eong of the nightingale burst upon the stillness of the 
 evening, and stole away her ear 5 and though hei* 
 thoughts seemed yet to linger on about the subject 
 which had made her weep, she listened, till at last she 
 smiled ; and so, minute after minute passed awayj, 
 and gradually she forgot all her trouble: and the 
 only expression on her fair face was innocent glad- 
 ness. 
 
 Let no one suppose that^ in this fair country girl, 
 we have met with any maiden of gentle birth, 
 brought down to a low estate by the hard uses of ad- 
 versity ; nor any wonder of her native village, gifted 
 with talents of the highest order. O no ! Lucy 
 was none of these. What was she ? A fair and hap^ 
 py maiden of low birth, (if to be born of poor and 
 honest parents be low birth,) of no accomplishments 
 or education beyond reading and — let me remem- 
 ber—yes, she could write. She read well, for her 
 voice was full of natural melody; and practice, and 
 genuine feeling, and above all, piety, had made her 
 very perfect. 
 
 Lucy's features were not beautiful, but their mod" 
 est, innocent expression was better than mere beauty 
 Her hands were not the whitest in the Avorld, though 
 
THE LOWLY LADY. 89 
 
 <3^1icatfely, nay, exquisitely shaped : their little palms 
 might have been softer ; but, if it might have been 
 said of her, as of the fair and happy milkmaid, "she 
 xiiakes her hand hard with labor," it might have been 
 well added, "and her heart soft with pity;" for they 
 who knew her say she was the kindest creature that 
 ever lived, and speak of a gentle and winning cour- 
 teousness of manners, that gave a charm to every 
 look, and every M-ord she uttered. But although she 
 was one of nature's own sweet gentlewomen, and un- 
 affectedly modest and pious, she was only a poor, 
 uneducated country girl. There was one, however, 
 who soon began to find new hope — new life, I might 
 a^.most say-—- in the society of Lucy; one who, in spite 
 of all the pride or aristocracy of his habits and his 
 prejudices, began to feel it a privilege to be addressed 
 as a familiar friend by the pure-minded maiden ; who 
 felt, in his inmost heart, the influence of her modest, 
 cheerful piety ; and paid her, from his heart, the 
 homage of respect and love that was the sweeter from 
 being half made up of gratitude. 
 
 He could not help smiling, when he made his pro- 
 posals, in due form, to the relations of his sweet Lucy; 
 for they did not choose to have their child thrown 
 away upon one who, for what they knew to the con- 
 trary, might be little better than a beggar, or a sort 
 cf (they did not quite say the word) " vagabond." 
 They doubted, and questioned, and wavered, and 
 questioned him again, till the earl began to feel un- 
 comfortable, and to stammer and blush ; and thus, in 
 fact, to make them really suspicious ; for he had quite 
 forgotten to provide against this most probable issue 
 of his suit to them. 
 
 " You see," said an old uncle, at last, who was the 
 head of the family, and the best spokesman, " you may 
 be a very good sort of a young man, and I have noth« 
 
90 
 
 THE LOWLY LADY. 
 
 ing to say against you ; but you are, or at least have 
 been, till now, when you're plucking up a bit, a poor, 
 sickly, idle body; and, suppose you fall ill, or take to 
 no kind of employ, and have nothing coming in of your 
 own — why, Lucy's fifty pounds, and the hundred that I 
 shall leave her, when, please Heaven, I die, will go but 
 a very little way. I tell you what." he said, " brother 
 and sister," (turning to Lucy's parents, and look- 
 ing very wise.) " don't be in a hurry to give your con- 
 sent; Lucy, though Lsay it, is as good a girl as any 
 in the land, and fit for a lord — yes! I say it again, 
 (though you seem to smile.) young man — fit for any 
 lord in the land." 
 
 Lucy had been very busily plucking the withered 
 leaves from a geranium, which her lover had given 
 her; but now she turned round, pale and trembling, 
 for she feared the effect of her uncle's harangue upon 
 her father, who was apt to be as positive as his 
 brother. She trembled, and her heart throbbed with 
 agitation, for she cared not if he whom she loved 
 were penniless ; but she felt, that without the con- 
 sent of her parents, (servants of God, and kind 
 parents, as they both were,) she could not marry him. 
 She turned, as gentle, lovmg daughters will, on all 
 such occasions, to her own tender mother, and she 
 had not to speak ; her mother could read her looks, 
 and she could not resist the tears which rose so sudden- 
 ly into the soft eyes of her duteous child. Mothers, or 
 wives, I meant to say, have a winning way of -their 
 own — particularly mild, submissive wives, such as 
 Lucy's mother ; and what with her own influence as 
 a wife, and her own woman's wit, or (in truer words) 
 calm good sense, it was soon agreed that Lucy should 
 marry her love on this condition — that the answer to 
 a certain letter, to be written by him, for a good char- 
 acter, etc^, proved satisfactory. 
 
THE LOWLY LADY. 91 
 
 In due time, to the very day, a letter arrived, direct- 
 ed to Lucy's father. Witli this letter the father and 
 the uncle were quite satisfied; and novi^ Lucy, who 
 had been, at times, unusually silent, recovered all 
 her cheerfulness, and went about the house sino-incr 
 (so her mother thought) like a nightingale. Thomas 
 Clifford — for so he called himself — was married to 
 his Lucy, and all the fair and modest girls of the neigh- 
 borhood were waiting round the church door, to fling 
 basketfuls of flowers in the little path, as Clifford led 
 his bride to their own cottage. 
 
 He heard the blessing of many poor, aged crea- 
 tures, who lingered about in the sunshine of the 
 churchyard, upon his humble, yet lovely bride. Ev- 
 ery one who met them on that happy morning, 
 sm.iled upon them, and blessed them, 
 
 *' High rank, heaps of gold, could not buy such 
 blessings as this ! " said he to himself; " but my 
 sweet and pious Lucy has won the love of every 
 heart. These people, too, have known her from her 
 childhood ! " 
 
 ******* 
 
 ''That is a grand place, indeed! " said Lucy, as, 
 toward the close of their second day's journey, they 
 approached an ancient and almost princely edifice; 
 *' but does our road lie through the park? " 
 
 " Not exactly through the park," he replied , " but 
 I thought my Lucy might like to see these fine 
 grounds, and the house and gardens. I have known 
 the gardener and housekeeper for years ; and I am 
 sure we shall find them very civil, and willing to 
 show us any little attention in their power, and we 
 have time enough, though the sun is getting low, for 
 we are just at home." 
 
 Lucy w^as delighted. She had never seen a noble- 
 xnan's house before, she said. 
 
92 
 
 THE r.iWLY LADY. 
 
 '' Well ! all those large rooms, and the pictures, 
 and all the fine furniture are very grand," said Lucy ; 
 *' but my eyes ache with looking at them ; I like this 
 orarden a great deal better. What a beautiful one it 
 is! But may we sit down in this arbor of honey- 
 suckle so near the house? " 
 
 Lucy sat in silence for some little time, gazing 
 round her at the venerable house, and the trees and 
 gardens ; at length she said, " I wonder if the lord 
 of this grand place is happy? Is the earl of Derby a 
 good man, dear husband 1 Is he kind and free-spoken 
 to the poor? Is he a married man?'" she added, 
 looking with a smile of peculiar sweetness in her 
 husband's face. 
 
 *' How many questions you have given me to an- 
 swer, Lucy ! Let me consider ! Yes, he is a married 
 man ; he married, not many months ago, a young 
 country girl, such another as yourself, dear Lucy." 
 
 "Poor thing!" said Lucy; and she sighed from 
 her very heart. 
 
 *' Why do you sigh, my own wife?" he demand- 
 ed. " Do you envy that poor country maiden?" 
 
 ''Do I envy her?" she replied, in a voice of tender 
 reproach ; " what a strange question ! Do I envy any 
 one?" And as she said this, she drew more closely 
 round her the arm which encircled her slender waist. 
 " Would i exchange ray husband with any one? " she 
 added, looking up tenderly and lovingly into his face. 
 " I sighed in pity for the poor young lady, (for a lady 
 she is now:) such a change is enough to turn her 
 head." 
 
 " Would it turn yours, Lucy?" he said. 
 
 "Perhaps it might! " she said, in the simplest and 
 most natural manner. "But is she really happy? 
 Does she love him for himself alone? " 
 
 "My sweet Lucy," he began, and as he spokOj^ 
 
THE LOWLY LADY. 93 
 
 his wife thought that he had never seemed so tender- 
 ly respectful toward her — " My sweet Lucy, you alone 
 can answer these last questions ; you smile ! I see 
 you look amazed upon me ; but I repeat it, you 
 alone ! " 
 
 " But first," said Lucy, very artlessly, *' I must be 
 lady here ; you must make me countess of Derby ! " 
 
 She iiad scarcely said this, when, from one of the 
 castle turrets, a bell began to toll : Clifford rose up 
 instantly, and, without saying a word, led his wife 
 up to the castle. They entered the chapel there, in 
 which the servants and the tenants had all assembled, 
 and the chaplain was preparing to commence the 
 evening service ; then, leading the wondering Lucy 
 into the midst of them, he presented her to them as 
 their future mistress, the countess of Derby, his 
 wife. 
 
 Lucy did not speak ; she could scarcely stand ; 
 the color forsook her face, and she looked as one 
 about to faint. She stared first at her husband, and 
 then at the domestics around her; and at last she 
 began to comprehend every thing. Eagerly she 
 seized her husband's hand, v/hich she had dropped 
 in her surprise, now affectionately extended to her ; 
 then, with an effort that was very visible, but which 
 gave new interest to her in the eyes of all present, 
 she regained somewhat of her natural and modest 
 self-possession, and, raising her innocent face, she 
 courtesied to the ground, and met the respectful 
 greeting of those around her with smiles, which, 
 perhaps, spoke more at once to the heart than the 
 best wisdom of words. The earl of Derby led his 
 wife to his own seat, and placed her beside him. 
 
 Lucy knelt down upon a cushion of embroidered 
 velvet, with the sculptured escutcheons and stately 
 banners of the house of Derby above her ; but per- 
 
94 
 
 WOMEN ARE FICKLE. 
 
 haps, of all the high-born dames of that ancient fam- 
 ily, none ever knelt there with a purer heart, or with 
 an humbler spirit, than that lowly lady. 
 
 WOMEN ARE FICKLE. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock, of a fine bright morning, 
 that the countess of Salignac awoke. With her 
 lovely white hand she pushed aside the curtains of 
 her bed, and rang for her maid, who leisurely made 
 her appearance. 
 
 " You are somewhat tardy, Marguerite," said her 
 mistress. 
 
 " My lady, I was receiving a visitor, the Viscount 
 Charles d'Atry." 
 
 " What, before twelve o'clock ? For a country 
 beau, that is being in a hurry indeed. For my part, I 
 am not at all anxious to see him. I am going to write 
 a letter." 
 
 " But the viscount is waiting, my lady." 
 
 *' Let him wait, Marguerite." 
 
 Marguerite wisely left the room, and the capricious 
 beauty indited the following epistle : — ■ 
 
 " Dearest Matilda, 
 
 " You are a happy woman, not to inhabit 
 this hateful city. I am almost ready to grumble at 
 you for leaving me here so long. I am in the midst 
 of a racket which will certainly kill me. I am de- 
 prived of sleep even in those hours usually devoted 
 to that purpose. Pity me, my lovely friend. Pleas- 
 ure dwells in Paris, and happiness in the country ; 
 
WOMEN ARE FICKLE. 95 
 
 and trust me, yours is the better lot. But I, too, 
 shall soon share your happiness, if the Hermitage, 
 whither we contemplate retiring, is nearly finished. 
 I send you the last opera, which would be prettier if 
 it were less fatiguing. Do you know, dearest, that 
 our retreat will be much talked of? Six pretty 
 widows, with each twenty-five thousand francs a 
 year, and neither of them twenty-five years of age, 
 leaving Satan and the world, and its pomps and van- 
 ities, and starting off one fine morning to live in a 
 desert, to pray and weep, without rhyme or reason, 
 like St. Francis or St. Jerome, will, I flatter myself, 
 produce some sensation in Paris. When I say pray 
 and weep, I yield my pen to the guidance of my head, 
 as my old fool of a lover, the academician, said, when 
 he laid his heart and laurels at my ket, of which pre- 
 cious treasures I have no idea of depriving my sex. 
 Do not be alarmed, Matilda ; you, dearest, alone know 
 whom I love. 
 
 " Do not be alarmed. I know that men only love 
 well in novels ; and Werter has ruined me for any 
 lovers. It is utterly impossible to love in Paris ; one 
 has no time for that sort of thing. I have such a 
 capital theory on that subject, that I brave all dan- 
 gers, and set at defiance the mob of dandies that 
 besiege me. But pray, pray let the Hermitage be 
 got ready. The very streets of Paris oppress, dis- 
 tress me. I am dying to roam about the fields with 
 you, to gather violets and daisies, and drink milk. I 
 am more than ever convinced, dearest, that true 
 happiness can only be enjoyed, as M. Lamartine so 
 beautifully says, while sitting under a far-spreading 
 oak, and looking at peasants dancing on the green. 
 
 ''To think of love when one has a friend, what a 
 perfect horror ! ' Matilda, I await your orders. Let 
 me have but a line from you, and I set off instantly 
 
96 
 
 WOMEN AHE FICKLE. 
 
 to join you at your sweet, sweet Hermitage, for which 
 we have a sweet, sweet name. Ah, I had almost 
 forgotten : you must examine our garden, and choose 
 a little shady, retired nook, where I can erect a pretty 
 little temple, dedicated to friendship. My architect 
 has procured me the design of the temple at Turin, 
 which I assure you is the ninth wonder of the world. 
 You shall see it. I have wasted so much money 
 ]ately, that it is quite time now to think of something 
 useful. Farewell, my only, only love ; we shall soon 
 be in each other's arms; until which happy hour, I 
 send you as many kisses as there are miles be- 
 tween us. 
 
 " Henrietta de Salignac." 
 
 This important letter sealed and despatched, the 
 countess bethought herself of her visitor. 
 
 *' My lady," said Marguerite, quietly, " the viscount 
 is still down stairs. He would not go away. There 
 he stands, with his letter from your uncle in his hand. 
 He says he is your cousin." 
 
 " First or second cousin. Marguerite?" 
 
 " That I do not know, my lady ; but he certainly 
 looks like you. He has beautiful dark eyes, and 
 black hair, and a famous pair of mustaches. He is 
 very young, very tall, and very handsome; but for 
 all that, I do not admire his mustaches." 
 
 "Who asked you to tell me all this nonsense?'*" 
 said the countess. 
 
 " Ah, my lady, my lady, he was standing gazing in 
 perfect ecstasy at your picture." 
 
 " Ah, another victim ! " sighed forth the beauty. 
 
 Madame de Salignac found her early visitor as 
 Marguerite had described, with folded arms, and eyes 
 and heart so riveted on the beautiful portrait, thai 
 he did not notice the entrance of the lovelier originaL 
 
WOMEN ARE FICKLE. Vf7 
 
 It is true that the countess's pretty little feet touched 
 the ground as lightly and noiselessly as the falling 
 snow. The interview was a short one. The vis- 
 count presented his letter, and owing either to the 
 intercession of an uncle, all powerful with Henrietta, 
 or to the title of cousin, or to the graceful reserve of 
 his own manners, Charles received permission to call 
 whenever it suited him. One week's time saw him 
 enlisted among the most assiduous and ardent of the 
 countess's lovers. His friends saw it with pity and 
 regret. In vain they asked him, " Why will you 
 devote yourself to a coquette, who laughs at your 
 affection, and is talking of secluding herself from the 
 world ? Why will you swell the number of those 
 whose flame she feeds with smiles and contempt ! 
 Do you expect to change her nature, and soften that 
 heart of iron ? Charles, gaze upon and admire the 
 countess as you would one of Raphael's lovely Ma- 
 donnas ; but if you want a wife, choose her from those 
 who do not pique themselves upon abjuring love. 
 Madame de Salignac's kingdom is not of this world." 
 The unfortunate young lover always assented to 
 the truth of these observations; yet every day he 
 grew pale and thinner, and every evening found him 
 at his post; every evening, like a slave, he found 
 himself fast bound in the fetters, which, in the morn- 
 ing, he flattered himself he had burst forever. Strug- 
 gling without subduing such affection, was only 
 feeding its flame. Exhausted at length by his inward 
 struggles, maddened by the sneers and jokes of his 
 friends, and dreading the approaching departure of 
 Henrietta, Charles determined to seal his fate one 
 way or another. He swore that if she was not his 
 wife within a fortnight, all Paris should ring with the 
 tale of a young nobleman blowing out his brains at 
 the very feet of his cruel mistress. This resolution 
 7 
 
98 
 
 WOMElNr ARE FICKLE. 
 
 somewhat restored his peace of mind ; he could not 
 believe that his fair cousin would willingly cause his 
 death ; and soothed and flattered by his own ideas, his 
 cheek regained its bloom, and his eye its fire. One 
 morning he dressed himself with extreme care, or- 
 dered at a fashionable store a rich and beautiful 
 CorhfAUe cle Mariage, and bought an admirable pair 
 of pistols, which having loaded, he repaired to the 
 house of Madame de Salignac. 
 
 It was about eleven o'clock, and the countess was 
 in her boudoir, surrounded by twenty mantua-makers, 
 who were busy displaying loads of hats, capes, blonde, 
 silks, and flowers. For a woman on the point of 
 giving up the world, one might have censured the ad- 
 miring, envying glances she bestowed on all these 
 vanities. There is a devil which no daughter of Eve 
 can ever resist ; and that devil is love of dress. The 
 coquettish countess first held up to view a blonde 
 scarf, then a delicate rose-colored silk, and with 
 heart and hand intent upon the finery, artfully set 
 before her eyes, testified, by broken and involuntary 
 sentences, her admiration and delight. In the midst 
 of her preoccupation, the door suddenly flew open, and 
 in rushed the viscount. 
 
 " Henrietta," he said, coming up to her, and speak- 
 ing in a low, agitated tone, " I have come to know 
 my fate. Either you or death must be my bride." 
 
 "Of these two very similar brides," replied Henri- 
 etta, coolly, "I am sadly afraid, my handsome cousin, 
 that you will have to choose the latter. — But only 
 look at this cape ; is it not a perfect love, Charles ? 
 was there ever such exquisite work?" 
 
 " We will talk of capes some other time, countess. 
 My answer ! my answer ! " 
 
 " Why, what are we talking about now, Charles 1 '" 
 
 " I am talking about myself, Henrietta — of my life. 
 
WOMEN ARE FICKLE. ^ 99 
 
 my happiness, my passionate love. Hear me : — 
 grant me your hand, or witness my death. Answer 
 me seriously, Henrietta — life or death?" 
 
 "To be frank and serious, Charles, I would very 
 much like this cape." 
 
 "No, no, — it is my death you seek. You shall 
 
 .be gratitied, madam. Go on — buy capes — do not 
 
 think of me. How could I suppose myself of more 
 
 importance in your eyes than a cape, a new cape. I 
 
 must have been mad." 
 
 " Somewhat so, I admit, Charles. Upon the whole, 
 I should prefer this pretty dress. I mean to go to the 
 opera to-morrow evening, and I have nothing to wear. 
 It is a perfect love — the color, the make, everything 
 lovely. Come, Charles, do not look so gloomy. 
 When a woman is full of business, you should not 
 come and talk to her about love and suicide. Well, 
 I have quite made up my mind that I will buy this 
 sweet dress." 
 
 Though Charles felt that his very existence depend- 
 ed upon this frivolous, careless creature, yet could he 
 hardly restrain a smile at her passion for gewgaws. 
 He quietly and silently listened to a long discussion 
 about thread and needles, and though almost choked 
 by contending emotions, appeared perfectly calm and 
 self-possessed. What a contrast was there between 
 the quiet, graceful manner of the countess, and the 
 few friendly words she now and then, as from polite- 
 ness, addressed to him, and her enthusiasm about a 
 piece of lace, her screams of delight at a feather, her 
 perfect ecstasy at the sight of a wreath of roses ; be- 
 tween the attention she bestowed upon all this non- 
 sense, and the perfect neglect with which she treated 
 the devoted, overwhelming passion of the young vis- 
 count ! This manner struck Charles to the very heart. 
 
wo 
 
 WOMEN AKE FICKLE.- 
 
 At last, to his great relief, the mantua'makers depart- 
 ed, the room was cleared, and Charles exclaimed — « 
 
 " What an hour of agony have I passed ! Was it 
 done purposely, Henrietta? Do you only live to tor- 
 ment me?" 
 
 " Why, my dear friend — " 
 
 Here the door again opened, and a servant an-- 
 nounced the Baron and Baroness de Menval and 
 General Derville. Charles, disappointed and enraged, 
 flew out of the house. One day had he lost, and one 
 step had he cor/te nearer to his grave.- The rest of 
 this miserable day he spent in gazing at the rain,, 
 which fell in torrents, writing letters, and loading 
 and unloading his pistols. 
 
 The next day, at one o'clock, he rang at Madame 
 de Salignac's door — she Wsls dressing to ride in the 
 JBois de J3oylogjie. The next day he tried two 
 o'clock — the lady was parking. The third day, at 
 three o'clock — the countess was shopping. Charles- 
 had not foreseen all these engagements. His ordy 
 comfort was loading and unloading his pistols. A 
 few days now remained. " I will Uy every day," he' 
 gaid ; " and yet when, when shall I f>nd her alone, dis-^ 
 engaged? '^ The unhappy youth wo-uld tear his hair 
 then dress himself and hurry to- the house, iost in time 
 to see her, covered with jewels and japonicas, glowing' 
 with beauty, step into her carriage and drive off, tcr 
 delight other eyes, gladden other hearts. One day be- 
 took it in his head to go there in the afternoon. He 
 hoped to find his capri<^ious love just returned fronx 
 the Bois de Boulogne, where, having been flattered 
 into good humor by the compliments of her numerous 
 admirers, and her heart perhaps softened by the sight 
 of some tender lovers enjoying tetc-d-tete amidst the 
 verdant alleys, he hoped to find her more disposed to- 
 
WOMEN AliE PICKLE. 101 
 
 fkvor Ills suit. Tie congratulated himself upon tlii.-* 
 happy idea. *' Five o'clock ! " he cried ; " that is the 
 fated hour. At six I shall return home an accepted 
 lover." And he fired ofl'oiie of his pistols. Some lurk- 
 ing presentiment induced him to allow the other to 
 remain loaded. At six o'clock he came back, pale, 
 haggard, wretched. He had found the countess 
 stretched out on a sofa, either reading or pretending 
 to read. He painted his love, and wretched state of 
 suspense, in the most touching terms. The countess 
 laughed, turned her back, and wondered why dinner 
 Was so long coming; and when he urged her to make 
 him happy, she in return urged him to hasten his repast* 
 Charles rushed out of the room in a fit of desperation. 
 
 The next day was his last, and Henrietta had invi-' 
 t^d him to attend her to the opera, on condition of 
 being perfectly silent respecting his love. He made 
 an attempt, at eight o'clock in the evening, to see her ; 
 but she was dressing for the opera. Charles, having 
 seen his pistol properly loaded, and having left it on 
 his table, followed his capricious but lovely mistress 
 to the last scene of amusement he expected to visit 
 an earth. 
 
 But, once seated by her side in the brilliant opera^ 
 the viscount became completely absorbed by the 
 music. He forgot his love and his pistol, and intent 
 Only on the heroine of the piece, with her he shed 
 t6ars, and with her rejoiced, till all recollection of 
 his own misfortunes was merged in his delighted ad- 
 miration of the pageant before him. 
 
 When Henrietta perceived, by his burning cheeks 
 and kindling eyes, that even her charms for the present 
 Were disregarded, she took the alarm, and even her 
 flinty nature began to melt. The opera-house had 
 never looked so brilliant, the ladies never so lovely, 
 89 beautiful'ly dressed; the miisic never before sounded 
 
102 
 
 "WOMEN RRE FICKLE. 
 
 SO delightfully ; the dancers had never displayed such 
 grace : all was enchantment, and the theme of every 
 tongue was love. 
 
 The opera out, Charles escorted his fair cousin 
 home. As he took her hand at the door, he felt it 
 slightly tremble, and in her sweetest tones she said, 
 *^ Charles, why are you in such a hurry to say good 
 night? Will you not come in? " 
 
 " It is near midnight, Henrietta, and this is a fated 
 hour." 
 
 " Why so, my young cousin ? Come, walk in, and 
 tell me why it is you dislike the pretty, sentimental 
 hour of midnight." 
 
 As she finished this sentence, Cliarles found him- 
 self by her side on the sofa of her drawing-room. 
 
 "Midnight, fair countess," he said, "is the hour 
 of crime. People steal at midnight, fight duels, com- 
 mit suicides at midnights. Do not all poets call mid- 
 night the hour of spectres, of crime, of terror ? and 
 %vere they not correct in doing so ? " 
 
 " No, Charles, they were wrong. For poet, read 
 liar. Tell me, then, grave Mentor, at what hour you 
 young men leave the opera or the theatre ; at what 
 time you go to balls and concerts; at what time you 
 fly to the round table, and empty bottles of cham- 
 pagne. Is not that hour midnight? And yet mid- 
 night, say the poets, is the hour of crimes and hob- 
 goblins. Fie, fie, Charles ; I bet you are only in such 
 a hurry to get rid of me this evening to go to some 
 supper-party." 
 
 " You are right, madam ; I am going to a supper- 
 party." 
 
 "And you dare acknowledge it? And you dare 
 admit to my very face, that you prefer a supper-party 
 to my company. Ah, then, for the future 1 too shall 
 iiate the hour of midnight. But how I would bless. 
 
"WOMEN ARE FICKLE 103 
 
 how I would cherish the hour, when, abandoning for 
 my sake the follies and vanities of a world for which 
 you were never made, bidding farewell to the frivo- 
 lous, dissipated companions of your lighter hours, you 
 would cast yourself at my feet, and, as in days of yore, 
 shed tears on my hand, vow that I was your world, 
 and that death, instant death should be your portion 
 unless I smiled upon your love. That hour I would 
 indeed bless and cherish, Charles; that, tome, would 
 be the hour of unutterable happiness." 
 
 " Henrietta, dearest, loveliest, forgive me. I knew 
 not what I said. Midnight is in truth a happy, a joy- 
 ful hour. 1 must have been mad, more than mad. 
 What! dream of the moniing, the afternoon, when 
 midnight, dear midnight, was before me? What! 
 hope to woo you — win you, in the very midst of your 
 adorers, your never-ceasing engagements'? I was 
 indeed mad. Withdraw not that lily hand, my own 
 bright-eyed love. This very night, Henrietta, did I 
 mean to terminate my wretched existence. Even now 
 my pistols are loaded ; they await me." 
 
 "Let them wait, Charles, let them wait. Do you 
 think I would abet murder ? " 
 
 And Charles staid ; and swiftly did the hours glide 
 away, while the viscount listened to the blushing con- 
 fessions of Henrietta's love, and her dread of Matilda's 
 censure. 
 
 When Marguerite sought her lady in the morning, 
 she found the lovers still tete-d-tetc on the sofa, bu- 
 sied in framing a letter of excuse to the countess's 
 fellow-hermit. Her waiting-maid held a letter in 
 her hand, which she presented to her mistress, who 
 crimsoned to the very temples when she recognized 
 the hand-writing of Matilda. 
 
 But alas, alas! we live in a world of dreams 
 and illusions; we live in a world where truth i& 
 
104 LOVE IN THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 but a transient guest, where man lingers but an 
 instant, and where every day oifers but a contra- 
 diction to its predecessor. The first page of Ma- 
 tilda's letter v/as filled with dark, philosophical re- 
 flections ; the next was wet with tears ; and in the 
 third page she implored the countess's pardon, but as- 
 sured her the plan of the Hermitage was a perfect 
 absurdity, and could not be carried into execution; 
 because, on the very next Sunday, a young and intel- 
 ligent lawyer, in their neighborhood, was to lead her 
 to the hymeneal altar. Alas, alas ! women were, are, 
 will be, fickle. 
 
 LOVE IN THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 The Lady Eveleyn Seton, of Seton Manor, was 
 young, beautiful, rich, and an orphan. Too young 
 to join in the gay revels of a court, she was still im- 
 mured within her ancient halls, under the watchful eye 
 of her aunt the Lady, Alice ; and though retired from the 
 society of the age in which they lived, many were the 
 suitors aspiring to the hand of the fair Eveleyn. One 
 alone appeared slighdy favored : he was the young 
 Sir Hugh de Gasconville, the most finished courtier 
 and accomplished knight under the banners of Rich- 
 ard Cceur de Lion ; but Lady Eveleyn was fickle — she 
 inherited all the pride of the Setons, and took more 
 delight in gazing at the grim array of her warrior an- 
 cestors in the gallery of family portraits, than in lis- 
 tening to the courtly phrases and laughing tones of 
 Sir Hugh. 
 
 *' I would I could win thy love, fair Lady Eveleyn." 
 said the knight, one day, as they paced the gallery to- 
 
LOVE IN THE OLDEN TIME. 105 
 
 gether, (Lady Alice actmg propriety in the dis- 
 tance.) *' Three years have I wooed thee, yet still 
 thou art unrelenting : bid me serve thee ; bid me 
 perform a task, any thing to win thee." 
 
 " Nay," replied Eveleyn, " I impose no tasks — I 
 doubt the^ not; and yet — 'twere well to try thee, 
 methinksr— look round thee. Sir Hugh; look at my 
 soldier ancestors, all of whom were great in arms and 
 famed for deeds of prowess : thinkest thou that the 
 last of the Setons would wed with a — a — a stripling 
 
 kniofht, whose sword has never left its scabbard — 
 
 » 
 whose brow has never faced a battle — whose arm, 
 
 perchance, might fail before — " 
 
 " Stop, lady," said Sir Hugh, indignantly. " I hear^ 
 I understand thee ; thou shalt see that Hugh de Gascon- 
 ville owns no craven heart ; I thought not, with these 
 high feelings of thine own, thou wouldst have kept 
 me so long tamely captive in thy train ! " 
 - *' Silence, Sir Hugh," exclaimed Eveleyn, in her 
 turn roused ; " thou art forgetting thyself; we would 
 be alone." 
 
 She waved her hand — it was enough. The knight 
 bowed low, and springing on his horse, dashed furi- 
 ously past the windows, and was out of sight. 
 
 The flower of the French nobility were enjoying the 
 gayest tournament that " la belle France " had ever wit- 
 nessed, when an unknown knight entered the lists and 
 challenged the victor of the day to single combat. He 
 was tall, slightly made, well armed, and well mounted ; 
 and a murmur of astonishment went round as he bent 
 his plumed head before the royal canopy ; but the 
 murmur rose to a prolonged shout of approbation whea 
 the lance of the stranger rang on the breast of his op- 
 ponent, and hurled him to the ground. 
 
 After assisting the fallen knight to rise, the stran- 
 ger advanced slowly and gracefully towards the plat* 
 
106 
 
 LOVE IN THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 form from whence the prize was presented, and receiv- 
 ing on the point of his lance the chaplet and scarf, 
 with a low obeisance he turned, and was gone before 
 the vanquished had time to recover his seat or his 
 senses. Who could the stranger knight be, save 
 Sir Hugh de Gasconville? 
 
 When the drawbridge of Seton Manor was lowered 
 for Sir Hugh, and the stately turrets burst on his sight, 
 a thrill of fearful expectation curled through his veins. 
 The pink and silver scarf of France floated on his 
 shoulder, and the chaplet of pale roses, now withered, 
 hung on his arm as he reined in his charger at the gate, 
 and dismounting, paced through the vestibule, which 
 opened into the withdrawing rooms. He heard Lady 
 Eveleyn's voice, and the knight paused. Three weeks 
 had passed since he left those rooms in anger ; and 
 remembering his parting scene, he dreaded the recep- 
 tion he might meet. Suddenly he entered, and on his 
 bended knee, laid the trophies at Lady Eveleyn's feet. 
 
 " So, Sir Hugh!" exclaimed the beauty, with the 
 faintest blush in the world, " thou art returned — 
 whither hast thou been? The Lady Alice thought 
 that thou hadst forgotten the road to Seton Manor." 
 
 *' And thou, Eveleyn," said the knight, " didst thou 
 not think of me ? " 
 
 ^' In truth, I seldom think, since thinking spoils the 
 countenance ; but whither hast thou been, and what 
 are these — the chaplet and the scarf? " 
 
 ^' Ladye Love, I have journeyed to France, and these 
 are the trophies won by my poor arm at its latest tour- 
 nament." 
 
 " And wherefore hast thou laid them at my feet, Sir 
 Hugh ? " 
 
 " To win a boon," whispered De Gasconville. 
 
 '' What wouldst thou? " said the lady, coloring deep- 
 ly ; " what is the boon ? " 
 
LOTE IN THE OLDEN TIME. 107 
 
 " Eveleyn ! hast thou so soon forgotten ? " 
 
 *' Are the ladies of France fair, Sir Hugh 1 " 
 
 " I saw them not, seeing only thee before mine eyes, 
 lady." 
 
 '* Thou hast learnt courtesy," smiled Eveleyn; "but 
 tell me, didst thou break a lance or lose a charger — 
 or — or — gain a wound in this same tournament?" 
 
 *' Nay, lady ; but I unhorsed a bold crusader." 
 
 Lady Eveleyn curled her lip. *' Methinks, Sir Hugh, 
 that were mere sport, since not a drop of thy brave 
 blood was spilt." 
 
 Sir Hugh started. The lady continued — ** Me- 
 thinks, likewise, that a faded chaplet and a worn scarf 
 were unsightly gifts for thy Ladye Love! — No, no, 
 Sir Knight ; when Eveleyn Seton weds, it must be 
 with one worthy of her hand ; when Seton Manor owns 
 a master, it must be one who will not disgrace its an- 
 cient halls!" 
 
 *' Eveleyn!" exclaimed the knight, grasping his 
 sword, " I know thee not in this strange mood — it ia 
 enough — when I am gone, think on thy words — no 
 longer shall Hugh de Gasconville disgrace thine an- 
 cient halls ! I have loved thee, Eveleyn, but for thy- 
 self alone ! I have wooed thee, but not for thy gold ! " 
 
 " Nay, Hugh, dear Hugh, thou art too serious ; I 
 but meant — " 
 
 " It matters not now, lady ; thy words are traced in 
 fire on my heart ; not because thi/ loved lips pro- 
 nounced them, but because others heard thee scorn 
 me ; the day may come when I may be worthy of 
 thee — till then, Eveleyn, farewell ! " 
 
 " Nay, stop! one word! " cried Evelgyn ; but she 
 was too late: ere the tears could burst from her eyes, 
 Sir Hugh de Gasconville and his good charger were 
 skirting the distant hills ; ere another moment could 
 fly, he was lost to her sight ; and sinking on her *eat, 
 
• 108 LOTE m THE OlDEW TIME, 
 
 the Lady Eveleyn Seton exclaimed, in the bitterness 
 of repentance, " He is gone, and I have lost the traest 
 heart that ever knight proffered to Ladye Love ! " 
 
 The Christian army, under Cceur de Lion, set out 
 for the Holy Land, and amongst their glittering num- 
 bers appeared Sir Hugh de Gasconville. It vv^ere vain 
 to repeat the trials and hardships they endured ; it is 
 enough that, after a few years of toil, the few who es- 
 caped with their lives returned to their native land ; 
 and of them was reckoned Sir Hugh ; but he was 
 changed. The tall, proud youth was covered with 
 "wounds, worn, subdued, ill, and melancholy ; yet his 
 first thought was of Eveleyn Seton. He faltered in 
 asking after her whom he loved ; but a wild sensation 
 of mingled pleasure and pain awoke in his breast on 
 finding that she was still alive, well, and Eveleyn 
 Seton. 
 
 His determination was taken ; he would see her once 
 more ; and just as the summer's sun set behind the 
 Yorkshire Hills, Sir Hugh de Gasconville rang the 
 great bell of Seton Manor. 
 
 He found Eveleyn surrounded by her attendants. 
 
 " Thou art a soldier and a crusader," said she, 
 bending; "and thou art welcome to our castle; but 
 who art thou ? " 
 
 *' Lady," began Sir Hugh. 
 
 '' Ah ! " shrieked Eveleyn, *' I know thee ! Hugh ! 
 dear Hugh, welcome, welcome home!" 
 
 "It is I indeed, lady, but sadly, sorely changed; 
 I cannot kneel to thee now ; I may not offer thee the 
 strength of this arm, for it is helpless; I cannot stand 
 before thee without the stay of my good lance ; yet would 
 I see thee once again. May I speak with thee alone ? 
 
 " Eveleyn," said the knight, as he lifted his plumed 
 helmet off, " thou seest me ! " 
 
 " I hear thee, Hugh ; it is enough 1 " 
 
THE MUFFLED PRIEST. 109 
 
 " Nay, raise thine eyes ; thou seest but the wreck of 
 Hugh de GasGonville; and conscious that, though his 
 hand has been soaked in the blood of the enemy, and 
 though lances have been broken and sabres bent on 
 his body, I am still unworthy of thee, I come, faint, 
 wounded, and disabled, to bid thee a long, last fare- 
 well ! " 
 
 *' Then thou lovest me no longer, Hugh ! " cried 
 Eveleyn. 
 
 " Better than life," replied the knight ; " yet thinkest 
 thou I am one to win woman's love ? " 
 
 ** Yes ! " exclaimed Eveleyn, throwing her arm 
 round the lance on which he leant ; " say no more ; I 
 am still thine in heart. Though thou art wounded, 
 'twas in a noble cause. Thou hast fought long and 
 bravely. Though disabled, thou art not dishonored. 
 In future this arm shall be thy stay, and if thou wilt, 
 Hugh, mine own Hugh, this hand shall be thy well- 
 won prize! " 
 
 " Won, won! " murmured the now exhausted Sir 
 Hugh, '* and lost, lost, as soon as won." 
 
 THE MUFFLED PRIEST. 
 
 The aisles of the chapel, lately thronged with many 
 worshippers, were silent. The sounds of prayer which 
 had echoed through the groined roof, were hushed. 
 The assembly which had knelt in solemn, but erro- 
 neous devotion, had disappeared; and the stone 
 image — the senseless object of their adoration — 
 smiled grimly in the gloomy loneliness, as his chis- 
 
110 
 
 THE MUrFLED PBIEST 
 
 eled features displayed themselves in the temple erect- 
 ed by superstitious wealth to his service. 
 
 But one individual remained, — a long robe of som- 
 bre hue concealed his person, — who leaned, as if in 
 deep thought, against the pedestal on which stood the 
 deity. He was the priest. 
 
 A long shadow was cast on the floor, and instantly 
 afterward a tall, gaunt figure appeared at the door. 
 A mantle of spotless white overhung his shoulders, 
 scarcely concealing his broad and ample chest. The 
 erectness of his carriage, the dignity of his attitude, 
 the fire of his eye, the boldness of his step, and the 
 proud curl upon his lip, proclaimed him to be a 
 man of ambition. 
 
 A contemptuous sneer played upon his countenance 
 as he cast his eyes about the sanctuary ; he glanced 
 toward the stern deity itself, as its deformed features 
 seemed to assume an expression of indignation at the 
 audacity of the intruder. The stranger then turned 
 toward the altar, on which, in a golden vase richly 
 studded with jewels, burned an offering of frankin- 
 cense, emitting a pale blue smoke, which rose and 
 festooned from pillar to pillar, disseminating its per- 
 fume through the adjacent space. None of these, 
 however, seemed to produce either awe or respect 
 in the mind of the Roman; for, striding past the 
 shrine, he cried — 
 
 "Priest! dost sleep?" 
 
 The individual whom he addressed slowly turned 
 his head, muttered, " 'Tis he ! " then, drawing his 
 robe more closely about him, answered — 
 
 "No, I sleep not. The priest of this deity is not 
 as other men ; he needs no sleep." 
 
 " Cease this folly," cried the senator impatient- 
 ly ; " well I know all tricks and juggles of thy craft; 
 ■ave thy precious trash to dose the vulgar; re* 
 
THE MUFFLED PRIEST. Ill 
 
 serve thy lectures for the fools who kneel to this 
 
 thing of stone ! " 
 
 •'Beware! rash man," returned the priest, ''how, 
 in the sanctity of this house, you brave his ven- 
 geance : what thou think'st stone may possess powef 
 to strike terror to even'^hy stubborn heart." 
 
 ** Forbear this idle talk ! " exclaimed the other. 
 
 "Idle talk!" repeated the priest, with deep solem- 
 nity of manner ; "■ obdurate as thou art, this deity, 
 through me, can disclose that would make thee trem- 
 ble ! " 
 
 "I would fain witness the skill of which thou vaunt- 
 est," said the senator, in a more serious manner ; for 
 he was unconsciously imbibing a portion of the awe 
 which pervaded the place. 
 
 " Thou shalt be gratified," remarked the priest : 
 *' what I now tell, thou think'st buried in thine own 
 bosom, unknown by others : if I disclose it to thee, 
 doubt not that he who presides here can read the 
 hearts of all who approach him, whether to worship 
 or to scoff," 
 
 " Proceed, proceed ! " cried the other. 
 
 *' Twenty years since, Armenius, thou wert a gen- 
 eral, the commander of a legion — " 
 
 " Well done for the omniscience of thy god ! " cried 
 the Roman, jeeringly. ''My many triumphs have 
 chronicled the truth of thy remarks in the archives of 
 the republic. Is this thy wonder?" 
 
 "Interrupt me not," answered the priest, calmly; 
 " when I finish, speak what words thou'st mind ; till 
 then, listen. — Twenty years since, when thou wert a 
 general, thou hadst a friend — ha! start'st thou now ? 
 Twenty years since, I, too, had a friend ; but I do 
 not tremble. Thy friend loved thee, served thee, 
 and shared his all with thee. Through his high 
 mfluence, when accused before the senate, thou 
 
113 THE MUrrLED PRIEST. 
 
 Bav'dst thy name, thy honor, and thy life. Although 
 thy junior, thou sought'st him for advice, and using 
 it, didst bind thy brow with the laurels of victory. 
 When surrounded by barbarians, and the pilum, taken 
 from one of thine own band, was hurled at thee, his 
 buckler warded off the well-directed blow. But " — 
 and his manner became more impressive, his voice 
 more melodious — "that friend, alas ! loved an Italian 
 girl, soft, pure, and lovely as the sky which arches 
 over her native land. — See, thou start' st again 1 Did I 
 not tell thee I would make thee tremble? — Yes, he 
 loved the girl, not with the vile feelings which tempt- 
 ed thee to gaze upon her charms, and admire her for 
 them alone. His fondness was for herself, her rich, 
 angelic mind, more than even her dazzling beauty. 
 Treacherously thou strov'st to supplant him in her 
 affections by the splendor of military rank, knowing, 
 as he had confided to thee, that their vows had been 
 exchanged. Thou found'st thy arts useless, and 
 didst change thy love to hatred. The girl became 
 thy friend's wife, when thou, falsely accusing him 
 of crime, didst use thy power to tear him from her 
 arms, sell him into bondage, confiscate his proper- 
 ty, and strike his name from the list of citizens. His 
 wife survived her miseries but a year, while thou 
 didst return to the capital loaded with the spoils of 
 the enemy. Yet, with the red-hot hand of guilt 
 grasping thy conscience, and even now, proud and os- 
 tentatious before the world, the god tells me in thy 
 chamber thou'rt a coward — starting, in alarm, if the 
 least noise breaks on the midnight." 
 
 " Who art thou that dost know all this?" cried the 
 Roman, in evident alarm. 
 
 " I am the priest," answered the other, " who can 
 unnerve even the Roman senator ! " 
 
 A paleness overspreid the face of Armenius, as he 
 
THE MUFFLED PRIEST. 113 
 
 looked first on the graven image, and then on his ora- 
 cle, but, by a violent exertion, resuming his wonted 
 carelessness of demeanor, he said — 
 
 "Well, if it is so, let it rest — though 'tis all false, 
 a-s thou hast said, yet here is a purse ; I present it to 
 thy god or thee; I suppose it's the same thing; I will 
 to-morrow add another. He may be all thou'st repre- 
 sented him; but I believe neither in stocks nor 
 stones — however, I have an object; but first, priest, 
 canst thou keep a secret 1 " 
 
 *' Why ask? have I not formerly done so for thee ? " 
 
 " 'Tis true ; but this is of more importance." 
 
 " So shall my lips be surer guarded." 
 
 " Priest, I am rich ! " 
 
 *' Thy gifts to me have proved it." 
 
 "I am bountiful!" 
 
 *' Yonder jewelled vase attests it." 
 
 " Well, then, I will trust thee ; serve me well, and 
 I will erect a sanctuary to thy deity the proudest in 
 Rome." 
 
 " My ears are open, and my heart prepared to bury 
 thy words," said the priest. 
 
 " 'Tis this," continued Armenius. " The proud 
 Augustus, our new censor, is about to make himself 
 prince of the senate, and I would thwart him. I have 
 no line of noble ancestors on whom to base my 
 claims ; it is superstition must aid me ; that thou 
 canst command. Thy temple is the resort of the 
 rich and poor of the city — of the high and the low; 
 by thy aid, and that of yonder stone, my desires may 
 be accomplished; if thou wilt, and I succeed in my 
 designs, I swear to keep my promise." 
 
 The priest consented ; when, the two having con- 
 certed measures for the furtherance of their scheme, 
 the aspiring senator withdrew; while the priest, 
 drawing aside a veil, entered an inner apartment, and 
 8 
 
114 THE MUrrLED PRIEST. 
 
 the shades of night enveloped the capital of the 
 world. 
 
 The multitudinous noises of the gay metropolis 
 had subsided, the twilight had passed away, and the 
 moon shone brightly in the cloudless firmament — 
 'twas midnight. 
 
 Each pillar reared its graceful capital distinct in 
 the silvery flood which illumined the earth with near- 
 ly the brilliancy of sunshine, save where its rays were 
 caught and reflected back by the pale marble which 
 rose, in tasteful intercolumniation, around the prince- 
 ly mansion of Armenius. 
 
 One object only gave animation to the scene; and 
 even he appeared scarcely living, for in the darkness 
 of a deep shadow he stood as if transfixed, and made 
 no motion; save now and then the hand, which was 
 laid upon his breast, would contract, as if with 
 nervous action. 
 
 Another figure is added to the scene — she glides 
 on tiptoe, and rapidly flies to meet the youth; she 
 throws herself into his arms — his lips meet hers — • 
 the sudden transport of delight, the impassioned em- 
 brace declares them to be lovers. 
 
 Stealing noiselessly into the deeper shade of an 
 adjacent wall, they are concealed from every eye save 
 that of Him who cannot look upon such love, so pure, 
 so fervid, and so disinterested, but with pity on the 
 sad fate which separates them. 
 
 " Agricola, love," whiuspered the maid, "have I lin- 
 gered too long from thee ? Thou wist forgive me; it 
 was to avoid detection that I tarried." 
 
 The youth seized her tapering fingers in his own, 
 and pressed them to his bosom. 
 
 *' No, love," he cried, pressing her hands to his 
 lipSp and bathing them in the sea of agony which was 
 
THE MUFFLKD PRIEST. 115 
 
 rushing from his eyes, " no ; alas ! thou hast not lin- 
 gered long enough; would that thou hadst never 
 come!" 
 
 " Say not so, Agricola. Wherefore dost thou 
 weep thus?" she inquired, soothingly. 
 
 *' Because," he replied, "this is the last time that 
 we meet, Sylvia; and may I not consecrate it by a 
 tear, as one of fond remembrance ? " 
 
 "The last, Agricola!" sobbed the tender girl; 
 *' O, name it not ; we never will part again." 
 
 " Alas ! what wouldst thou ? " 
 
 *' Live with thee; die with thee; Sylvia would be 
 thy wife." 
 
 " No, no ! " exclaimed the youth, as the pang of 
 grief darted through his soul; " no, Sylvia, it may not 
 be!" 
 
 " Then," said she, reprovingly, " thou dost not love 
 me, or thou wouldst not cast me off." 
 
 " Love you ! " cried he ; " it is that I love too well, 
 to — " 
 
 ** Then why not listen to my prayer ? " 
 
 " Alas ! it is that I love too deeply ! " 
 
 *'No," cried the girl, " no, Agricola; didst thou 
 love like me, like me adore, thou wouldst cast aside 
 these fears." 
 
 "Fears!" repeated the youth, dropping his hand, 
 and flashing a fire from his eye, which illumined the 
 space about them; ''fears, Sylvia! thou dost not 
 know me. To me fear is a stranger. 'Tis not that 
 which influences me; but recollect, girl — Agricola 
 is a slave ! " 
 
 The momentary sternness which he had assumed 
 did not, however, damp the ardor of the girl ; it 
 seemed to render him still dearer to her. She placed 
 her fragile arm about his manly neck, and in a tone 
 of gentle reproach, "Rebuke me not, my love," sho 
 
UQ 
 
 THE MITFTLED PRIEST. 
 
 said ; " thou know'st, if Agricola is a slave, Sylvia 
 would share his bondage. Her love would make his 
 slavery sweeper far than freedom." 
 
 " Desist, I pray thee," responded the youth, encir- 
 cling her waist with his arm, with respectful tender- 
 ness, and softening his tone; "remember your father 
 is a Roman ! " 
 
 " Cruel as thou art, I still will love thee," she whis- 
 pered through her tears; "none but thee I live or 
 care for. My father's wrath I heed not, so that I 
 possess thee; I care — " 
 
 " Hist ! " said her lover, as he carefully leaned to- 
 ward the spot they had just quitted. " When last we 
 met, I heard a noise like that which just struck upon 
 my ear. Sylvia, away ! " 
 
 " Never," cried the girl, filled with love's des- 
 peration, and clinging more closely to him, " never 
 till thou'st promised. I will die with thee, Agricola, 
 but will not lose thee ! " 
 
 A faint noise resembling a footfall broke on the si- 
 lence, as Agricola strove to disengage himself from 
 the virgin, who twined her arms wildly about his 
 neck. 
 
 " Begone, Sylvia, I beseech ! " 
 
 " Till you promise, never ! " she articulated, nearly 
 choked with emotion. 
 
 Again the noise was heard. If they were discov- 
 ered, ruin would befall the idol of his heart, and he 
 be degraded by the lash. A moment more, it would 
 be too late : he put his lips to her ear. 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 In the next instant the light form of the maid was 
 lost among the columns, and her lover, looking hasti- 
 ly about, saw the shadow, evidently that of a man, 
 cast on the pavement near him ; but so instantaneous 
 was the disappearance that it had vanished ere he was 
 
THE MUFFLED PRIEST. 117 
 
 fully aware of the reality. He kneeled, and placed 
 his ear on the stones; but all was silent, save the 
 short beating of his heart. 
 
 The immovable features of the pagan idol were 
 dimly visible in the breakuigday that stole through tne 
 portico of his temple, while, equally inflexible, the priest 
 sat at his feet, his face hid in the ample folds of his 
 mantle, presenting only ihe undefined outlines of a 
 man. 
 
 As the gray haze of morning yielded to the strength- 
 ening dawn, the senator, with a deep frown settled on 
 his brow, walked in, and saluted the priest, who rose 
 to receive him. 
 
 " Why here, and so early?" demanded the latter^ 
 " I could effect nothing in the short period since we 
 parted yesterday." 
 
 " 'Tis not for that I sought thee," answered his 
 visitor. 
 
 "Then why this visit?" returned the priest. 
 
 " For vengeance ! " 
 
 "Thou shalt have it," replied the priest, gathering 
 his robe about him. 
 
 " Thou know'st not what I mean, foolish priest." 
 
 "Still thou shalt have vengeance;" and a dry 
 cough, like a death rattle, sounded in the throat of 
 the priest — it might have been a laugh. 
 
 " Silence," said the senator, sternly, laying his 
 clinched hand upon the altar; "the new-made laws 
 have deprived us of our innate right to punish our 
 slaves with death; yet I have a slave who must 
 die!" 
 
 An involuntary shudder passed over the heathen 
 priest ; but he pulled his robe more closely about 
 him, and the start passed unobserved. Armenius 
 continued — 
 
118 THE SITJFFLED PBIEST. 
 
 '^ I have a niece, my brother's daughter. She lives 
 with me, my adopted child. This slave has dared to 
 love her. I could let that pass ; but she, the daughter 
 of a free-born son of Rome, forgetting her birth, re- 
 turns his passion. I heard her swear it to him at the 
 last midnight. That seals his doom, and the slave 
 shall die ! Were it not that suspicion resting on me 
 might blight my brilliant hopes, this hand had done 
 the deed; but I am unused to tricks; I leave it to 
 thee; thy trade is craftiness, and thou canst lull sus- 
 picion. That's but thy fee," he said, casting a bag 
 of gold upon the altar; "mv reward shall make thee 
 rich ! " 
 
 " 'Tis well," muttered the priest: *' how calFst 
 thou thy slave?" 
 
 *' Agricola." 
 
 The sudden start and half word which escaped the 
 priest caught the other's attention. 
 
 "Why start'st thou?" he demanded. 
 
 " I started," answered the priest, recovering him- 
 self, and stretching forth an arm much withered and 
 shrunken, " because this hand was never dipped in 
 blood." 
 
 " A wise priest," said the senator, scornfully. *' I 
 see thy object; well, be it so ; " and he threw another 
 purse upon the altar. 
 
 " Thy words must be my law," said the priest, in a 
 low tone; *' but away! the people come to wor- 
 ship." 
 
 The senator cast a searching glance on the muffled 
 face of the priest ; he drew his robe about him, and, 
 casting a disdainful look on the throng which now 
 commenced kneeling about the image, left the chapel. 
 
 When the worshippers had concluded their devo- 
 tions, they retired ; and soon the priest was left alone 
 with one person who still knelt at the altar. The 
 
THE MUFFLED PRIEST. 119 
 
 priest having carefully fastened the doors, the devotee 
 arose, and casting aside the gray mantle which dis- 
 guised him, exhibited the fine form of Agricola, the 
 slave. 
 
 " Father," said he, " I crave thy blessing. Thou 
 hast ever been kind to Agricola; but he is poor, and 
 ail that he can return he now presents to thee — the 
 love that springs from his heart." 
 
 " 'Tis all I ask," cried the priest, casting aside his 
 mantle and embracing him ; " the love of the good is 
 the greatest treasure. But, my son, thou hast foiled in 
 confidence to me, and dangers beset thy path ranged 
 thicker than the pikes of the Macedonians." 
 
 Agricola blushed, and sank his head upon hi? 
 breast. 
 
 " It is true," he replied, " that I have not told thee 
 all; but now — " 
 
 "Mind it not now — I know all!" The youth 
 glanced incredulously into his face, when the priest, 
 taking his hand, continued, " Yes, all — thou lov'st 
 thy master's adopted daughter, and she returns thy 
 love. Is it not so ? " 
 
 *' Alas ! alas ! too rightly hast thou said," answered 
 the young man, despondingly. 
 
 *' Say not alas ! " cried the priest, his eyes bright- 
 ening with delight; " she shall be thy wife!" 
 
 "My wife!" repeated Agricola, retiring a few 
 paces, regarding the other with astonishment, " and I 
 a slave ! " 
 
 " Fear not ! if thou wouldst be happy, obey me. 
 At midnight f]y hither with thy bride, and I will 
 unite thee." 
 
 " But remember," said the youth, tortured with 
 many conflicting emotions, "the populace will slay 
 thee if thou dost unite a slave to a free-born girl." 
 
120 THE MUFFLED PRIEST. 
 
 " Leave that to me. Obey my instructions. — 
 Now away ! return at midnight." 
 
 At the same hour as on the previous morning, Ar- 
 menius repeated his visit; biit the priest met him at 
 the ahar, and, as he was about to speak, said in a 
 bolder tone than he had hitherto used — 
 
 '* The deity hath spoken of thee ! " 
 
 "Hast thou punished the slave?" demanded Ar- 
 menius, eagerly. 
 
 •* First must I relate the words of the god I serve, 
 then to thy question." 
 
 *' Be speedy with thy fooleries," said Armenius, 
 haughtily. " I have weighty business to-day, and few 
 moments to spare." 
 
 " Last night," said the priest, " the god spoke to 
 his servant, and said, the friend Atticus, whom Ar- 
 menius exiled, yet lives! — Start not, senator of 
 Rome — Atticus yet lives, and in disguise has re- 
 turned to Rome, found proof of thy baseness, and re- 
 ceived honors from Augustus. He has learned, too, 
 that before her death his wife was delivered of a 
 child ; that thou didst seize the infant, and didst 
 bring him up as thy slave, that thou mightst feast thy 
 hellish hate in seeing the son of thy rival eat with thy 
 bondsmen." 
 
 ** Hast thou ended?" asked his auditor. 
 
 "I have," answered the priest. 
 
 ** Then know thy god or thou speak^st false, for of 
 a surety I know that Atticus is long since dead. Now 
 answer me — hast thou slain the slave?" 
 
 " To satisfy thyself how faithfully I have executed 
 my commission," said the priest, "raise yonder veil, 
 and behold his body." 
 
 The senator strode in the direction pointed out, 
 
 i 
 
ISABELLE, HER SISTER KATE, &C, 121 
 
 and drawing aside the curtain, beheld Acrricola with 
 Sylvia in his arms. He recoiled at first, but in an 
 instant exclaiming — 
 
 " Wretch, thou hast deceived me ! " unsheathed a 
 jewel-hilted dagger from beneath his robe, nnd was 
 bounding forward, when the priest caught his arm. 
 
 " Hold, murderer ! " he cried, " nor dare to shed a 
 freeman's blood ! " 
 
 " He is not free. He is my slave," cried the sena- 
 tor, striving to free himself from the priest, who held 
 him with an iron grasp, while he exclaimed, " 'Tis 
 false — he is my son." Then, casting aside his robe, he 
 discovered his person decked in full senatorial cos- 
 tume, while he added, " And T am Atticus, a Roman 
 senator." Then, wresting tiie dagger from his hand, he 
 threw him from him with gigantic strength, crying, 
 *' Thy treason has reached the ears of Augustus. 
 Guards, seize the traitor ! " 
 
 As if by magic, the chapel filled with legionaries, 
 who, tearing his robes from the crest-fallen Armenius, 
 conducted him to a neighboring prison ; while the 
 new senator, restored to all his power and estates, with 
 Agricola and his lovely bride, was escorted trium- 
 phantly to the palace of Augustus. 
 
 ISABELLE, HER SISTER KATE, 
 AND THEIR COUSIN. 
 
 Mistakes and misunderstandings are not such bad 
 things, after all, at least not always so; circumstances 
 alter cases. 
 
 I remember a case quite in point. Every body iii 
 
122 ISABELLE, HER SISTER KATE, &C. 
 
 the county admired Isabelle Edmunds; and in truth 
 she was an admirable creature , just made for admi- 
 ration, and sonneteering, and falling in love with ; 
 
 and accordingly all the county of was in 
 
 love with her. The columns of every Argus, and 
 Herald, and Sentinel, and Gazette, and Spectator, 
 and all manner of newspapers, abounded with the ef- 
 fusions, supplicatory and declaratory, of her wor- 
 shippers : in short, Miss Isabelle was the object of 
 all the spare "ideality" in all the region round 
 about. Now, I shall not inform my respected read- 
 ers how she looked ; you may just think of a Venus, 
 a Pysche, a Madonna, a fairy, an angel, &lc., and you 
 will have a very definite idea on the point. I must 
 run on with my story. I am not about to choose 
 this angel for my heroine, because she is too hand- 
 some, and too much like other heroines, for my pur- 
 pose. But Miss Isabelle had a sister, and I think 
 I shall take her. " Little Kate " — for she was always 
 spoken of in the diminutive — was some years younger 
 than her sister, and somewhat shorter in stature. 
 She had no pretensions to beauty — none at all; yet 
 there was something, a certain — in short, sir, she 
 looked very much like Mrs. A., or Miss G., whom you 
 admire so much, though you always declare she is 
 not handsome. 
 
 It requires very peculiar talent to be overlooked 
 with good grace, and in this talent Miss Kate ex- 
 celled. She was as placid and happy by the side 
 of her brilliant sister, as any little contented star 
 that for ages has twinkled on, unnoticed and almost 
 eclipsed, by the side of the peerless moon. Indeed, 
 the only art or science, in which Kate ever made 
 any proficiency, was the art and science of being 
 happy ; and in this she so remarkably excelled, 
 
ISABELLE, HER SISTEIl KATE, &,C. 123 
 
 that one could scarcely be in her presence half an 
 hour without feeling unaccountably comfortable. 
 
 She had a world of sprightlincss, a deal of simplicity 
 and affection, with a dash of good-natured shrewdness, 
 that, after all, kept you more in awe than you would 
 ever suppose you could be kept, by such a merry, good- 
 tiatured little nobody. Not one of Isabelle's adorers 
 looked at her with such devout admiration as did the 
 laughter-loving Kate. No one was so ready to run, 
 wait, and tend — to be up stairs, and every where, in 
 ten minutes, when Isabelle was dressing for conquest ; 
 in short, she was, as the dedications of books some- 
 times set forth, her ladyship's most obedient, most de^ 
 Voted servant. 
 
 But if I am going to tell you my story, I must not 
 keep you all night looking at pictures; so now to my 
 tale, which I shall commence in manner and form fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 It came to pass that a certain college valedictorian, 
 and a far-off cousin of the two sisters, came to pasg 
 a few months of his free agency at their father's; and, 
 as aforesaid, he had carried off the first college honor, 
 besides the hearts of all the ladies in the front gallery 
 at the commencement. 
 
 So interesting! so poetic! such line eyes, and all 
 that, was the reputation he left with the gentle sex. 
 But alas! poor Edward! what did all this advantage 
 him, so long as he was afflicted with that unutterable, 
 indescribable malady, commonly rendered bashful- 
 ness — a worse nullifier than any ever heard of in 
 Carolina? Should you see him in company, you 
 would really suppose him ashamed of his remarkably 
 handsome person and cultivated mind. When he 
 began to speak, you felt tempted to throw open the 
 window and offer him a smelling-bottle^ he made 
 
124 ISAEELI.E, K£?. SISTER KATE, &C. 
 
 such a distressing affair of it; and as to speakitlg iO 
 a lady, tiie thing was not to be thought of 
 
 When Kate lieard that this " rara avis " was com- 
 ing to ker father's, she was unaccountably interested 
 to see him, of course — because he was her cousin, 
 and because — a dozen other things, too numerous to 
 mention. 
 
 He came, and was for one or two days an object 
 of commiseration, as well as admiration, of the whole 
 family circle. After a while, however, he grew quite 
 domestic; entered the room straight forward, instead 
 of stealing in sidewise — talked off whole sentences 
 without stopping — looked Miss Isabelle full in the 
 face without blushing — even tried his skill at stretch- 
 ing patterns, and winding silk-— read poetry and 
 played the flute with the ladies — romped and frol- 
 icked with the ciiildren — and, in short, as old John 
 observed, wjss " as pleasant as a psalm book from 
 morning till night." 
 
 Divers reports began to spread abroad in the neigh- 
 borhood, and great confusion was heard in the camp 
 of Miss Isabelle's admirers. It Was stated, with great 
 precision, hov/ many times they had ridden, walked, 
 talked together, and even all they had said, In shorty 
 the whole neighborhood was full of 
 
 " That strange knowledge thut doth come, 
 We know not how — we know not where/' 
 
 As for Katy, she always gave all admirefs to her 
 sister, ex officio; but she thought, that of all the men 
 she had ever seen, she should like her cousin Ed- 
 ward best for a brother; and she did hope Isabelle 
 would like him as much as she did; and for some 
 reason or other, her speculations were remarkably 
 drawn to this point; and yet, for some reason or 
 
tSAUELLE, ItEll SISTER KATE, &C. 125 
 
 Other, she felt as if she could not ask any questions 
 about it. 
 
 At last, events appeared to draw towards a crisis. 
 Edward became more and more "brown studious" 
 every day, and he and Isabelle had divers solitary 
 Walks and confabulations, from which they returned 
 with a j)eculiar solemnity of countenance. More- 
 over, the quick-sighted little Kate noticed that when 
 Edward was with herself he seemed to talk as though 
 he talked not, while with Isabelle he was all anima- 
 tion and interest ; that he was constantly falling into 
 trances and reveries, and broke ofTtlie thread of con- 
 versation abruptly; and, in short, had every appear- 
 ance of a person who would be glad to say something, 
 if he only knew how. 
 
 " So," said Kate to herself, " they neither of them 
 speak to me about it-— I should think they might. 
 Belle I should think would, and Edward knows I am 
 a good friend of his. I know he is thinking of it all 
 the time. lie might as well tell me, and he shall." 
 
 The next morning Miss Kate was sitting in the 
 little back parlor. Isabelle was gone out shopping, 
 and Edward was — she did not know where. O 
 no, here he is — coming book in hand into the self- 
 same little room. " Now for it," said the merry 
 girl, mentally; "I'll make a charge at him." She 
 looked up. Master Edward was sitting diagonally on 
 the sofi, twirling the leaves of his book in a very 
 unscholarlike manner; he looked out of the window 
 and — then he walked to the sideboard and poured 
 out three tumblers of water ; then he drew a chair up 
 to the work-table, and took up first one ball of cotton, 
 looked it all over, and laid it down; then another; 
 then he picked up the scissors, and minced up two or 
 three little bits of paper ; and then he began to pull 
 
126 rSABELLE, HER StSTEa KATE, &C. 
 
 the needles out of the needle-bookj and put them 
 back again. 
 
 "Do you wish for some Rewing, sir?'* said the 
 young lady, after having very composedly superin- 
 tended these operations. 
 
 "How — — ma'amj what! " said he, starting^ and 
 upsetting box, stand and all, upon the floor. 
 
 " Nov/, cousin, I'll thank you to pick up that cot- 
 ton," said Kate, as the confused collegian stood star- 
 ing at the cotton balls Tolling in divers directions. 
 It takes some time to pick up all the things in a 
 lady's work*box; but at last peace was restored, and 
 with it a long pause. 
 
 " Well, cousin," said Kate, in about ten minutes, 
 *' if you can't speak, I can ; you have something to 
 tell me, you know you have." 
 
 " Well, I hiow I have," said the scholar, in a tone 
 of hearty vexation. 
 
 " There's no need of being so fierce about it," said 
 the mischievous maiden, " nor of tangling my silk, and 
 picking out my needles, and upsetting my work-box^ 
 as preparatory ceremonies." 
 
 "There is never any need of being a fool, Kate^ 
 and I am vexed that I cannot say" — [a pau^e>) 
 
 " Well, sir, you have displayed a reasonable fiuen* 
 cy so far : don't you feel as if you could finish? Don't 
 be alarmed; I should like, of all things, to be youf 
 confidant." 
 
 But Edward did not finish ; his tongue clave to the 
 roof of his mouth, and he appeared to be going into 
 convulsions. 
 
 " Weil, I must finish for you, I suppose," said the 
 young lady; "the short of the matter is, Master Ed- 
 ward , you are in love, and have exhibited the phenomena 
 thereof this fortnight. Now, you know I am a friend- 
 
THE SPANISH DUCHESS, &LC. 127 
 
 ly little body; so do be tractable, .-ind tell me the rest. 
 Have you said any tliiniT to her about it?" 
 
 "Toiler! to wlioin '? " said Edward, starting. 
 
 ** Why, Isabelle, to be sure; ii's she, isn't it?'* 
 
 "No, Miss Catharine, it's i/ou," said the scholar, 
 who, like most bashful persons, could be amazingly 
 explicit when he spoke at all. 
 
 Poor little Kate! it was her turn to look at the 
 cotton balls, and exhibit symptoms of scarlet fever; 
 and while she is thinking what to say next, you may 
 read the next piece. 
 
 THE SPANISH DUCHESS AND 
 THE OP^PHAN BOY. 
 
 The duchess of Aimed a, who was a Creole of the 
 Havanna, was married, at a very early age, to the 
 '■ duke of that name and title. This union was in op- 
 ' position to the tast*^ of Rita, who had a great pred- 
 ilection for a religious life; but, as her family in- 
 sisted on her compliance with their wishes, she sub- 
 mitted in silence, and. until the period of her arrival 
 in France, no other feelings than those that were 
 ; prompted by the sincerest piety had occupied her 
 bosom. 
 
 The duke of Almeda was an old gentleman of an 
 infinity of wit, but wlio had been seduced, as was at 
 that time the case with a great number of his rank, by 
 the falhe splendor with which the school of the En- 
 cyL-lonedists was surrounded; and, deceived by the 
 principles of universal philanthropy which that mis- 
 chievous sect announced, he devoted himself, heart 
 
128 
 
 SPANISH DUCHESS AtW ORPHAlf BOTV 
 
 and soul, to the propagation of its doctrines. Parti- 
 cipating in that strange but honorable entliusiasm, by 
 which the heads of half the French nobility were at 
 that time distracted in the shadov/y regions of an 
 illusive Utopia, he hurried on, as far as lay in his 
 power, the progressive development of those ideas, 
 and that system of philosophy, which subsequently 
 became so fatal to every aristocracy and every 
 throne. 
 
 The bitter railleries with which he overwhelmed 
 his wife on the subject of what he termed her super- 
 stition, had no influence upon her mind so long as 
 they continued in Spain. The spiritual and secular 
 authority of the church and the clergy was so impo- 
 sing, and the belief of the people so deeply and firmly 
 rooted ; breathing such an atmosphere of piety ; sur- 
 rounded by persons who partook of the sincerity 
 of her conviction ; and encountering, wherever she 
 turned, the exterior symbols of her magnificent reli- 
 gion, it was not possible that the purity and integrity 
 of Rita's faith could suPfer any attaint or diminution. 
 
 But, when she arrived at Versailles, and had lived 
 for some time in the centre of the fetes, elegances, 
 and enjoyments of a polished court, famous for the 
 refinements of its wit, and the exquisite tone of its 
 manners, she became in some degree involved in the 
 vortex of its dissipations; and in the giddy round of 
 its pleasures, the robustness of her religious convic- 
 tions was in some degree impaired. In addition to 
 this, the religion of France was not at all like the 
 prevalence of the same system in Spain ; there were 
 no longer those lofty churches, so glowing and pro- 
 found, with their glittering slirines of gold and jew- 
 elry, which seemed to attract around them all the 
 light of the building, and shone in the surrounding 
 obscurity like an emanation of the light of heaven j 
 
THE SPANISH DUCHESS, &C. 129 
 
 the solemn and majestic chant of the monks was no 
 longer heard in France; and its population, clothed 
 in black or sad-colored vestments, was no longer 
 seen prostrate upon the cold pavement of the aisles, 
 in silence and in gloom, and counting the beads of 
 their rosaries with enthusiastic devotion, and all the 
 unction of religious fervor. 
 
 In France, the spii^it of religion had been lost sight 
 of, and its genius had become perverted ; its ministers 
 and teachers endeavored to dazzle the eyes by the 
 splendor of its worship, instead of the simplicity of 
 its truths ; the churches were magnificently adorned 
 with gaudy trappings, but they had almost all lost, by 
 neglect or decay, those beautiful painted windows, 
 through which the beams of the sun penetrated like 
 the mild and softened rays of a rainbow ; the mass 
 was only frequented to see and to be seen ; the sun 
 threw its laughing beams through large and lofty 
 windows, deluging the interior of the churches with 
 a flood of light, and, dancing upon the profuse decora- 
 tions of velvet, and gold, and silk, flung their painted 
 reflections upon a noisy, gay, and laughing congrega- 
 tion, the luxury of whose dresses eclipsed the splen- 
 dor of the altars ; philosophy had banished religion 
 from the pulpit, and the sacred mysteries were solem- 
 nized amid sneers and ill-suppressed sarcasms ; and, 
 to crown the whole, the psalms and anthems were 
 sung by the girls of the opera. 
 
 Moreover — and it must be avowed — her principles 
 were acquired rather than instinctive, the result of 
 chance and accident rather than conviction and rea- 
 son. She was endowed with a quick, fertile, and ar- 
 dent imagination, which had been inflamed by the 
 pompous exterior of Catholicism, and its grave and 
 majestic ceremonies ; and having never yet suffered, 
 or had occasion to require the consolations of religion, 
 9 
 
130 SPANISH DUCHESS AND ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 she had never listened to the solemn and whispered 
 echoes of that vast abyss in which the profound soul 
 of Pascal had been plunged. She had experienced 
 nothing of religion but its poetry. Of the unfathom 
 able ocean of faith, she perceived nothing but the 
 laughing, fresh, and sparkling wave which gamboled 
 on its expanse ; and her soul was enraptured while her 
 senses were intoxicated by the inspiring perfume of 
 the incense, and the distant, solemn, and murmured 
 melody of the deep-toned organ. 
 
 And so, when the philosophers who composed the 
 society of her husband haa laid siege to her spiritual- 
 ized faith with their cold logic and dry, algebraical 
 reasoning, Rita was incapable of reply or argument. 
 They reasoned hy mathematical figures, and Vv^ith 
 mathematical precision, while she could only talk en- 
 thusiasm and ecstasy ; when she quoted the miracles 
 and wonders by which Christianity had been illus- 
 trated, and its authenticity established, they opposed 
 her fervor with the unchangeable laws of nature and 
 astronomy : on whatever side she turned, she en- 
 countered nothing but cold and heartless reasoning, 
 or withering sarcasm, — and she held her peace, 
 frightened and distressed ; for the apparent clearness 
 of certain objections, although they could not entirely 
 convince her, or utterly persuade her of the hollowness 
 of that system to which she had clung, had the effect 
 of shaking her conviction, and alarming her with its 
 possible and probable impositions. Then, becomin;^ 
 conscious, as if by mstinct, of all the happiness and 
 comfort she was in danger of being deprived of, she 
 wished to take refuge in her former confident and 
 undoubted belief; but the time had passed, never to 
 be recalled; the cruel and brutal demon of the spir- 
 it of analysis had stained with his withering breath 
 her ravishing visions of azure skies and smiling 
 
THE SPANISH DUCHESS, &LC. 131 
 
 heavens, peopled with angels with rainbow wings, 
 and breathing with music and melody which ibuiid 
 an eclio in the softened heart ; all had disappeared, 
 like the visions of first and only love! 
 
 All this may be easily conceived : a person of a 
 strong and powerful mind, or of a proved, strength- 
 ened, and confirmed religious faith, can contend ad- 
 vantageously, and even impress his antagonists with 
 his own hallowed and earnest conviction, and elevate 
 them within his own sphere of belief, by the spell of a 
 seducing and persuasive eloquence; but Rita was 
 quite powerless with the adversaries she encountered, 
 as there was no depth in her animated mind, which 
 was carried along by impulse, and as she had attached 
 herself to the poetry of religion quite as much as to 
 its doctrine and maxims. At length her mind was 
 tired out, and more particularly as she appeared 
 always to be in the wrong in every argument; her 
 self-love was irritated by finding her confused but 
 earnest convictions opposed by captious but subtle 
 reasoning, and she ended by doubting of every thing 
 and of herself. From doubt to incredulity there is 
 but one step; the step was taken, and Rita became a 
 professed wit and freethinker. 
 
 Incredulity must necessarily make a deep impres- 
 sion upon an organization so susceptible as that of 
 Rita. In fact, on the first glance, there is a fatal 
 attraction, a sort of fascination, in the contest against 
 the Deity ; there is a species of v.'ild and fierce 
 }3oetry in the revolt of the rebel angel ; there is au- 
 dacity in blasphemy, v/hen Jupiter retorts with a 
 thunderbolt. But in analyzing the atlieism of the 
 eighteenth century, which so clamorously pronounced 
 its pitiful pretensions, \vc are struck with its mean- 
 ness and cowardly character ; for those who professed 
 it, believed in a state of utter annihilation after death, 
 
132 
 
 BPAlsTSH DTTCKESS AND OEPHAW EOT. 
 
 and they had nothing to fear from the offended laws 
 during their lives. They could therefore blaspheme 
 in perfect safety, and had not even the equivocal 
 merit of being martyrs to blasphemy and impiety. 
 As the Divinity did not accept the challenge v/hicb 
 was tacitly offered by Rita, her state of hesitation 
 and doubt did not continue long ; indifference took its 
 place ; and at length it happened that the duchess of 
 Almeda looked upon Heaven with no emotions either 
 of fear or love. If I dwell at more than usual length 
 Hpon this incident of Rita's existence, it is because 
 from this period her life assumed a different aspecty 
 and took another coloring. For her ardent and pas- 
 sionate imagination, which had hitherto (od upon the 
 aliment afforded by the thoughts of infinity and eter- 
 nity, which open an immeasurable career for vivid 
 minds to expatiate in, had soon exhausted what it had 
 received in exchange for the belief v/hich had been 
 destroyed, and was compelled to fall back upon its 
 own natural resources, or to waste away and consume 
 by its own fire. 
 
 Hitherto Rita had escaped the influence of earthly 
 passions; but now, if her burning soul, fallen froni 
 so high a flight, wished to indulge in the emotions of 
 joy or anguish, they could only be found or felt in 
 love ; for love is religion, and has its faith and creed ; 
 and in Rita's case it was more particularly so; for 
 if she had given herself up to the passion, she would 
 have loved with an utter and absolute surrender of 
 self, with a fierce and implacable jealousy, which 
 would have devoted to love what she v/ould have 
 otherwise sacrificed to Heaven — rank, fortune, and 
 country. But they did not love in France, at that 
 time, after this fashion ; and so it happened that Rita 
 did not find any one v/orthy to excite in her heart 
 Buch a passion, and she remained unscathed in the 
 
THE BPANISn DUCHESS, SlC. 133 
 
 general dissoluteness of manners and principles, and 
 iived an exemplary model of every female excellence, 
 until the sudden death of the Duke d'Almeda left her 
 at liherty, a young widow, and with an immense for- 
 tune. Although she did not regret the duke very 
 much, yet she paid the customary respect to his 
 memory, and passed the period allotted for mourn- 
 ing in the country. Since her residence in France, 
 Rita had never been so isolated from society, and in 
 such utter solitude, as now ; and it was now that she 
 regretted her former happy state of undoubting and 
 intense faith ; but that was gone, and its departed in- 
 fluence was irrevocable; and the duchess, wearied 
 and chagrined, dragged on the dull and melancholy 
 hours, her ardent soul longing for some emotion to 
 occupy her feelings, suffering from an unknown pain, 
 and longing for an unknown happiness. Her health 
 became affected ; she grew thin, and her cheeks 
 were stained and wrinkled by the channels of invol- 
 ontary tears; without aid, consolation, or refuge 
 against these painful sorrows, and the nervous ex- 
 citement which preyed upon and fevered her, the 
 thought of an early death was the only pleasing idea 
 which visited her solitude, and she sometimes even 
 thought of hastening its approach ; bat whether her 
 courage failed her, or a secret presentiment withheld 
 tier, she continued to linger in this unhappy state, 
 nntil the hour when a singular chance introduced 
 Henri to her notice. 
 
 One of her female attendants came to her one day 
 with the information that some fishermen, who had 
 taken shelter from a storm in a ruined tower on the 
 coast, had discovered a young man of extraordinary 
 beauty, who vv^as nearly expiring from exhaustion ; 
 and that, knowing the humanity of the duchess, they 
 bad come to the castle for assistance in reviving him. 
 
134 
 
 SPANISH DUCHESS AND ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 This account made an impression upon the romantic 
 mind of the duchess, and, on the same day, she bent 
 her steps to the tower of Koatven, accompanied by a 
 domestic. Then, for the first tijrie, she saw Henri. 
 Interested by the mild and saddened expression of 
 the lad's beautiful and noble features, Rita explained 
 to him, with emotion, the object of her visit; and 
 that, having understood that her cares and attentions 
 would be serviceable to him, she had come in person 
 to tender them. 
 
 Henri thanked her warmly and gratefully, but 
 added, that he should have no occasion to be a 
 burden to her. His history was a simple one. He 
 was an orphan, and had been brought up by his 
 uncle, an aged ecclesiastic, and had never quitted 
 him, until he had been torn from him by death. Left 
 alone in the world, without fortune, friends, or 
 interest, Henri had determined to follow a vocation 
 to v/hich he had thought himself called — that of the 
 cloister. Nevertheless, before coming to an irrevocable 
 decision upon this matter, and in order to ascertain 
 whether he could fitly support the solitude, fasting, 
 austerities, and privations of the monastic life, he had 
 determined to make the tower his place of retirement 
 for some little time. But his strength had failed 
 him ; he had fallen sick ; the old servant, who at- 
 tended him, had abandoned him when he could no 
 longer pay him for his services; and Jiad it not been 
 for the unexpected visit of the fishermen, he must 
 have perished unknown. He concluded his narrative 
 by saying, " It is of little matter now, for I feel that 
 my life is departing ; and soon, poor orphan as I am» 
 I shall go to rejoin, in heaven, my mother, whom 1 
 never knew on earth. *' 
 
 The melancholy resignation, abandonment, and 
 misfortune, by which the lad was crushedj and his 
 
THE SPANISH DUCHESS, &C. 135 
 
 Engenuous countenance, touched the heart of the 
 duchess, and she instantly felt a profound pity for, 
 and a strong interest in, one so unfortunate. From 
 this period, a new existence commenced for Rita; by 
 €1 strange contradiction, the haughty duchess, who 
 had resisted and repulsed the homage of the noble 
 and the elevated, felt an unknown sensation inspiring 
 her at the sight of this being, so unhappy and so des- 
 titute. Hitherto the most elegant trifling, the most 
 distinguished manners, and the most graceful imper- 
 tinence, of the flutterers of the gay world, had never 
 arrested the passing glance of Rita; but the sad 
 and pale face of Henri remained engraven on her 
 lieart ; those features which she had never beheld but 
 once, seemed to haunt her wherever she went, and 
 that soft and timorous voice was constantly thrilling 
 in her soul. 
 
 Rita was so happy in this newly-discovered sensa- 
 tion, that she did not dream of resisting its progress. 
 Freed from all ties and connections, immensely rich, 
 and her own mistress, what obstacle was there to pre- 
 vent her devoting herself to Henri ? And, on his side, 
 alone, isolated, Vv'ithout parents, family, or friends, 
 would he not be hers, and hers only? v/ould he not 
 be dependent upon her 1 would he not hold every 
 thing from her ? and then would she not be the only 
 being that loved him? for so she understood love. 
 Yes, Rita would have been jealous of Henri's mother 
 or sister, if he had owned such relations ; for love, 
 in Rita's bosom, was egotism in its purest sense, fierce, 
 exacting, and exclusive. The more she knew Henri, 
 the more she loved him. She spent whole hours in 
 listening to the outpouring of his artless and candid 
 soul, and delighted in the consciousness that she was 
 feeling the same emotions which she excited in her 
 (jrafeg-e ; for she was as much a novice as he in the 
 
136 SPANISH DUCHESS AND CUFHAN 20T. 
 
 symbols and symptoms of the delicious passion,' so 
 that an exchange was established between them of 
 the ravishing details of each new discovery which 
 ihej made of the inilucnce of passionate tenderness 
 in their own hearts, and by which they divined what 
 was passing in the other's. 
 
 And then the boy was so timid, so bashfu) ; and, 
 as he never exacted the soft tribute of the lip, it 
 would have been ungenerous not to make a free and 
 unreserved surrender of its treasures. And so at 
 length a deep, burning, and concentrated passion 
 took possession of the heart and soul of the duch- 
 ess. At her age, the development of such a feeling is 
 impetuous and uncontrollable. Every consideration 
 was postponed to the happiness of calling the boy her 
 own. Her determination to effect this was invincible 
 and unshaken : regardless of her rank and fortune, 
 and forgetful of, or despising, her social position, she 
 decided upon offering her hand to Henri, who, in one 
 of his conversations, had avov/ed himself the offspring 
 of a noble, though impoverished family of Bretagne. 
 
 " Of what consequence is his fortune to me ? " said 
 Rita; "is he not noble? Rforeover, as I am the 
 only child cf a grandee of Castile, can I not endow 
 him with the name and title of my sire ? I will do 
 so; for he shall hold every thing that he has from 
 me ; every thing, even his name • that name which 
 he v/i!I worthily bear, and gallantly illustrate! For 
 my Henri is beautiful, brave, and talented; and I 
 never yet saw a gentleman who could be compared ta 
 him ! And then, he loves me so ! O, he loves me 
 to adoration. I feel it here — in my heart! I love 
 him too v/ell for it to be otheru'ise. And has he not 
 sacrificed to m.e all that he could possibly surrender 
 in this world? — the faith which he had sworn, the 
 pure and calm future which he dreamed. And who 
 
THE SPANISH DUCHESS, &C. 137 
 
 knows," said Rita, with appreliension, *' who can tell 
 tliat he has not sacrificed his happiness to me?" 
 
 At last, the three days which she had required 
 Henri to reflect upon her proposition, found her, if 
 it was possible, still more determined and resolute in 
 her will. On the evening of the third day, she took 
 her cloak, and leaving the castle by her oratory, 
 which communicated with the chapel by a narrow 
 passage, she leaned upon the arm of one of her 
 esquires, and walked to the sea-side; when she had 
 reached a large rock, she ordered the domestic to 
 await her return, and entered the tower, 
 
 Henri was in attendance at the gate, standing on a 
 sort of terrace, which served as a foundation for the 
 staircase ; but he was dressed in such a manner that 
 Rita did not at first recognize him, and she stood sur- 
 prised and motionless. He was almost entirely en- 
 veloped in a monk's habit; and his cowl, drawn over 
 his head, nearly concealed his features. 
 
 "Rita! Rita! — it is I!" said he, in his gentle 
 tones. He had hardly pronounced the first syllable 
 of her name, ere the duchess, recognizing her lover^ 
 had flung herself into his arms. 
 
 " But, Henri, why assume this sad costume?" 
 
 *' Was it not that which I was doomed to assume 
 before I knew you, my Rita? I wished to clothe 
 myself in it for a first, a last, and only time, in 
 order to make to you a more total, ample, and unre- 
 served sacrifice! Are you offended at me?" 
 
 ." No, no ; but come," said Rita, rushing up the 
 staircase. 
 
 Henri gently held her back. " Listen," he mur 
 mured, while he pressed the lips of Rita against hie 
 own. "I have a fancy to be alone in my apartraenf 
 above to receive you, and fitly to do the honors of my 
 hermitage, I wish once more to long and to listeo 
 
138 
 
 SPANISH DUCHESS AKD ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 for the welcome sound of your footsteps, and the 
 rustling of your dress. Will you permit me?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; but let me tell you," interrupted Rita 
 with joyous precipitation, so eager was she to confide 
 her cherished and darling secret to her lover — *' let 
 me tell you, Henri, I am come to offer you my hand ! 
 — my hand, with an immense fortune and a title! — 
 such a glittering, dazzling title, as German electors 
 might envy,- and it is all for you, and myself with it! 
 and, O, how gladly do I surrender all to one who — " 
 
 *' Angelic creature ! " said Henri, kissing her 
 bright and marble brow; "I will be with you in- 
 stantly." And so saying, he disappeared in the dark 
 recesses of the tower. A minute afterward, Rita 
 stood at the door, which no darkness could prevent 
 her finding. She threw it open, and uttered a shriek 
 of astonishment, almost of terror. 
 
 Rita's surprise was very natural ; for no one could 
 have recognized the obscure and wretched chamber 
 of the tower of Koatven. Its damp walls, blackened 
 by time, were covered with magnificent draperies of 
 purple velvet, whose ample folds seemed to diminish 
 ihe proportions of the apartment at least one half. 
 There was, besides, aprol^iision of golden candlesticks, 
 of gilded furniture, of Venetian mirrors, reflecting 
 the light of a thousand wax tapers, which made this 
 circular room seem a concentration of light and 
 splendor. And the timid and melancholy Henri was 
 metamorphosed into a graceful, accomplished, and 
 confident gentleman, who glided over the rich car- 
 pets to offer his hand to the duchess, to conduct 
 her to an arm-chair, near a table magnificently pre- 
 pared, whose equipage was of the richest china, en- 
 amelled with vermilion-colored figures of flowers, and 
 whose drinking goblets were of crystal, so thin and 
 pellucid that the juncture of the lips was almost felt 
 
THE SPANISH DUCHESS, &LC. 139 
 
 through them. Yes, it was Henri himself; only, 
 instead of his monastic habit, which he had most 
 likely assumed to conceal his costume, it was Henri 
 magnificently arrayed in a coat of blue velvet em- 
 broidered with gold, and with a waistcoat of cloth of 
 silver ! It was Henri glittering in the rays of the rose 
 diamonds, which flashed through the rich and elab- 
 orately-worked lace of his ruffles, which blazed 
 upon his garters, on the buckles of his red-heeled 
 shoes, and on the hilt of his sword. It was Henri, 
 who wore with perfect ease, and as if he had been 
 always accustomed to it, the costume of a polished 
 nobleman, adorned with the orders of Malta and of 
 St. Louis, and over which waved gracefully, with 
 every motion, the large shoulder-knots of white satin, 
 studded with silver, the distinctive emblem that the 
 wearer was in the military household of the royal 
 Bourbon of France. 
 
 But, alas! the countenance of Henri bore no 
 longer that soft expression of sadness and of suffering 
 which had such a melting charm for Rita's heart. 
 His features were now smiling and animated; his 
 glances, which the duchess had never yet encoun- 
 tered in their full force, and which had been always 
 hitherto downcast and veiled by his long eyelashes, 
 were now flushed with gayety and exultation ; and 
 the cloud of white and perfumed powder, which was 
 thickly sprinkled over his rich tresses, doubled the 
 expressive power of his black and deeply piercing 
 eyes. 
 
 " Am I asleep or awake? " said the duchess, trem- 
 bling, and overcome by a feeling of apprehension and 
 grief which she could not conceal. 
 
 *' Madame the duchess shall have every thing ex- 
 plained to her," was the respectful response of Henri, 
 assuming the exquisite politeness of the day, which 
 
140 
 
 SPANISH DUCHESS AND ORPHATT BOY. 
 
 did not allow of a lady's being addressed but in the 
 third person. 
 
 Rita threw herself into an arm-chair. ''Explain! 
 in the name of Heaven, sir, explain the meaning of 
 all this!" , 
 
 *' In the first place," rejoined he, *' will madame 
 the duchess allow me to inquire whether she has 
 ever heard speak of the Comte de Vaudrey 1 " 
 
 " Frequently, sir, when I was in the habit of going 
 to the court of Versailles." 
 
 " Then, madame the duchess will learn, perhaps 
 with some astonishment, that the Comte de Vaudrey 
 has now the honor of addressing her." 
 
 " You, sir — you, Henri — but then — good Heaven! 
 — but what signifies ? But the Comte de Vaudrey, 1 
 was told, was in the navy, and served in America — 
 it is impossible — for pity's sake, Henri, solve me this 
 mystery," 
 
 *' It is very true, madame the duchess, that I did 
 serve in America, under the orders of Admiral de 
 Guicheii ; but after two years' cruising, I returned to 
 France, where I have now been nearly two months." 
 
 " Then, monsieur the count," exclaimed Rita, 
 with impetuosity, and rising hastily from her chair, 
 "' what is your motive for thus disguising yourself? 
 1 cannot comprehend it. I am giddy. Have mercy, 
 Henri, upon a confiding and affectionate woman." 
 
 "If madame the duchess will condescend to 
 listen," said Henri, while, with the most exquisite 
 attention, he assisted her to reseat herself, " she shall 
 know every thing." 
 
 * * * # * * 
 
 Happy in her husband, her station, and in the nu- 
 merous blessings which flow from the proper and ju- 
 dicious administration of a large fortune, the Duchess 
 d'Almeda recovered that peace of mind which arises 
 
SNOW-STOKM IN SCOTLAND. 141 
 
 from a conscientious discharge of the duties of life, 
 and in whicii tlie days pass undisturbed, and the 
 nights are tranquil and refreshing. With these re- 
 turned the original pious dispositions of her soul, 
 which had been suppressed rather than extinguislied, 
 and wliich would never have been disturbed, had it 
 not been for the artful insinuations and dexterous 
 sophistry of the leaders of that wretched philosophy, 
 by the principles of which the peace of Europe was 
 wrecked for so long a period. To a susceptible 
 heart, and an ardent temperament, a correct under- 
 standing of religious matters is more necessary than 
 to others ; and in this the Duchess d'Almeda cor- 
 dially concurred, when she reflected with terror upon 
 the dangers to which her youth would have been 
 exposed, had the Comte de Vaudrey been other than 
 a gentleman and a man of honor. 
 
 SNOW-STOHM IN SCOTLAND, 
 
 * * =5^ A TALE of Truth and Tears, 
 long forgotten, comes across our heart — long for- 
 gotten, though on the eve of that day on which 
 the deliverance happened, so passionately did we all 
 regard it, that we felt that interference providential ; 
 as if we had indeed seen the hand of God stretched 
 down through the mist and snow from heaven ! We 
 all sLiid that it would never, all our lives, desert our 
 memory. But all of us forgot it. But now, while 
 the tempest howls, it seems again but of yesterday ! 
 
 One fomily lived in Glencreran, and another in 
 Glenco — the families of two brothers; seldom vis- 
 
142 
 
 SNOW STORM IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 Sting each other on working days, for their sheep min- 
 gled not together on the hill ; seldom meeting even 
 on Sabbaths, for theirs was not the same parish-kirk ; 
 and seldom coming together on rural festivals or 
 holidays, for in the Highlands, now, these are not so 
 frequent as of yore ; yet all these sweet seldoms, ta- 
 ken together, to loving hearts made a happy many ; 
 and thus, though each family passed its life in its own 
 horasfelt wilderness, there were many invisible threads 
 stretched out through the intermediate air, connect- 
 ing the two dwellings together, even as the dew- 
 gemmed gossamer keeps floating from one tree to 
 another, each with its own secret nest. And nest- 
 like both dwellings were. That in Glenco, built 
 beneath a treeless but high-heathed rock ; lownd in 
 all storms ; with greensward and garden on a slope 
 down to that rivulet, clearest of the clear, (O ! 
 once wofully reddened !) and groiving — as it seems 
 in the mosses of its own roof, and the huge stones 
 that overshadov/ it — out of, and belonging to, the 
 solid earth. Tliat in Glencreran, more conspicuous, 
 on a knoll among the pastoral meadows, midway be- 
 tween mountain and mountain, so that the grove 
 which shelters it, except when the sun is shining in 
 his meridian tower, is darkened by both their shad- 
 ows, and dark, indeed, even in the sunshine; for 'tis 
 a low but wide-armed grove of the oak-like pines. 
 A little farther down, and Glencreran is truly " a syl- 
 van scene" indeed; but this dwelling is the highest 
 up of all — the first you descend upon, near the foot 
 of that wild hanging staircase now between you and 
 Glen-Etive; and except this old oak-like grove of 
 pines, there is not a tree, and hardly a bush, on bank 
 or brae, pasture or hay-field, though they are kept, 
 by many a rill, there mingling themselves into one 
 stream, in a perpetual green lustre that seemeth ** im- 
 
SNX)W-STORM JN SCOTLAND. 143 
 
 borrowed from the sun," and to be as native to the 
 grass as its light is to the glow-worm. Such are the 
 two huts ; for they are huts, and no more ; and you 
 may see them still, if you know how to discover the 
 beautiful sights of nature from descriptions treasured 
 in your heart ; and if the spirit of change, now no 
 where at rest on the earth, not even in its most soli- 
 tary places, have not swept violently from the scenes 
 they beautified, the humble and hereditary dwellings 
 that ought to be allowed, in the fulness of the quiet 
 time^ to relapse back into the bosom of nature, through 
 insensible and unperceived decay. 
 
 These huts belonged to brothers; and each had 
 an only child, a son and a daughter, born on the 
 same day, and now blooming on the verge of youth. 
 A year ago, and they were but mere children ; but 
 what wondrous growth of spirit and of the spirit's 
 frame does nature, at that season of life, often present 
 before our eyes, so that we almost see the very change 
 going on between morn and morn, and feel that these 
 objects of our affection are daily brought closer to 
 ourselves, by their partaking daily more and more in 
 all our most sacred thoughts, in our cares and in our 
 duties, and in knowledge of the sorrows as well as 
 the joys of our common lot ! Thus had those cousins 
 grown up before their parents' eyes — Flora Macdon- 
 ald,aname hallowed of yore, the fairest, and Hamish, 
 the brightest of all the living flowers in Glencreran 
 and Glenco, It was now their sixteenth birthday; 
 and never had a winter sun smiled more serenely 
 over a hush of snow. Flora, it had been agreed on, 
 was to pass that day in Glencreran, and Hamish to 
 meet her amoncr the mountains, that he mio-ht brincr 
 her down the many precipitous passes to his parents' 
 hut. It was the middle of February, and the snow 
 had lain for weeks, with all its drifts unchanged, so 
 
144 SNOW STORM llf SCOTLAND. 
 
 calm had been the weather, and so continued the 
 frost. At the same hour, known by horologe on the 
 cliff touched by the finger of dawn, the happy crea- 
 tures left their own glen, and mile after mile of the 
 smooth surface glided away past their feet, almost as 
 the quiet water glides by the little boat that, in favor- 
 ing breezes, walks merrily along the sea. And soon 
 they met at the trysting-place — a bank of birch-trees, 
 beneath a cliff that takes its name from the Eagles. 
 
 On their meeting, seemed not the whole wilder- 
 ness to their souls and senses suddenly inspired with 
 beauty and with joy ? Insects, unheard by them be- 
 fore, hummed and glittered in the air; from tree- 
 roots, where the snow was thin, little flowers, or 
 herbs flower-like, now for the first time were seen 
 looking out as if alive; the trees themselves seemed 
 budding, as if it were already spring; and rare as, 
 in that rocky region, are the birds of song, a faint 
 trill for a moment touched their ear, and the flutter 
 of a wing, telling them that somewhere near there 
 was preparation for a nest. Deep down beneath the 
 snow they listened to the tinkle of rills unreached by 
 the frost ; and merry, thought they, was the music 
 of these contented prisoners. Not Summer's self, in 
 its deepest green, so beautiful had ever been to them 
 before, as now the mild white of Winter ; and when 
 their eyes were lifted up to heaven, when had they 
 ever seen, before, a sky of such perfect blue, a sun 
 so gentle in its brightness, or altogether a week-day, 
 in any season, so like a Sabbath in its stillness, so 
 like a holiday in its joy? Lovers were they, al- 
 though as yet they knew it not ; for from love only 
 could have come such bliss as now was theirs — a 
 bliss that, while it beautified, they felt came from, 
 and belonged to, the eternal skies. 
 
 In that wilderness Flora sang all her old songs to 
 
SNOW-STORM IN SCOTLAND. 145 
 
 those wild Gaelic airs that sound like the sighing 
 of winds among fractured cliffs, or the branches of 
 storm-tossed trees, when the subsiding tempest is 
 about to let them rest. Monotonous music ! but ir- 
 resistible over the heart it has once awakened and 
 inthrailed, so sincere seems to be the mournfulness 
 it breathes in its simplicity — a mournfulness brooding 
 and feeding forever and ever on the same note that is 
 at once its natural expression and its sweetest ali- 
 ment, of which the dreaming singer never wearieth 
 in her woe, while her heart all the time is haunted by 
 all that is most piteous in memory, by the faces of 
 the dead in their paleness returning to the shades of 
 mortality, only that once more they may pour from 
 their fixed eyes those strange show^ers of unaccount- 
 able tears ! 
 
 How merry were they between those mournful 
 airs ! O, how Flora trembled to see her lover's 
 burning brow and flashing eyes, as he told her tales 
 of great battles fought in foreign lands, far, far across 
 the sea- — tales which he had drunk in with greedy 
 ears from the old heroes scattered all over Lochaber 
 and Badenoch, on the brink of the grave still gar- 
 rulous of blood ! 
 
 " The sun sat high in his meridian tower ; " 
 
 but time had not been with the youthful lovers, and 
 the blessed beings believed that yet 'twas but a little 
 hour since beneath the Eagle Cliff they had met in 
 the prime of the full-brightened morn ! 
 
 The boy starts to his feet, and his keen eye looks 
 along the ready rifle ; for his sires had all been fa- 
 mous deer-stalkers, and the passion of the chase was 
 hereditary in his blood. Lo ! a deer from Dalness, 
 dog-drivenj or sullenly astray, slowly bearing his an- 
 10 
 
146 SNOW STORM IN SCOTLAND* 
 
 tiers up the glen, then stopping for a moment to snuff 
 the air, and then like lightning away — away! The 
 rifle-shot rings dully from the scarce echoing snow- 
 cliffs, and the animal leaps aloft, struck by a mortal 
 but not sudden death-wound. O for Fingal now to 
 pull him down like a wolf! But laboring and lum- 
 bering heavily along, the snow spotted, as he bounds, 
 with blood, the huge animal at last disappears round 
 some rocks at the head of the glen. " Follow me. 
 Flora!" the boy-hunter cries; and flinging down 
 their plaids, they turn their bright faces to the moun- 
 tain, and away up the long glen after the stricken 
 deer. Fleet was the mountain-girl as an Oread: 
 and Hamish, as he ever and anon looked back to 
 wave her on, with pride admired the beauty of her 
 lightsome motion as she bounded along the snow. 
 Redder and redder grew that snow, and more heavily 
 trampled, as they winded round the rocks; and, lo! 
 the deer staggered up the mountain, not half a mile 
 off, and there, standing at bay, as if before his swim- 
 ming eyes came a vision of Fingal, the terror of the 
 forest, whose howl was known to all the echoes, and 
 quailed the herd v/hile their antlers were yet afar off! 
 " Rest, Flora ! rest ! while I fly to him with my rifle^ 
 and shoot him through the heart ! " 
 
 Up — up — up far, far, far up the interminable glen 
 that kept winding and winding, round many a jutting 
 promontory, and many a castled cliff, the red deer 
 kept dragging its gore-oozing bulk, sometimes almost 
 within, and then, for some hundreds of yards, beyond 
 rifle-shot, while the boy, maddened by the chase, 
 pressed forwards, now all alone, nor any more look- 
 ing behind for Flora, who had entirely disappeared ; 
 and thus he was hurried on for miles by the whirl- 
 wind of passion, till at last he struck the noble 
 quarry, and down sank the antlers in the snow, whii^ 
 
SNOW-STORM IN SCOTLAND. 147 
 
 the air was spurned by the convulsive beatings of 
 feet. Then leapt Hamish upon the red deer like a 
 beast of prey, and lifted up a look of triumph to 
 the mountain top. 
 
 Where is Flora? Her lover has forgotten her, and 
 he is alone — nor knows it — in the wilderness — he 
 and the red deer — an enormous animal — fast stiff- 
 ening in the frost of death. Some large flakes of 
 snow are in the air ; and they seem to waver and 
 whirl, though, an hour ago, there was not a breath 
 all over the region. Faster they fall, and fister ; the 
 flakes are almost as large as leaves; and overhead, 
 whence so suddenly has come that huge yellow cloud? 
 "Flora, where are you? where are you, Flora?" 
 And from the huge hide the boy leaps up, and sees 
 that no Flora is in the glen. But yonder is a mov- 
 ing speck far off" upon the snow! 'Tis she — 'tis 
 she ; and again Hamish turns his eyes upon the 
 quarry, and the heart of the hunter burns within him 
 like a new-stirred fire. Shrill as the eagle's cry, dis- 
 turbed in his eyry, he sends his voice down the glen ; 
 and Flora, with cheeks pale and bright by fits, is at 
 last at his side. Panting and speechless she stands, 
 and then dizzily sinks fainting on his breast. Her 
 hair is ruffled by the wind that revives her, and her 
 face all moistened by the snow-flakes, now not fall- 
 ing, but driven ; for the day has undergone a dismal 
 change, and all over the skies are now lowering sav- 
 age symptoms of a fast-coming night-storm. 
 
 Bare is poor Flora's head, and sorely drenched 
 her hair, that an hour or two ago glittered in the 
 sunshine. Her shivering frame misses now the 
 warmth of the plaid which almost no cold can pene- 
 trate, and which had kept the vital current flowing 
 freely in many a bitter blast. What would the mis- 
 erable boy give now for the coverings, lying far away, 
 
148 SNOW STORM IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 which, in his foolish passion, he flung down to chase 
 that fatal deer ! " O, Flora ! if you would not fear 
 to stay here by yourself, under the protection of 
 God, who surely will not forsake you, soon will I 
 go and come from the place where our plaids are 
 lying ; and under the shelter of the deer, we may be 
 able to outlive the hurricane — you wrapt up in them 
 — and folded, O my dearest sister, in my arms!" 
 *' I will go with you down the glen, Hamish ! " and 
 she left his breast, but, weak as a day-old lamb, 
 tottered, and sank down among the snow. The 
 cold — intense as if the air were ice — had chilled 
 her very heart, after the heat of that long race ; and 
 it was manifest that here she must be for the night, 
 to live or to die ! And the night seemed already 
 come, so full was the lift of snow; while the glim- 
 mer every moment became gloomier, as if the day 
 was expiring long before its time. Howling at a 
 distance down the glen was heard a sea-born tempest 
 from the Linnhe-Loch, where now they both knew 
 the tide was tumbling in, bringing with it sleet and 
 snow-blasts from afar ; and from the opposite quarter 
 of the sky an inland tempest was raging to meet it, 
 while every lesser glen had its own uproar ; so that on 
 all hands they were environed with death. 
 
 " I will go, and, till I return, leave you with God." 
 "Go, Hamish ! " and he went and came, as if he had 
 been endowed with the raven's wings ! 
 
 Miles away, and miles back had he flown, and 
 an hour had not been with his going and his coming ; 
 but what a dreary wretchedness, meanv/hile, had been 
 hers! She feared that she was dying; that the cold 
 snow-storm was killing her; and that she would 
 never more see Hamish, to say to him a right last 
 farewell. Soon as he was gone, all her courage 
 had died. Alone, she feared death, and wept, and 
 
SNOW-STORM IN SCOTLAND. 149 
 
 wept, and wept in the wilderness, thinking how 
 hard it was for one so young thus miserably to die I 
 He came, and her whole being was changed. 
 Folded up in both the plaids, she felt as if she 
 were in heaven. ** O, kiss mc, kiss me, liamish; 
 for thy love, great as it is, — or never hadst thou 
 travelled so the long snows for my sake, — is not as 
 my love; and you must never forget me, Hamish, 
 when your poor Flora is dead ! " 
 
 Religion, with these two young creatures, was as 
 clear as the light of the Sabbath day, and their be- 
 lief in heaven just the same as in earth. The will 
 of God they thought of just as they thought of their 
 parents' will ; and the same was their loving obedi- 
 ence to its decrees. If she was to die, supported 
 now by the presence of her brother. Flora was 
 utterly resigned ; if she were to live, her heart im- 
 agined to itself the very forms of her worshipping 
 gratitude ! But all at once she closed her eyes ; 
 spake not, breathed not ; and, as the tempest 
 howled and rumbled in the gloom that fell around 
 them like blindness, Hamish almost fell down, think- 
 ing that she was dead. 
 
 " Wretched sinner that I am ! My wicked mad- 
 ness brought her here to die of cold in the snow ! " 
 And he smote his heart, and tore his hair, and 
 feared to look up, lest the angry eye of God were 
 looking on him through the storm. 
 
 All at once, without speaking a word, Hamish 
 lifted Flora in his arms, and walked away up the 
 glen, here almost narrowed into a pass. Distrac- 
 tion gave him supernatural strength, and her weight 
 seemed that of an infant. Some walls of what had 
 once been a house, he had suddenly remembered, 
 were but a short way off; whether or not they had 
 any roof, he had forgotten ; but the thought even of 
 
150 ■ SNOW STORM IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 such shelter seemed a thoaght of salvation. There 
 it was — a snow-drift at the opening that had once 
 been a door — snow up to the holes once windows; 
 the wood of the roof had been carried off for fuel, 
 and the snow-flakes were falling in, as if they would 
 soon fill up the inside of the ruin. The snow in 
 front was all trampled as if by sheep ; and carrying 
 in his burden under the low lintel, lo ! the place was 
 filled with a flock that had foreknown the hurricane, 
 and all huddled together, looking on him as on the 
 shepherd come to see how they were faring in the 
 storm. 
 
 And a young shepherd he was, with a lamb ap- 
 parently dying in his arms. All color, all motion, 
 all breath, seemed to be gone; and yet something 
 convinced his heart that she was yet alive. The 
 ruined hut was roofless ; but across an angle of the 
 walls, some pine branches had been flung as a sort 
 of shelter for the sheep or cattle that might repair 
 thither in cruel weather ; some pine branches left by 
 the woodcutters, who had felled the few trees that 
 once stood at the very head of the glen. Into that 
 corner the snow-drift had not forced its way ; and he 
 sat down there with Flora in the cherishing of his 
 embrace, hoping that the warmth of his distracted 
 heart might be felt by her who was as cold as a 
 corpse. The chill air was somewhat softened by the 
 breath of the huddled flock, and the edge of the cut- 
 ting wind blunted by the stones. It was a place in 
 which it seemed possible that she might revive, 
 miserable as it was, with mire-mixed snow, and al- 
 most as cold as one supposes the grave. And she did 
 revive; and under the half-open lids the dim blue 
 appeared to be not yet life-deserted. It was yet but 
 the afternoon, night-like though it was; and he 
 thought, as he breathed upon her lips, that a faint 
 
SNOW-STORM IN SCOTLAND. 151 
 
 red returned, and that they felt his kisses poured 
 over them to drive death away. 
 
 " O, father, go seek for Hamish, for I dreamt to- 
 night he was perishing in the snow ! " " Flora, fear 
 not; God is with us." " Wild swans, they say, are 
 come to Loch-Phoil ; let us go, Hamish, and see them 
 — but no rifle — for why kill creatures said to be so 
 beautiful?" Over them, where they lay, bended 
 down the pine-branch roof, as if it would give way 
 beneath the increasing weight of snow ; but there 
 it still hung, though the drift came over their feet, 
 and up to their knees, and seemed stealing upwards 
 to be their shroud. *'0,I am overcome with drow- 
 siness, and fain would be allowed to sleep. Who 
 is disturbing me? and what noise is this in our 
 house?" "Fear not, fear not, Flora; God is 
 with us." " Mother ! and I lying in your bosom ! 
 My father surely is not out in the storm ! O, I 
 have had a most dreadful dream." And with such 
 mutterings as these, Flora relapsed again into that 
 perilous sleep, which soon becomes that of death. 
 
 Night itself came, but Flora and Hamish knew 
 it not; and both lay now motionless in one snow- 
 shroud. Many passions, though earthborn, all di- 
 vine, — pity, and grief, and love, and hope, and at 
 last despair, — had prostrated the strength they had 
 so long supported ; and the brave boy, who had 
 been for some time feeble as a very child after a 
 fever, with a mind confused and wandering, and, in 
 its perplexities, sore afraid of some nameless ill, had 
 submitted to lay down his head beside his Flora's, 
 and soon became, like her, insensible to the night 
 and all its storms 1 
 
 Bright was the peat-fire in the hut of Flora's pa- 
 rents in Glenco ; and they were among the happiest 
 of the humbly happy, blessing this the birthday of 
 
152 
 
 SNOW STORM IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 their blameless child. They thought of her singing 
 her sweet songs by the fireside of the hut in Glen- 
 creran ; and tender thoughts of her cousin Hamish 
 were with them in their prayers. No warning came 
 to their ears in the sough or the howl ; for fear it is 
 that creates its own ghostlike visitings, and they had 
 seen their Flora, in the meekness of the morning, 
 setting forth on her way over the quiet mountains, 
 like a fawn to play. Sometimes, too. Love, that 
 starts at shadows, as if they were of the grave, is 
 strangely insensible to things that might well strike 
 it with dismay. So was it now with the dwellers in 
 the hut at the head of Glencreran. Their Hamish 
 had left them in the morning ; night had come, and 
 he and Flora were not there ; but the day had been 
 almost like a summer day, and they, in their infatua- 
 tion, never doubted that the happy creatures had 
 changed their minds, and that Flora had returned 
 with him to Glenco. Hamish had laughingly said, 
 that haply he might surprise the people in that glen 
 by bringing back to them Flora on her birthday ; 
 and, strange though it afterwards seemed to her to 
 be, that belief prevented one single fear from touch- 
 ing the mother's heart, and she and her husband lay 
 down in sleep, unhaunted by any woful dream. 
 
 What could have been done for them, had they 
 been told by some good or evil spirit that their chil- 
 dren were in the clutches of such a night? As well 
 seek for a single bark in the middle of the misty 
 main ! But the inland storm had been seen brewing 
 among the mountains round King's House, and hut 
 had communicated with hut, though far apart, in that 
 wilderness where the traveller sees no symptoms of 
 human life. Down through the long cliff-pass of 
 Mealanumy, between Buchael-Etive and the Black- 
 Mount, towards the lone House of Dalness, that lives 
 
SNOW-STORM IN SCOTLAND. 153 
 
 in everlasting shadows, went a band of shepherds, 
 trampling their way across a hundred frozen streams. 
 Dalness joined its strength ; and then away over the 
 drift-bridged chasms toiled that Gathering, with their 
 sheep-dogs scouring the loose snows; in the van, 
 Fingal, the Red Reaver, with his head aloft, on the 
 lookout for deer, grimly eyeing the Correi, where last 
 he tasted blood. All " plaided in their tartan array," 
 these shepherds laughed at the storm — and hark I 
 you hear the bagpipe play — the music the Highland 
 ers love both in war and in peace. 
 
 " They think then of the ourie cattle, 
 And silly sheep; " 
 
 and though they ken 'twill be a moonless night — for 
 the snow-storm will sweep her out of heaven — up 
 the mountain and down the glen they go, marking 
 where flock and herd have betaken themselves; and 
 now at nightfall, unafraid of that blind hollow, they 
 descend into the depth where once stood the old 
 Grove of Pines. Following the dogs, who know 
 their duties in their instinct, the band, without see- 
 ing it, are now close to that ruined hut. Why bark 
 the sheep dogs so? and why howls Fingal, as if some 
 spirit passed athwart the night? He scents the dead 
 body of the boy, who so often shouted him on in the 
 forest, when the antlers went by! Not dead — nor 
 dead she who is on his bosom ! Yet life in both is 
 frozen ; and will the iced blood in their veins ever 
 again be thawed? Almost pitch dark is the roofless 
 ruin ; and the frightened sheep know not what is the 
 terrible Shape that is howling there. But a man 
 enters, and lifts up one of the bodies, giving it into 
 the arms of them at the door-way, and then lifts up 
 
154 €NOW STORM IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 I 
 
 the other ; and by the flash of a rifle, they see that 
 it is Hamish and Flora Macdonald, seemingly both 
 frozen to death ! Some of those reeds that the shep- 
 herds burn in their huts are kindled, and in that 
 small light they are assured that such are the corpses. 
 But that noble dog knows that death is not there; 
 and licks the face of Hamish, as if he would restore 
 life to his eyes ! Two of the shepherds know well 
 how to fold the dying in their plaids — how gentliest 
 to carry them along ; for they had learnt it on the 
 field of victorious battle, when, without stumbling 
 over the dead and wounded, they bore away the shat- 
 tered body — yet living — of the youthful warrior, 
 who had shown that of such a clan he was worthy to 
 be the chief 
 
 The storm was with them all the way down the 
 glen ; nor could they have heard each other's voices 
 had they spoke ; but mutely they shifted the burden 
 from strong hand to hand ; thinking of the hut in 
 Glenco, and of what would be felt there on their ar- 
 rival with the dying or dead. Blind people walk 
 through what to them is the nicrht of crowded dav- 
 Streets — unpausing turn round corners — unhesita- 
 tingly plunge down steep stairs — wind their way 
 fearless through whirlwinds of life — and reach, in 
 their serenity, each one unharmed, his own obscure 
 house. For God is with the blind. So is he with 
 all who walk on works of mercy. This saving band 
 had no fear, and therefore there was no danger, on 
 the edge of the pitfall or the cliff". They knew the 
 countenances of the mountains, shown momentarily, 
 by ghastly gleamings, through the fitful night and 
 the hollow sound of each particular stream beneath 
 the snow, at places where in other weather there 
 was a pool or a waterfall. The dip of the hills, in 
 
SNOW-STORM IN SCOTLAND. 165 
 
 spite of the drifts, familiar to their feet, did not de- 
 ceive them now; and, then, the dogs, in their instinct, 
 were guides that erred not ; and as well as the shep- 
 herds knew it themselves, did Fingal know that they 
 were anxious to reach Glenco. He led the way, as 
 if he were in moonlight ; and often stood still when 
 they were shifting their burden, and whined as if in 
 grief He knew where the bridges were, stones or 
 logs ; and he rounded the marshes where at springs 
 the wild fowls feed. And thus Instinct, and Reason, 
 and Faith, conducted the saving band along ; and 
 now they are at Glenco, and at the door of the hut ! 
 To life were brought the dead, and there at mid- 
 night sat they up like ghosts. Strange seemed they, 
 for a while, to each other's eyes; and at each other 
 they looked as if they had forgotten how dearly once 
 they loved ! Then, as if in holy fear, they gazed on 
 each other's faces, thinking that they had awoke to- 
 gether in heaven. "Flora!" said Hamish ; and that 
 sweet word, the first he had been able to speak, re- 
 minded him of all that had passed, and he knew that 
 the God in whom they had put their trust had sent 
 them deliverance. Flora, too, knew her parents, who 
 were on their knees, and she strove to rise up and 
 kneel down beside them ; but powerless was she as 
 a broken reed ; and when she thought to join with 
 them in thanksgiving, her voice was gone. Still as 
 death sat all those simple shepherds in the hut ; and 
 one or two, who were fathers, were not ashamed to 
 
 WfieO 4t # 4t 4t 4fe # 
 
156 BERTHA CLERVILLE* 
 
 BERTHA CLERVILLE. 
 
 "But my father? — Edward — -I cannot leave my 
 poor father — not even to perfect your happiness! — 
 No ! I cannot leave my father." 
 
 There was a pause after those words had been de- 
 livered in a sweetly-agitated voice, and a faint sound, 
 as of some one endeavoring to check the rising sobs 
 of bitter emotion; after vv'iich another voice said — 
 
 " h will be but the first burst of passion— the first 
 short interval of sullenness and gloom — and you will 
 be forgiven. Think, dear Bertha, think upon the 
 long and happy years which we will share together; 
 think upon the fervor of n]y love — nay, adoration — 
 and say if one bold step shall be wanting to consum- 
 mate our long-desired union." 
 
 '* I have thought, Edward, till thought is drowned 
 by sorrow: I cannot, I dare not, think of it longer." 
 
 As these words were spoken, two figures were seen 
 to emerge from the deep shade of some old oak-trees, 
 which stood like the tenacious representatives of by- 
 gone days, into the mellow light of a full and brightly 
 beaming moon — that lovely light 
 
 " Which every soft and solemn spirit worship3, 
 And lovers love so well ! " 
 
 One figure was that of a tall and well-formed man ; 
 the other an apparently slight and delicate female, 
 who sobbed and Vv'ept at intervals, as she proceeded 
 slowly and timidly by the side of her companion, 
 whose arm was tenderly thrown around her waist, 
 and occasionally employed in straining her more 
 closely to the heart which beat for her alone — a sort 
 
BERTHA CLERVILLE. 157 
 
 of expressive eloquence, which sometimes does more 
 rapid execution than all the boasted array of potent 
 language can effect. 
 
 To the true understandincr of this most veritable 
 history, it is meet that I should now record all that I 
 know of the amiable pair which I have introduced to 
 public notice. Firstly, then, in honor and in place — 
 for when shall lovely woman cease to take prece- 
 dence? — Bertha Clerville was the only daughter of a 
 rich old country gentleman — rich in paternal acres, 
 and in one surpassingly beautiful child; and, second- 
 ly, Edward Forester, her adopted lover, was also a 
 country gentleman, but of infinitely humbler caste. 
 He was the only son of a litigious sort of spend- 
 thrift — a genus much too common amongst the elite 
 of agricultural counties; and though it is true that 
 he had passed to his final account, it was not until he 
 had left the accounts of his successor in a wofully de- 
 ranged condition. .Clerville and Forester were con- 
 tiguous proprietors, and the law-loving spirit of the 
 latter had rendered him so peculiarly obnoxious to 
 the former, that he even entertained a most inveterate 
 hatred for his memory. But when could law avert 
 the course of love? Born, as it were, together — be- 
 dewed by the same sliowers, and cherished by the 
 same sunbeams, Bertha Clerville and Edward Fores- 
 ter were lovers in their very infancy, and their youth- 
 ful hearts were insensibly intertwined before they 
 became aware of the formidable barriers which thei' 
 respected parents were raising between them. Love 
 is proverbially blind — and so, it is said, is Law; at 
 least Justice, who holds the magic balance, is so de- 
 pictured. Certain it is, that the litigation of the 
 parents prevented not the love of the children. — 
 Thrown almost constantly together, they cherished the 
 same sentiments, they followed the same amusements. 
 
158 BERTHA CLERVILLE. 
 
 nay, they cultivated the self-same flowers, and if there 
 was one plant — one blossom — above all others — 
 which Bertha loved, her Edward loved it too. There 
 was also another secret sympathy which linked these 
 guileless souls together : they had each, early, lost an 
 affectionate mother, and were thus marked as it were 
 by the far-felt hand of fate for friends, associates, 
 lovers. 
 
 Whilst they were yet in childhood's golden time, 
 the bitterness which rankled in the bosoms of their 
 parents seemed to shed no blight on the heart-felt 
 happiness of the children ; and even Gerard Clerville 
 himself would smooth down the hair of young Ed- 
 ward, and proudly declare him " the finest boy in the 
 -county." But when they arrived at that more un- 
 certain period, when youth lingers, as it were, upon 
 the landscape, unwilling to resign the dear delights 
 of the festal scenes of by-gone hours to the fresh 
 embraces of maturity, the bitter waters of the elder 
 stream began to mingle with the sparkling crystal of 
 the fresher fountain, and formed the earliest sorrow 
 which their young hearts had been destined to know. 
 
 At length old Forester died, and his son, though 
 far above the reach of want, was confessedly no match 
 for the wealthy heiress of Gerard Clerville; and, as a 
 necessary consequence, the beautiful Bertha was for- 
 bidden even to think of him ! How lightly deem 
 they of the human heart, who issue their proud man- 
 -dates so peremptorily ! Bertha was not undutiful ; 
 but she could not cease, at once, to think of one on 
 
 tiom alone for years her thoughts had perpetually 
 n : ted ; and, with every wish to obey a parent who 
 "w 15 in no other respect unreasonable, poor Bertha 
 d 1 but think of the forbidden one the more! She 
 Sc r no valid objection to him in the inequality of 
 h : ane ; she knew that he would not waste his pa- 
 
BERTHA CLERVILLE. 159 
 
 tcrnlty on the incertitude of idle litigation; she knew 
 him to be generous, ardent, sincere ; she ivnew that 
 he loved her as his own soul, and she hoped — what 
 a jewel hope is in a lover's eye ! — she hoped to soften 
 the asperities of her parent, and unite herself forever 
 with the man she loved. 
 
 Now, though Edward Forester was an honorable 
 young man, a man of talent, and possessed of intelli- 
 gence almost beyond his rank of life, yet truth com- 
 pels me to declare that he had, in many of his stolen 
 interviews, urged the affectionate girl to take the 
 somevi'hat hasty step which we find him nrging at 
 the commencement of this narrative. As yet, how- 
 ever, his eloquent entreaties had been ineifectual, 
 and, considering how powerful a pleader he had in 
 her own bosom, that is saying m::ch for the feminine 
 endurance of Bertha Clerville. But constant assault 
 reduces the most impregnable fortresses; and at 
 length the worn-out heart of Bertha yielded to the 
 soft solicitations of her impassioned lover, and slowly, 
 very slowly and reluctantly, she consented to fly with 
 him, and make her fond old father miserable ! 
 
 The next night at midnight, when old Clerville 
 had retired to his bed, was the time appointed by the 
 inconsiderate lovers for their hasty flight. They 
 were to pass as rapidly as steeds could carry them to 
 the country town, whence, the indissoluble contract 
 having been formed, they would return to the scene 
 of bereavement, and the repenting daughter would 
 sue for pardon at her father's feet. 
 
 There is, I am firmly persuaded, an index in every 
 heart which points to rectitude, in the midst of every 
 deviation ; and the gentle heart of Bertha was not 
 without this inward monitor, the "still small voice" 
 of which was heard above the pleadings of affection, 
 or the silvery tones of love. When Bertha met her 
 
f60 BERTHA CLEtl^'lLtE. 
 
 father in the morning at the breakfast table, she could 
 not endure the kindliness of his gaze; the unbidden 
 tears filled her eyes, and fell fast down her cheeks, at 
 the sight of the fond old man whom she was about to 
 leave, even for so short a time, and on an errand so 
 important. At dinner she was still more distressed ; 
 and when the hour for tea arrived, she pleaded abso- 
 lute indisposition for her non-appearance. Whilst 
 love and affection — if I may be allov/ed to draw so 
 fine a distinction betv/een terms generally deemed 
 synonymous — were thus torturing the bosom of the 
 now really unhappy Bertha, the hours were hastening 
 on with, unwearied rapidity ; the shades of evening 
 fell with their accustomed serenity ; and the moon 
 rose with almost miore than her usual splendor ; and 
 now came Bertha's trying hour. It had for many a 
 year been the custom of old Clerville, (and an endear- 
 ing and truly parental custom, in my opinion, it is,) 
 on retiring for the night, to kiss the bright lips of his 
 daughter, and bid her a low-voiced, sweet " good 
 night," to which she as sweetly did respond. On 
 this occasion, the unsuspecting father kissed his 
 ■child; but Bertha could not say "good night ; " the 
 very attempt was suffocation; she could but grasp 
 his hand, and burst into tears. Clerville had noticed 
 the altered manner of his daughter; but thinking it 
 the effect of a transient indisposition, he imagined a 
 few hours of rest would be an ample restorative, and, 
 forbearing to distress her by mentioning it, he retired 
 to his chamber. 
 
 With a solemn step, the almost broken-hearted girl 
 descended to the scene of her appointment. It was 
 her own little sitting-room, on the ground floor, the 
 window of which, left invitingly open, looked into 
 the spacious garden. Her impatient lover was there 
 before her. "Bertha!" he murmured as she en- 
 
BERTHA C'LERVILLf:. 101 
 
 tered; and Bertha, rushing into his arms, wept lon^ 
 and passionately upon his bosom. 
 
 *' It has been a hard struggle," said she, at last, 
 " and I had nearly failed beneath its force. O, Ed- 
 ward, this has been a day of unmingled misery ta 
 me." 
 
 " Repent not, dearest," said her lover ; " it will be 
 the last. Come, my love ; delay is fatal." 
 
 " It is indeed ! " said old Clerville, in a voice of 
 thunder, as he emerged into the bright light of the 
 moon, which came like a flood into the chamber 
 through the open window, his frame dilated with 
 rage, and his eyes flashing with the justly-roused indig- 
 nation of an insulted parent. Edward stood abashed, 
 like one detected in the act of stealing the brightest 
 gem of all from the brilliant casket ; he had no power 
 of utterance. Bertha neither shrieked nor fled, but, 
 like " dejected pity" by the side of " rage," she sank 
 down in the posture of supplication. 
 
 "Worthless vdlain ! " said Clerville, "would you 
 rob me of my child? Begone, while yet my temper 
 holds, or I may rob the gibbet of its own ! Begone ! 
 the midnight burglar hangs in chains, but such a 
 thief as you escapes with but an old man's execra- 
 tions ringing in his ears. Begone, robber! midnight 
 murderer of a parent's peace, begone ! " 
 
 Bertha sunk prostrate on the floor in utter insen- 
 sibility, and the young man moved as though he would 
 have passed to her relief 
 
 "What!" said Clerville, "will you dare, in my 
 presence, to contaminate her with your touch? No ! 
 if she were stone dead at my feet, no hand of yours 
 should raise her. Frontless wretch, begone ! " 
 
 As if actuated by a sudden impulse, the young de- 
 linouent darted through the window, and disappeared, 
 11 
 
162 SERTHA CLERVILLE. 
 
 whilst the afflicted father carried his still insensible 
 child to her apartment. 
 
 With the accuracy of a veritable historian, I must 
 now relate the cause which led to Clerville's unex- 
 pected share in this domestic drama. He had retired 
 to rest, as I have intimated, and sleep fell like a man- 
 tle over him ; but it was not the sleep of rest ; his 
 spirit was perturbed. Whether there exists some 
 mysterious association between the dormant mind 
 and what is actually taking place in waking life, I 
 know not; but Clerville dreamt that his daughter was 
 in danger ; his attempts to rescue her awoke him 
 from his troubled slumber, and so sensibly was he 
 affected by his dream, that he instantly repaired to 
 her apartment. His surprise must be imagined, when 
 he discovered that she was not there; he determined 
 on further search, and, guided by a sort of sacred 
 instinct, he just arrived in time to hear the machina- 
 tions of the tv/o ardent, though injudicious lovers. 
 
 The effects of this distressing denciicment were al- 
 most fatal to poor Bertha ; fever, follov/ed by deliri- 
 um, ensued, and weeks elapsed before she was able 
 to leave her chamber. When, at last, with weak and 
 faltering feet, she did leave it, a cold gleam, almost 
 like that of dull insanity, v/as in her eye, and her 
 discourse was wandering and unconnected. She had 
 a peculiar aversion to being alone, and contemplated 
 an open window with feelings excited almost to terror. 
 Reason, however, did but waver for a moment on her 
 deeply-shaken seat; the sight of a suffering parent, 
 though dimly seen through the burning tears of silent 
 anguish, recalled the goddess to her golden throne, 
 and banished the insidious traces of insanity, but left 
 securely seated in its place, her dull and melancholy 
 ministrant — despair. 
 
BERTHA CLERVILLE. 163 
 
 When she had fully recovered, a letter was placed 
 in her hands, which contained the following: — * 
 
 " Dearest Bertha, 
 
 I have heard of your severe sufferings, and 
 I do not cease to curse myself as their unhappy 
 author. I implore your forgiveness, and that of 
 your injured father. O, how I abjure the adven- 
 ture of that fatal night! It was as rash as it was 
 vain — as uncounselled as it was unsuccessful. 
 Blessed be the moment which awoke your unforgiv- 
 ing father, and restored you to his arms ! I feel 
 well assured that he never would have pardoned us,, 
 and misery would have fallen on that head which I 
 would give my life to shelter. Farewell, Bertha; 
 and, with that name, farewell to many a dream of 
 happiness ! Think of me sometimes — think, dearest 
 girl, of one who can never cease to think of you — 
 never cease to love you. E. F." 
 
 This brief epistle was fastened with a seal of saf- 
 fron-colored wax, and impressed with the device of a 
 broken heart ; and I am told that, in the world of 
 love, this is a touching allegory : in that bewitching 
 domain, saffron is held to indicate the fact of being 
 forsaken ; and the device of the broken heart is the 
 emblem of its fatal consequences. 
 
 Bertha read her letter many times, and then she 
 hid it in her bosom, coldly adding, as she placed the 
 device next her heart, " There may be some resem- 
 blance soon ! " 
 
 But where had the runaway lover concealed him- 
 self! No one knew. The remnant of his property 
 in the county was sold off, and rumor said that he 
 had embarked his all in a large vessel which had sud- 
 denly sailed on a far-away voyage. 
 
164 BERTHA CLERVILLE. 
 
 Time rolled on ; and if the wounds of Bertha's 
 fruitless love were not healed, they were at least amply 
 cicatrized, when she was called upon to sustain others, 
 if not quite so poignant, yet of as lasting and impres- 
 sive a character. The declining age of Clerville 
 brought with it some accessories which that old gen- 
 tleman could well have spared. The bank, in which 
 he was a large depositor, stopped payment. The 
 proprietors had speculated far beyond their means, 
 and by their own ruin caused the ruin of many. 
 This was the first blast of adversity, and old Clerville 
 felt it bitterly, not only in his own large pecuniary 
 investments, but also in those of his tenantry, who, 
 being unable to pay their rents, resigned their farms 
 into his hands, as the last and only compensation they 
 could make to a liberal proprietor. And then came 
 seasons of distress ; crops failed, and cattle died, and 
 as a climax to the general amount of sufferings, the 
 midnight fires of the heartless incendiary blazed out 
 through all the southern heavens. It was indeed 
 with a melancholy heart that the old man beheld his 
 property vanishing from his view, like the gray mists 
 of an autumnal morning before the rising sun ; and 
 when he looked upon his daughter, he felt his losses 
 and his sorrows in a twofold degree. Growing still 
 more enfeebled, he sold the remainder of his property, 
 and retired to spend his days with his child in a neat, 
 small cottage, in one of the villages of the very 
 county in which he had been one of the most con- 
 siderable landed proprietors. 
 
 Truly has it been said, that there is nothing which 
 tries the heart like adversity; of the truth of thib 
 apothegm, Bertha Clerville alforded a noble instance. 
 She left her father's mansion without a murmur — al- 
 ■/iiost without a sigh. And if she did sigh, peradven- 
 ture it was only when the thought crossed her mind 
 
BERTHA CLERVILLE. 165 
 
 that she might have been the mistress of it under the 
 guardianship of one she loved. I think, if such a 
 thing were possible, tliat Bertha grew more attentive 
 to ail her fatiier's wants; and when, at last, blindness 
 stole over the visual orbs of the old man, — as if to 
 complete the wreck of fortune, — she led him as a 
 mother would lead a tender and delicate child. She 
 read to him whole colunms of the County Adver^ 
 tiscr, (at that time in high request ;) she sung to him ; 
 she watched his every movement, and anticipated his 
 every want ; and she did all so gently, with such a win- 
 ning, grace-bespeaking tenderness, one would almost 
 consent to have been old, — ay, and even blind, — to 
 have been the object of so much sweet officiousness, 
 to have partaken of the pure serenity which that gift- 
 ed, generous creature shed around her. 
 
 One afternoon, a tine, mellow voice was heard in 
 the village; it was an air of peculiar beauty; not one 
 of the " melodies," now so called, but a manly Eng- 
 lish ballad, which brought to mind, in plain, but 
 touching terms, some unforgotten traits of by-gone 
 days. 
 
 "Who is that singing?" said Clerville to his 
 daughter. 
 
 " A mendicant, father," said Bertha, " old, lame, 
 and — " 
 
 "jB/mf/.^" said Clerville, with emphasis. 
 
 *' Even so," replied Bertha, bursting into tears, as 
 the more proximate points of the similarity flashed 
 upon her mind. 
 
 " Nay, nay," said the old man, drawing his hand 
 across his own rayless eyes, " thou shouldst be more 
 a woman now; though old and blind, I am yet rich 
 in thee. Bertha. Go, call the stranger in; we have a 
 shilling still to spare him." 
 
 *' We have," said Bertha, *' and as it is your wish, 
 
166 EERTHA CLEKVILLE. 
 
 dear father, he should have it though it were our 
 last." 
 
 "Noble girl!" ejaculated Clerville; "call the 
 stranger in." 
 
 The stranger was called in. He was a fine old 
 man of about sixty ; there was a ruddy brown upon 
 his cheek, and his thin white hair flowing profusely 
 on his shoulders, gave him an appearance truly pa- 
 triarchal. Clerville asked him how he came to travel, 
 as he politely termed the mendicant's profession. The 
 old man replied that he had seen better days — 
 
 The unbidden tears sprang to the eyes of poor 
 Bertha. 
 
 And when his career was arrested by misfortunes, 
 which he could neither avert nor sustain, he became 
 a day-laborer in the fields; and when at length he 
 lost his sight — 
 
 Here Bertha's tears fell faster than before. 
 
 He applied without scruple to the overseers of the 
 poor. He confessed that at first he did entertain 
 some feelings of unnatural pride; but when he began 
 to "reason with himself," as he termed it, he came 
 to the conclusion that there were far more pitiable 
 objects in the world than a cheerful old man in a 
 poor-house, manfully seeking that protection which 
 the legal provisions of his country afford to those 
 who are incapable of maintaining themselves. But, 
 after all, when he did become an inmate, he found 
 that he could not endure the confinement ; his soul 
 grew anxious for the freshness of her native fields; 
 the sunshine and the showers were linked with her 
 existence ; they had grown together from youth to 
 manhood, from manhood to old age, and they could 
 not now be separated. He sought and gained per- 
 mission to rove about his native dales, and share the 
 bounty of the generous, always with the privilege of 
 
BKRTHA CLERVILLE. 167 
 
 retiring to the work-house as his phice of rest. He 
 had no wish to die, he said ; but he was not afraid 
 of deatli, and if he might choose the time and man- 
 ner of his departure, it should be at the close of a 
 sweet summer day, at the foot of some green knoll', 
 which he had bounded over when prosperity was 
 upon him, and which he had trodden with manly 
 resignation, when adversity had left him blind and 
 helpless, # 
 
 Such was the stranger's story, and Bertha re- 
 garded him with looks of the deepest compassion, 
 as the fine lines of the poet rose involuntarily to her 
 lips — 
 
 " Confine him not; 
 As in the eye of nature he has lived, 
 So in the eye of" nature let him die." 
 
 The mendicant received his gratuity and departed, 
 invoking blessing on the heads of his benefactors. 
 For a space the brow of Clerville became troubled, 
 and his breast labored with emotion, when he sud- 
 denly sought to relieve his awakened spirit in thanks- 
 giving. He rose from his seat, and failing on his 
 knees, he thanked that Providence which had dealt 
 with him in mercy, and he prayed that he might re- 
 tain his proper feelings of gratitude to Him who or- 
 ders everything; whilst his lovely daughter clasped 
 her hands and bent over him with a looR of the most 
 angel-like affection, forming such a group of thanks- 
 giving and beauty, as the chisel of Chantrey, exquisite 
 as it is, has never yet achieved. 
 
 It was now nearly ten years since Edward Fores- 
 ter had expatriated himself from his native land; and 
 in all that time it was never known that one line of 
 intelligence had been received from him. Indeed, 
 to whom was he to write ? I know of but one who 
 
163 
 
 BERTHA CLERTILLE. 
 
 could satisfactorily have answered that question. The 
 truth is, that Edward had been, save by one, perfectly 
 forgotten ; but now, by some sudden freak of fortune, 
 he began to be recollected, and strange store of wealth 
 "ivas associated with his long-forgotten name. At 
 length the County Advertiser, the most veracious of 
 all country papers, announced the important fact as 
 follows : — 
 
 " From information on which we can rely, we 
 
 are authorized to state that E F , Esq., the 
 
 young gentleman who left this country several years 
 ago, having amassed immense wealth in the Indies, 
 is on the eve of landing on his native shore, deter- 
 mined to spend the remainder of his days on his own 
 estate, in the manner most becoming the habits and 
 character of an English country gentleman." 
 
 No sooner was this gracious piece of intelligence 
 duly circulated through the county, than som.e of the 
 former dependants of the Foresters insisted upon 
 going all the lengths of lunacy ; they rang the church 
 bells; they kindled bonfires — not, I am glad to say, 
 in their landlords' stack-yards ; — they discharged sun- 
 dry rusty pieces of ordnance, called fowling-pieces, to 
 the great terror and dismay of many of the well- 
 intentioned inhabitants ; and they would have baited 
 a bull, but for the best reason in the world, namely, 
 there was only one to be got, and it was so old, 
 so stiff, and so utterly devoid of al! proper spirit for 
 such a ceremony, that the idea of a bull bait was 
 formally abandoned, the committee of management 
 having declared that he (the bull) was not fit to toss 
 a bunch of radishes from his nose! 
 
 This boisterous joy, and the cause of it, was not 
 long in reaching the cottage of old Clerville. In- 
 deed Bertha had herself read the veritable fact in the 
 all-important columns of the County oracle; but her 
 
BERTUA CLERVILLE. 169 
 
 trembling tongue and her quickly-throbbing bosom 
 would not allow her to acquaint her father with the 
 circumstance. 
 
 Here was a field for speculation! — the circum- 
 stances under which they parted — the lingering years 
 which had elapsed — and the circumstances under 
 which they were probably to meet again — all these 
 thronged and coursed througii poor Bertha's brain, 
 till she was well nigh bewildered. At one time hope 
 
 — that sovereign of the world — would raise his 
 roseate standard in her bosom, and she would paint 
 her lover, after all his ardent toils beneath the sultry 
 skies of '' gorgeous Ind," hastening home with his 
 accumulations in his grasp, and new offers of love 
 and attachment on his lips, and laying all at Jicr feet 
 
 — hers, who had loved him loI:ig and ardently, through 
 good and through evil, through years of absence and 
 neglect, in sickness and in health, during delirium, 
 and in despair! — Jict^s, who would have sacrificed 
 every thing but honor, and who well nigh periled 
 that for him ; who would have been resigned to live 
 alone for the love she bore his name — hers, who, 
 next to her God, held him to be the highest object of 
 deification in the universe. At another time, she 
 would dwell upon the effects of long absence and 
 ever-varying enterprise ; how many scenes of high 
 excitement had he not passed through, the least of 
 them enough to banish her and all their rustic; joys 
 and recollections forever from his memory ! and 
 then there would conle the last, the most unwelcome 
 thought of all, — Came he alone from that far land 
 of competence and crime? or was there not some 
 lovely form already by his side, whose large and lus- 
 trous eyes were even now emittmg all their sun-lent 
 radiance on his countenance, whose swarthy brow 
 ¥/as reclining on that very bosom, which once waa 
 
170 
 
 BERTHA CLERVILLE. 
 
 j)rps.«!ed by the pale querist alone? and when her 
 thoughts took such a turn, she hid her face and wept, 
 for she knew that if madness, long delayed, did come, 
 it would be through that avenue that the frightful 
 malady must pass. 
 
 Clerville, blind and broken down as he was in the 
 comparison, was rejoiced to hear of the young man's 
 success. It gave h"m no pang. He had lived to see 
 the evanescent nature of wealth ; and he prided him- 
 self on his knowledge of the world. He was anx- 
 ious, however, for the effc^ct upon poor Bertha. It 
 was long since he could see the expression of her 
 pale features ; and he had become so habituated with 
 her sighs, that from them he could catch no index 
 of the feeling which was triumphing beneath. One 
 morning, however, to his surprise, Bertha said, tim- 
 idly, *' Father, Edward is coming home ! " 
 
 " Ay, Bertha," said Clerville, " they say so, my 
 child ; but be thou not deceived ; he will not come to 
 thee. No, my girl, he has now learnt the wisdom 
 of the world, and he will carry his golden ingots to a 
 higher, to a fairer market." 
 
 "Unjust, ungenerous, and unkind!" said Bertha, 
 her gentle spirit roused by the ungracious opinion 
 thus expressed on the absent object of her unbroken 
 affection. " Edward will never be untrue to me, 
 though I never see him more ! " 
 
 " And yet he would have been untrue to me ! '* 
 said the old man, with a slight tinge of vehemence in 
 his manner. 
 
 Bertha rose at once, and threw her arms about his 
 neck. " Father, for God's sake, let us not talk in 
 this manner; I am not mad yet but, (and she pressed 
 her hand upon her brow) I know not how soon I 
 may be ! " 
 
 At this moment a smart rap was heard at the outer 
 
BERTHA CLERVILLE. 171 
 
 door of the cottage, and in the next moment the tall 
 and manly ibrm oi' Forester was standing on the iloor 
 beside tlieni. 
 
 " Bertha ! " said he, '' my dear Bertha, I am come 
 to lay my life and fortune at your feet." 
 
 Bertha was overpowered; she pointed for one mo- 
 ment at her father, and fainted in her long-lost lover's 
 arms. 
 
 "Gracious Heaven!" said Edward; "Mr. Cler- 
 ville, and blind ! I did not hear of that ! " 
 
 " Do not insult me, young man," said Clerville. 
 
 "No, no, no!" said Bertha, opening her eyes, and 
 fixing them in a long look on the ardent features of 
 her lover — "no, no, no! he will not, he cannot, he 
 does not mean it ! " 
 
 " I come not here to insult," said Edward ; " I came 
 to entreat — old men (and he pressed Clerville's hand 
 fervently) — old men should forget — " 
 
 " And forgive," said the father, rising majestically, 
 and pointing upwards with a slightly-tremulous hand. 
 ""Old, blind, and well nigh helpless — standing on 
 the avv'ful brink of dissolution — what have I to do 
 with hatred more? My children, your trials have 
 been many and severe ; may Heaven bless you long 
 together ! " 
 
 "Amen, father, amen!" said the ardent lover, as 
 he again pressed the blushing Bertha to his bosom. 
 
 And now I must hasten to a conclusion, having, 
 like a skilful pilot, run my little narrative into a 
 hnppy haven, after all the perils of, I fear, a tedious 
 voyage. Clerville Manor was im.mediately repur- 
 chased, and the original proprietor reinstated as its 
 ancient lord and undisputed master; and in about 
 *i)v months, a gay and gallant equipage was seen to 
 -.Gcne from amongst the stately old oaks of which I 
 iiave elsewhere spoken in my history; and, moreover, 
 
172 
 
 love's recompence. 
 
 that same equipage wended gayly towards the church, 
 into which many a bright and happy countenance 
 entered — and there was one white-haired, sightless 
 old man, who clasped his hands in the serenity of 
 silence, and seemed happier than they all ! For my 
 part, I had always thought that solemn matters were 
 transacted in churches; guess my astonishment, there- 
 fore, when I found, after the return of the equipage, 
 that the friends of Mr. Forester, now vastly swelled 
 in numbers, under the name of tenantry, were de- 
 termined to be seven times more mad than they were 
 before! They roasted sheep and oxen without being 
 at the trouble of cutting them to pieces — they drank 
 whole barrels of ale, without the intervention of spigot 
 and faucet — they rung, and rerung the bells — they 
 kindled the bonfires — they discharged all the fowling- 
 pieces ; and the bull — but here I must pause — I 
 think the bull was not baited after all 
 
 LOVE'S RECOMPENSE. 
 
 It was, then, in that beautiful Vale of Vire, 
 Bome twenty years ago, that Francois Lormier went 
 out to take his last May walk with Mariette Duval, 
 ere the relentless conscription called him from his 
 liappy home, his sweet valleys, and his early love. It 
 was a sad walk, as may well be imagined ; for though 
 the morning was bright, and nature — to her shame be 
 it spoken — had put on her gayest smiles, as if to mock 
 their sorrow, yet the sunshine of the scene could not 
 find its way to their hearts, and all seemed darkened 
 and clouded around them. They talked a great deaJ, 
 
love's recompense. 173 
 
 and they talked a long time ; but far be it from me to 
 betray their private conversation. I would not, for 
 all the world — especially as I know not one word 
 about it — except, indeed, that Francois Lormier 
 vowed the image of Mariette should remain with him 
 forever — should inspire him in the battle, and cheer 
 him in the bivouac ; and that Mariette protested that 
 she would never marry any body except Francois 
 Lormier, even if rich old Monsieur Latoussefort, the 
 great Foulan, were to lay himself and fortune at her 
 feet; and, in short, that when his " seven long years 
 were out," Francois would find her still a spinster, 
 and very much at his service. 
 
 '* Mais si jc perdrois une jamc ? " said Francois 
 Lormier. " Qu^est ce que c'a fait ? " replied Mari- 
 ette, They parted — and first to follow the lady. 
 Mariette wept a great deal, but soon after got calm 
 again, went about her ordinary work, sang her song, 
 danced at the village fete, talked with the talkers, 
 laughed with the laughers, and won the hearts of all 
 the youths in the place, by her unadorned and her 
 native grace. But still she did not forget Francois 
 Lormier ; and when any one came to ask her in mar- 
 riage, the good dame, her mother, referred them 
 directly to Mariette, who had always her answer 
 ready, and with a kind word and a gentle look sent 
 them away refused, but not offended. At length 
 good old Monsieur Latoussefort presented himself, 
 with all his money-bags, declaring that his only wish 
 was to enrich his gentle Mariette; but Mariette was 
 steady, and so touchingly did she talk to him about 
 poor Francois Lormier, that the old man went away 
 with tears in his eyes. Six months afterwards he 
 died, when, to the wonder of the v/hole place, he left 
 his large fortune to Mariette Duval ! In the mean- 
 while Francois joined the army, and, from a light, 
 
174 love's REC0MPEJTC2. 
 
 handsome conscript, he soon became a brave, steady 
 soldier. Attached to the great northern army, he 
 underwent all the hardships of the campaigns in 
 Poland and Russia; but still he never lost his cheer- 
 fQlness, for the thought of Mariette kept his heart 
 warm, and even a Russian u'inter could not freeze 
 him. 
 
 All through that miserable retreat, he made the 
 best of every thing. As long as he had a good," ten- 
 der piece of saddle, he did not v/ant a dinner ; — and 
 when he mxCt Vv'ith a comfortable dead horse to creep 
 into, he found board and lodging combined. His 
 courage and his powers of endurance called upon 
 him, from the first, the eyes of one whose best quality 
 was the impartiality of his recompense. Francois 
 was rewarded as well as he could be rewarded; but 
 at length, in one of those unfortunate battles by 
 which Napoleon strove in vain to retrieve his fortune, 
 the young soldier, in the midst of his gallant daring, 
 was desperately wounded in the arm. Pass we over 
 the rest. — Mutilated, sick, weary, and rag2;ed, 
 Francois approached his native valley, and, doubtful 
 of his reception, — for nsisery makes sad misan- 
 thropes, — he sought the cottage of Madame Duval. 
 The cottage was gone; and on inquiring for Madam.e 
 Duval," he was directed to a fine farm.-house by the 
 banks of the stream. He thought there must be 
 some m.istake; but yet he dragged his heavy limbs 
 thither, and knocked timidly against the door. 
 *'' Entrcz! " cried the good-humored voice of the old 
 dam.e. Francois entered, and, unbidden, tottered to a 
 chair, 
 
 Madame Duval gazed on him for a moment, and 
 then, rushing to the stairs, called loudly, " Come down, 
 Mariette, come down ; here is Francois returned 1 " 
 Like lightning, Mariette darted down the stairs, saw 
 
THE YOUNG MIMSTER AND THE BRIDE. 1 /i> 
 
 the soldier's old great coat, and flew towards it — 
 stopped — gazed on his haggard face and empty sleeve, 
 and, gasping, fixed her eyes upon his countenance. 
 'Twas for a moment she gazed on him thus in 
 silence ; but there was no forgetfulness, nor coldness, 
 nor pride about her heart ; there was sorrow, and 
 joy, and love, and memory, in her very glance. *' O, 
 Francois, Francois ! " cried she, at length, casting 
 her arms round his neck, " how thou hast suffered ! " 
 As she did so, tlie old great coat fell back, and on 
 his breast appeared the golden cross of the legion 
 of honor. " N'importe ! " cried she, as she saw 
 it, " voila ta recompensed Pie pressed her fondly to 
 his bosom. " My recompense is here," said he, *' my 
 recompense is here ! " 
 
 THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE 
 BRIDE. 
 
 Few will deny the justice of the remark, that 
 " truth is often stranger than fiction ; " no one of 
 much observation and experience, at least, will feel 
 inclined to question the correctness of its application 
 to the scenes and vicissitudes of life. There are, 
 indeed, realities of no very unfrequent occurrence, 
 which, in point of marvellous adventure, heart-thrill- 
 ing incident, and surprise, may be said to exceed any 
 thing that mere invention, or the most studied com- 
 bination of ideal circumstances, can ever hope to 
 effect. Had we only ampler opportunities of investi- 
 gating those short and simple annals to which our 
 great lyric poet so philosophically alludes, — could we 
 
176 THE YOUNG MINISTER AITO THE BRIDE. 
 
 boast but the rudest chroniclers of those sudden revo- 
 lutions and sweeping gusts of fortune connected with 
 the fate of individuals and the people, as \ve do of 
 courts and empires, — what inexhaustible sources of 
 popular interest and instruction should we there find ! 
 The most attractive novels would almost cease to 
 charm, till we had first exhausted the more wonderful 
 histories, — the domestic events and tragic adventures 
 of living beings, even in the humblest sphere. 
 
 I was led into this train of reflection by recalling 
 some singular occurrences of which a friend of mine 
 and myself were casual witnesses more than forty years 
 ago; for I now feel these reminiscences of 'earlier 
 days recurring with more and more force, as I grad- 
 ually descend deeper into the vale of Time. My 
 
 friend B had just completed a severe course of 
 
 legal studies, which, together with carrying high 
 honors at one of our universities, was found a little 
 too much for his strength. To counteract the eifects 
 of his intense and unremitting exertions, he invited 
 me to take a summer ramble with him among his na- 
 tive hills. He proposed to visit both the English and 
 Scottish lakes, near the former of which was situated 
 his father's residence; to proceed next to the Hig'h- 
 lands; and, last of all, to pursue, "tour" in hand, 
 the track of our great English Leviathan — that most 
 majestic and magisterial of all travellers, in his Boz- 
 zonian ramble among the Hebrides. 
 
 After remaining, during a few weeks, at the coun- 
 try-seat of my friend's father, we repaired to explore 
 the extended and lofty range of hills that brings us, 
 as it were, into the heart of the English lake scenery. 
 On the second evening of our departure, we stopped 
 
 at the little hamlet of D -, consisting only of a 
 
 few shepherds' huts, in order to enjoy the glories of 
 Bunrise on Skiddaw after a night's repose. Here, 
 
THE YOUNa MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 177 
 
 under the roof-tree of an old herdsman, who had 
 been promoted to the rank of a guide, — a little pub- 
 lican, and, as far as excess in liquor was concerned, 
 not a little of a sinner, — we were brought acquainted, 
 during our evening chat, with some of the current 
 reports of the village, relating to the affairs of our 
 more important neighbors. 
 
 Near this little hamlet, it seems, at the foot of the 
 hill stretching westward, lay the ample domains of 
 
 the wealthy Lord L , lorming part of one of 
 
 those fertile and cultivated districts, which betoken 
 the nenr abundance of the rich, loamy soil of the 
 northern graziers. Its present possessor had re- 
 turned within the last year from the continent, to 
 reside at the seat of his forefathers, and find employ- 
 ment for the well-lined coffers of his immediate 
 predecessor. The new lord, we were informed, was 
 now on the eve of forming a union with one of the 
 fairest girls in the country, — the daughter of his fa- 
 ther's old friend, the late member for K , a gen- 
 tleman who, by his imprudence, had left, at his death, 
 a large family involved in considerable difficulties 
 and embarrassment. The late Lord L , how- 
 ever, had not only materially assisted them, but had 
 even consented that the family union, long before 
 projected between his friend's daughter and his own 
 con, should still take place. This, too, was an ob- 
 ject in which the mother of Margaret Dillon — al- 
 ready betrothed to the scion of L House before 
 
 his departure for foreign lands — was more particu- 
 larly interested, having several younger children al- 
 most wholly unprovided for. Circumstances, there- 
 fore, seemed to render it imperative on the eldest to 
 fiilfd her mother's wishes; and only by some strange 
 perversity of fate was such an alliance likely to prove 
 an unhappy one, 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 
 
 The lovely Margaret was then in her seventeenth 
 year, while her intended lord was nearly as many 
 summers older, and by no means of that prepossess- 
 ing character and exterior, nor of that lofty reputa- 
 tion and rare report, calculated to win " golden opin- 
 ions" from ail manner of women. The marriage, 
 however, was to have taken place on his return, 
 without much consideration of reciprocal feeling, 
 and had been delayed only in consequence of the 
 sudden demise of his lordship's father. His return, 
 we were told, had been marked by no^'ej^pression of 
 joy on the part of his tenantry and retainers; nor, 
 what was more to be regretted, on tlie part of the 
 intended bride herself, who was, on the other hand, 
 said to be a favorite with all classes of her acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 If the new lord, however, had failed to make him- 
 self liked, this did not seem to be the case with a 
 young clergyman in the vicinity, of the name of 
 Maurice Dunn, whose noble look, and high, yet gentle 
 bearing, we had already noticed on our approach, 
 who respectfully saluted us, and whom we did not 
 fail to recognize by the description and encomiums 
 of the ancient herdsman. He was the eldest, we 
 learned, of a large family, and,, being a youth of 
 talents, was, after receiving an excellent education, 
 at no small sacrifices on the part of his father, ap- 
 pointed to a curacy near his native place. He was 
 looked up to as the future staff of his family ; for old 
 Maurice Dunn was only one of those small land- 
 owners belonging to the better class of yeomanry — 
 a class, unfortunately, now nearly extinct in England. 
 In addition to his own little property, he had the 
 
 chief part of his farm under Lord L , by means 
 
 of which, with laudable industry, he was enabled to 
 support a numerous family, and bring up one of his 
 
THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 179 
 
 Fons to a profession, — then always the worthy ambi- 
 tion of men of his class, — to say nothing of making 
 himself comfortable during his latter days. Besides 
 his own spiritual charge, his son, we are informed, 
 was accustomed to assist the aged minister of another 
 cure, taking upon himself, out of special good will, 
 at least half the duty and the more distant visitations 
 of the poor and sick, insomuch that it was hoped, 
 by many honest parishioners, he would one day come 
 to succeed old Mn Penruddock in his rectory, as 
 well as in his labors. 
 
 Among his most constant hearers were Mrs. Dillon 
 and her daughter; and, in the character both of a 
 pastor and a tutor, Maurice Dunn was admitted like 
 a friend, more than a visitor, at the lady's house^ 
 Here his fine taste and natural skill in music, draw- 
 ing, and almost every accomplishment, recommended 
 him to his pupils far more than his knowledge of the 
 severer branches of learning. But no one, in the 
 circle he knew, boasted the same irresistible interest 
 and attractions in his eyes as the beautiful, the grace- 
 ful, and the gentle-souled, intelligent Margaret. 
 
 Was it possible, then, that, by any dark conspiracy 
 of the fates, it had been the bounden duty of Maurice 
 Dunn to unite the fair hand of the being he most 
 adored on earth to another, to pronounce the nuptial 
 benediction upon her as a bride, and to consign all 
 his cherished love to unavailing bitterness and tears? 
 From the rude, unvarnished account of our ancient 
 chronicler, so dreadful a sacrifice appeared about to 
 be made ; and in that mode, and under those evil au- 
 spices, which leave not a moral possibility of escape. 
 
 Finding this melancholy wedding was to take place 
 next day, and that the church lay in our route, we 
 agreed, before retiring to rest, to accompany our 
 wort^iy host to wiuieSs the ceremony. 
 
180 
 
 THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 
 
 The next morning saw us on our way to the church 
 of L , *' some twa long miles,"' as we were as- 
 sured by our conductor, but which turned out, ac- 
 cording to our more southern calculation, to be at 
 least four. Upon our arrival, we found that the 
 bridal procession was already there, and had passed 
 into the interior of the holy edifice. 
 
 We took our station as near as the throng per- 
 mitted us to the altar. The minister already stood 
 before it ; the bride and bridegroom at a little dis- 
 tance; and we could easily distinguish their counte- 
 nances, and observe all that passed. The rest of the 
 
 party comprised Lord L ~'s friends, the bride's^ 
 
 and those of the young minister; among the last of 
 whom was seen his venerable father, whose eye 
 frequently turned with an expression of pride and 
 pleasure upon his son. That son, indeed, seemed 
 one to deserve the admiration with which he was 
 so generally regarded ; — his noble figure, handsome 
 features, and dignified air and deportment, contrasted 
 strongly with the mean and insignificant appearance^ 
 spite of his girdled trappings, that marked the bride- 
 groom. But what most riveted my attention, was 
 the singularly resolute and concentrated expression 
 m the features of the minister, as if they had been 
 well schooled to some desperate task. Firm in spirit^ 
 and calm in mood, he looked like one whose thoughts 
 were above, or absent from, all considerations of the 
 scene by which he was surrounded ; as if the world y 
 its weal or woe, with all its vicissitudes, marriages, 
 and deaths, were alike indifferent events to him. Yet 
 a close observer might detect traces of something 
 forced and strange, that excited a painful sensation 
 in the beholder, and seemed to betoken little of a 
 peaceful mind. And now my fancy began to fill up 
 the rude and simple sketch of him, drawn by our 
 
THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 181 
 
 aged guide : after what I had heard, there was a 
 meaning in all I saw. Sudden gleams of thought 
 seemed to ''come and go, like shadows" flitting 
 across his brain, and darkening on his features, even 
 against his resolute will. An unearthly paleness sat 
 upon his brow, strongly contrasted with the hectic 
 glow which flushed his cheek. There was a slight 
 convulsive motion of the eyebrows and the edge of 
 the lips, which neither the bent brow, nor the fixed 
 expression of the mouth, could quite repress. The 
 same nervous affection, I was near enough to observe, 
 was in his hands — they trembled, though his general 
 demeanor was firm and collected. What most struck 
 me, were a restlessness and eagerness of purpose, 
 mixed with a feeling of intense pain, which were 
 plainly reflected in the face of our honest guide, and 
 presented a perfect picture of rustic perturbation, 
 curiosity, and awe. 
 
 I now also observed his father's eye more than 
 once directed towards Maurice Dunn with an uneasy 
 look, as if for the first time he had detected some- 
 thing that gave him pain. He then looked towards 
 the bride and bridegroom with the same uneasy glance, 
 as if to inquire the meaning of what he saw. Other 
 eyes, too, were directed towards the minister ; but he 
 seemed too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to 
 heed what was passing around him. If his eye met 
 another's, it was with fixed coldness and almost 
 haughtiness of air ; yet that pride appeared forced, 
 as if there were something he wished to conceal from 
 the scorn or pity of the world. To me, the expres- 
 sion of his face, though composed, was one of suffer 
 ing, deep-seated and intense, — so well subdued, as 
 tscarcely to be detected without previous knowledge 
 of the cause. It might be the effect of mere physical 
 pain or sickness — not of the heart ; and there seemed 
 
182 THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 
 
 too much pride in his stern eye to betray its existence, 
 were it there. AUogether, his bearing was not that 
 of a holy minister prepared to pronounce a nuptial 
 blessing upon the happy, the beautiful, and young ; 
 for what had that expression of pride and reckless 
 indifference to do with an occasion like this? On 
 the contrary, he seemed to glory in despising all 
 those human sympathies and attachments which he 
 was there called upon to hallow and unite. 
 
 As thus stern he stood and looked, how fared it 
 with that lovely and gentle bride, who had come to 
 claim his nuptial benediction upon herself and her 
 ill-assorted lord? Had she, indeed, selected such a 
 lover in some hour of wounded pride or scorn, when 
 her heart had been crushed or wrung with anguish? 
 or was the marriage yet more fearfully her evil lot ? 
 Was it with such a being she had wandered during 
 the summer seasons of her love, amidst the forest 
 bowers, and heaths, and hills of her native spot? 
 Was it with him she had visited the sorrowing and 
 the sick, and gladdened the hearts of the orphan and 
 the widow, and made the homes and hearts of the 
 poor and comfortless sing for joy ? Ah, no ! he was 
 not her companion ; — it was with Maurice Dunn, that 
 minister of wretchedness who was about to wed her 
 to another, that she had talked in sweet communion 
 of spirit, during these sacred and too well remembered 
 walks. But they were driven to fulfil their evil des- 
 tiny : there was no retreat, no escape for Maurice 
 Dunn. He had vowed it, and to redeem his pledge 
 he now stood a sacrifice at the altar of his God. He 
 knew his love was hopeless, and she, too, knew it; 
 yet, had he spoken the word, she would have flown 
 with him even to the uttermost ends of the earthy 
 Alas ! this one hope she had garnered up in her heart 
 as the last resource ; but he had urged it not ; and she 
 
THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 183 
 
 there stood before him, — all her woman's pride and 
 desperation, added to the tortures of her love, sum- 
 moned to bear her through the dreaded task. A 
 strange, unnatural lustre shone in her eye ; it could 
 be seen through the folds of her veil ; and one in- 
 stinctively turned away from it with something of 
 the same wild or perturbed feeling, — a feeling that 
 seemed to spread its contagious sympathy to all around. 
 Her face was exquisitely beautiful, but almost as white 
 as the dress she wore ; and she looked most lovely, 
 in spite of the deep-seated sadness it betrayed. Her 
 figure was strikingly graceful ; her head was slightly 
 drooping ; but there was an air of dignity in her whole 
 deportment, as if emulating that of him who stood 
 before her in the fixed and concentrated passion of 
 his doom. 
 
 It appeared to me as if there prevailed through 
 the whole party a certain consciousness of something 
 wrong, — of some struggle or impending evil to be 
 encountered; but this I attributed to mere fancy, 
 until subsequently it was remarked to have been felt 
 by others as well as by myself 
 
 While engaged in reading the marriage service, 
 which he pronounced in a bold and clear tone, the 
 young minister had his eye somewhat sternly fixed 
 on the two beings whom he addressed ; his calm 
 brow, his lofty figure, and deep-toned voice, giving 
 double solemnity to his words. At length he took 
 the bride's hand, as if to place it in that of her in- 
 tended lord ; and it was then, for the first time, that 
 one thrill of feeling seemed to shake his whole frame. 
 He almost started back, as if he had trodden on a 
 serpent; for he had felt that hand more deathly cold 
 and trembling than his own. Each seemed to rec- 
 ognize the death-damp touch, and, shuddering^, to 
 shrink from it. To me it was evident that she sought 
 
184 THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 
 
 to release her hand at the moment when it was placed 
 in that of the bridegroom ; but the minister, recover- 
 ing himself almost instantaneously, hurried over the 
 remaining service, and still more rapidly uttered the 
 nuptial blessing. 
 
 The fatal words were pronounced; and, as he 
 closed the book, he raised his eyes to the bride's 
 face as if to take one farewell look. Their eyes 
 met ; she felt and returned that look, but with a wild 
 expression of woman's agony and reproach, which 
 years have not since obliterated from my memory, 
 nor from that, I think, of any one who witnessed it. 
 It would appear as if till then she had believed it 
 impossible, that he whom she loved would meet her 
 there to execute so fearful and soul-rending a sentence 
 on all her love. It appeared to have chilled the very 
 life-blood in her veins; for, regardless of all else 
 around her, she stood rooted to the spot, as if en- 
 tranced in woe. She still kept her eye fixed on the 
 minister, who had shrunk in apparent terror from 
 that one heart-rending look ; but, as if in answer to 
 it, his own was now directed towards his father, sur- 
 rounded by his numerous family. She understood 
 him ; it was the sole reply he could give ; and, 
 stretching out her hand to him, as if to beg his for- 
 giveness for upbraiding him, she let her head fall 
 upon his breast, and wept. 
 
 Thus was divulged the previous secret of their 
 iove — all that had before passed ; thus were revealed 
 their cruel sufferings, their vain prayers and tears, 
 sternly enforced duty, and sad submission to their 
 fate. This painful scene was accompanied by min- 
 gled murmurs and imprecations, or by sobs and tears, 
 from every spectator ; but a more trying crisis was at 
 hand. With that -one distracted look, and the tears 
 of her he had just wedded to another wet upon his 
 
THE YOUNG MINISTER AND THE BRIDE. 185 
 
 bosom, were crowded the sufferings of the young 
 martyr to duty and to love. After fixing his eye 
 upon his father, and supporting the sobbing bride for 
 a moment in his arms, he saw and felt no more. His 
 heart was broken ; agony had burst its walls. The 
 blood rushed up in torrents through his mouth and 
 ears, and he fell dead at the foot of the altar. 
 
 One piercing shriek was heard ; it arose above 
 every other voice, as the young, distracted bride 
 threw herself in passionate agony on her lover's 
 body ; and the house of God resounded only with 
 the voice of grief Long insensibility came merci- 
 fully to her relief, and in that state the unhappy lady 
 was borne from the church, her white bridal robes 
 stained with the blood of him to whom she would 
 have been happy to have been united even in death. 
 Nor was it very long before the prayer which ever 
 after rose to her lips was granted to her sufferings. 
 
 Accompanied by my friend, I instantly left the 
 place ; and, in the deep, sequestered solitudes of the 
 woods and mountains, we for a time sought to forget 
 the painful impression this event had produced. 
 
 It was about two years after our return, that we 
 requested one of our friends, then on a visit near the 
 village of L , to inquire into the fate of the un- 
 happy bride. He visited the churchyard, and near 
 the humbler stone that marked the grave of Maurice 
 
 Dunn, rose the family vault of the lords of L . 
 
 The last name that had been there inscribed was that 
 
 of Margaret, countess of L , who died in the 21st 
 
 year of her age. It was only the second of her ill- 
 starred marriage. 
 
186 
 
 TRADITION OF KOLANDSECK. 
 
 TRADITION OF ROLANDSECK. 
 
 RoLANDSECK is, in itself, a solitary ruin ; but it 
 commands prospects of most delicious scenery, ro- 
 mantic and picturesque beyond description. The 
 rock upon which it stands overlooks the island of 
 Rolandsvvert, which is in the middle of the Rhine. 
 
 The remains of this ruin on the side of the river 
 are in good preservation, but, on the opposite side, 
 they are decayed, and overgrown with ivy and bram- 
 bles. Schiller has made this scenery the subject of an 
 interesting ballad, but has, in his description, trans- 
 ferred it to Switzerland. The tradition of the origin 
 of this castle is as follows: — The noble cavalier, 
 Roland, nephew of Charlemagne, during the long, 
 and, to him, wearisome repose of peace, wandered 
 frequently in the environs of Ingelheim, and from, 
 thence down to the shores of the Rhine. Overtaken 
 by night in one of his rambles, at the entrance of the 
 domains of a castle, he requested the hospitality of 
 the owner, and was immediately received by him 
 with that noble frankness which so distinguished this 
 chivalric age. The cavalier of the castle grasped his 
 hand with that hearty cordiality which bespoke the 
 meeting of old friends, rather than that of strangers, 
 and Hildegonde, his daughter, set before him bread 
 and wine, the symbol of hospitality, with all that grace- 
 ful naivete for which her youth was distinguished. 
 The goblet was embossed with the family arms of the 
 host, and Hildegonde presented it with that amiable 
 modesty which increased the interest her unfolding 
 attractions created in every beholder. Roland ac- 
 cepted the goblet from her hand, and, what he 
 thought was singular, his own hands trembled, and 
 
TRADITION OF ROLANDSECK. 1^7 
 
 he blushed, he knew not why. " What ! " said he to 
 himself, " is this the firm arm, of which, when hold- 
 ing the cimeter, a muscle never flinched? Is this the 
 same countenance of which hordes of Saracens could 
 never disconcert a feature?" He recovered himself, 
 and began to speak of the feats of war, and of the 
 great political views of his renowned sovereign. They 
 retired to rest, but Roland could not close his eyes ; 
 the image of Hildegonde continually presented itself 
 before him. 
 
 The next day he prepared to depart ; he felt a 
 difficulty in making known his name, lest they should 
 deem it necessary to pay him that homage which a 
 name so justly celebrated every where received. Old 
 Raymond, his host, was transported beyond measure 
 at having entertained the hero of chivalry within his 
 walls, and pressed him to pass another day in his 
 castle, which he consented to do. The prudent 
 Hildegonde said not a word ; but it was easy to see 
 this arrangement was not displeasing to her. 
 
 Roland remamed many days. His passiQn for 
 Hildegonde increased so as to overcome all his ti- 
 midity, and he only waited for a proper opportunity to 
 declare himself. This occasion soon offered. Walk- 
 ing one day in the grounds, he found Hildegonde sit- 
 ting on a bank, her hands joined as if in prayer. 
 Roland approached her, and was studying how he 
 should commence the conversation, when Hilde- 
 gonde plucking a rose from its branch, Roland re- 
 quested her to give it to him, saying, " No symbol of 
 remembrance of any fair dame has hitherto decorated 
 the plumes of my helmet, and, when other cavaliers 
 have boasted of the charms and virtues of their 
 chosen fair ones, my untouched heart has responded 
 in silence." The countenance of Hildegonde was 
 instantly covered will} crimson; she was surprised, 
 
18S 
 
 TRADITION OF ROLANDSECK. 
 
 and taken off her guard : a movement of her hand 
 seemed to indicate a wish to give him the rose, yet a 
 modest circumspection seemed to make her waver. 
 But the eyes of Roland entreated; their silence was 
 so expressive, that she acceded to the first impulse, 
 and, in giving the rose to him, said, " That which is 
 beautiful is of short duration." Roland took cour- 
 age, spoke of his love, and Hildegonde with a look 
 told him, that he need not be in doubt of a suitable 
 return. The lovers vowed eternal fidelity ; and Ro- 
 land obtained her consent, that, at the close of the 
 approaching campaign against the infidels, he should 
 return to the Rhine, and claim her as his bride. 
 Adieus are generally tranquil, but they are melan- 
 choly. A simple pressure of the hand was all that 
 their emotion permitted ; their eyes, however, de- 
 clared eloquently the sentiments which their faltering 
 tongues could not express. 
 
 Hildegonde passed the period of absence in the 
 most secluded manner. She thought of nothing but 
 the news expected from her lover. At length it 
 came — news of bloody combats, of perilous actions, 
 of deeds of heroic bravery; and, the name of Roland 
 always exalted above all others, the general subject 
 of his exploits became the song of the boatmen on 
 the Rhine. Months, however, passed away, and the 
 long year of absence from him she held most dear in 
 the world was about to close; and it finished with 
 the happy intelligence of a glorious peace, which 
 would enable our hero to return covered with laurels. 
 
 One night a cavalier appeared at the castle gates, 
 and requested the hospitality of Raymond until the 
 following day. It proved to be one of Roland's 
 companions in arms, a brave warrior, who had fol- 
 lowed Charlemagne in this famous expedition. Agi- 
 •tated and restless, Hildegonde at length ventured to 
 
TRADITION OF ROLANDSECK. Ib9 
 
 ♦ ♦ 
 
 &p*«k of Roland. "*Alts!" said the stranger, "I 
 saw him fall by my side, covered with glory, but 
 piejceu bv mortal wounds." HiJdegonde ceased to 
 speak ; she not even shed tears, which would so much 
 have relieved her oppressed heart. Absorbed by the 
 sole thought of her loss, she stood as immovable 
 and inanmiate as a marble statue. After eight days 
 spent in the most profound grief, she took the reso- 
 lution of quitting the world, which now contained 
 nothing of interest to her; and, having obtained her 
 father's sanction, she entered the convent of Nonen- 
 worth, and there took the veil. The bishop of the 
 diocese being allied to her family, the term of her 
 probation was shortened ; and three months had 
 scarcely elapsed before she had pronounced her vows. 
 A fatal precipitation ! which brought misery and death 
 upon two devoted lovers. 
 
 Roland suddenly made his appearance at the castle 
 of Raymond, to which Hildegonde had forever bade 
 adieu ; he came to seek her and fulfil his vows, by 
 leading her to the altar. Deep wounds had reduced 
 his strength, and he fell exhausted from the loss of 
 blood, which had given rise to the report of his 
 death. He had, however, met with friends, who had 
 been assiduous in their care of him, and had restored 
 him to health. He now heard, with grief, of the in- 
 dissoluble ties which Hildegonde had formed, and 
 which separated her from him forever. The arms 
 which had covered him with glory he now threw off 
 with disgust, and, retiring to the neighborhood of Ro- 
 landswert, he built the castle of Rolandseck, upon a 
 rock which overlooked the convent of Nonensworth, 
 and which he named his hermitage. 
 
 Here he spent whole days at the door of his cell, 
 with his eyes riveted upon the spot where his faithful 
 Hildegonde languished out her days. At the sound 
 
M^^jii^fi^%^ Ji%itU^^^^''^ 
 
 190 ^h TKADITION OF «OLANBSECE. 
 
 of the matin-bell he rose,' 'Snd, listening to thi» an 
 gelic voices of the choir, frequently he thought n« 
 could distinguish the voice of Hildegonde; and, 
 when the evening star had risen, and signified to all 
 around that the hour of repose was at hand, if he 
 could but discover the glimmering of some light 
 from the convent, when all the rest was in darkness, 
 he felt that that was the cell of his dear Hildegonde, 
 who then watched and prayed for the power of resig- 
 nation. Two years, passed in these solitary and 
 mournful occupations, had wasted his strength. One 
 morning, as he was, as usual, watching the cloister, 
 he saw persons digging a grave in the place appointed 
 for the eternal repose of the servants of God. A 
 secret voice whispered him, that it was for Hilde- 
 gonde. He inquired, and learned the fatal truth. 
 For the first time he descended to the holy habita- 
 tion, which hitherto he had held sacred, not daring 
 to profane it by his presence, whilst his heart was 
 agitated by feelings so earthly. He assisted at the 
 last sad rite, threw the earth upon the remains 
 of his dearly beloved, joined his ardent aspirations 
 with those of the nuns for the eternal repose of her 
 soul ; but, overcome with grief, he returned home, 
 and was found, shortly afterwards, in his usual seat 
 at the door of his cell, with his eyes fixed upon the 
 cloister, but fixed in death. He was allowed to be 
 buried in the same place, and near to her who alone 
 in the world had rendered him insensible to glory. 
 
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