Chapter 3

The marriage of Alete, for a while, however, diverted him from his moody thoughts. The pastor and M. de Vermondans wished the marriage to be contracted according to the custom of the country. Invitations had already been given to many in the neighborhood, to the friends of the pastor and of the two families. At the appointed time, a great number of carriages had collected at the house of M. de Vermondans. Beds had been made in every room. The house was full of guests, the stable of horses, not to remain a few hours, for a wedding in Sweden lasts a whole week. M. de Vermondans, assisted by Eric and Ireneus, did the honors of the house. Ebba dressed her sister, and this alone was not a trifling task, for in Sweden brides are richly decked, and the daughter of the humblest peasant borrows or hires jewels to dress her like a lady.

The toilet, according to the old usage of the country, was at last finished, under the inspection of the matrons of the village. Alete entered the drawing-room in a dress of rose-colored silk, covered with flounces, rosettes, a mass of ribbons, etc., and with a girdle, suspended to which were many ornaments of different devices, all of silver, and which, as she walked, rang like bells. Nothing can be more ungraceful than such a dress, which, however, Alete wore with grace. When she appeared, a cry of admiration escaped from every mouth, and the spectators' eyes turned involuntarily to Eric to congratulate him.

Alete took her father's arm to walk to the church, and the guests followed her. At the head of the procession were musicians, playing the flute and violin; next came about thirty young girls, two by two, in their richest dresses; then the guests and the women and children of the village.

After the ceremony, the young girls stood on each side of the altar; the bridegroom advanced to the altar; then the bride was led thither by her father, who handed her to Eric, and withdrew a few paces, as if he thus transferred to another all his own rights. The old pastor then, with an earnest voice and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the nuptial benediction, and gave his children a touching exhortation. A religious chant terminated the ceremonies, and the couple left the church amid the sound of horns and the firing of guns. On their return home, M. de Vermondans, after an old custom, handed each a glass of beer, which they drank at the same time, as if to show that thenceforth all was common between them.

Dinner was soon served. The newly-married people sat side by side under a canopy, prepared as if to shelter their happiness. At the end of the repast a carpet was spread representing the nuptial bed. The two knelt together, and the company sang a hymn. Then the priest, speaking to the company, invoked every blessing on the couple about to enter a new walk of life, and bespoke the kind wishes of all their friends. He asked every guest to give them some token of sympathy, and no one sought to avoid this invitation. Each one paid tribute: relations gave the married couple a sum of money; their friends gave them furniture, stuffs, and jewels. In similar cases, at peasants houses, corn, wool, etc., utensils of household use, are presented, so that often the house of the newly-married couple is provided for a long time with provisions in this manner. It is however true, that they are dearly purchased by the hospitality they have to extend for a long time to many guests.

From the house of M. de Vermondans the guests went to that of the Pastor, where similar festivals were gone through with. Alete remained there, and M. de Vermondans returned with Ebba and Ireneus. As he placed his foot on the threshold of the door where he had hitherto always been welcomed by his smiling daughter, he was attacked by a sadness which he could not overcome, and went to his room to weep.

Ebba also was sad, for though her character was very different from Alete's, she loved her sister dearly, and was most unhappy at the idea of a separation.

Ireneus sought to console her.

"I thank you," said the young girl, "for your kind expressions. I am not unhappy only on my own account at this separation. My father will never be able to use himself to it. Alete was always happy. Joy left our household with her. I wish I could replace her. Do however what I may, I never shall succeed. You and all who know me, are aware that my nature is of altogether a different character. I am melancholy."

"Gentle, Ebba, gentle," said Ireneus.

"Gentle perhaps, and surely inoffensive, but I repeat melancholy. Why does this sadness continue? Alas, it is the law of God. Do not look at me, I beg you, as on one of those women whom I have seen and of whom I have read, who create imaginary misfortunes for themselves, and deck themselves with ideal suffering and melancholy. I have neither sorrow nor passionate regrets and I do not know the meaning of deception.

"My life has passed without storms, but without noise, like the spring which bubbles from the hill. Father and mother have sought to make me happy, and no untimely event has interrupted the course of my life. Melancholy, however, I was born, and will die. That is all.

"Listen to me," added she, fixing on Ireneus a look impressed with strange grief and affection. "Heaven which denied me a brother seemed to supply its neglect in yourself. The attachment you evince toward me appeals to my heart, and I will make you a confession.

"When I say nothing has troubled my thoughts, I do not say all. There is one impression which to me has been an event, a circumstance, the influence of which I cannot speak of. I wish, however, to ask you, if you believe in presentiments?"

"What a question!" replied Ireneus, "no one ever addressed me thus before, and I do not know what to say."

"You do not"--said Ebba, with as much evidence of surprise, as if she had said you do not believe in the sun or moon. "I do, and I think this matter plain and evident as the existence of God, to whom we are indebted for all our faculties. God endows us with that intuition of secret events, that species of devotion, sometimes as an act of mercy to prepare us for a misfortune which will overtake us, sometimes in mercy to point out to us the consequences of the concealed peril in which we are engaged.

"Even you, who seem not to believe in presentiments, have more than once been seized with an involuntary apprehension. This dread, this sadness, is the antecedent of the tempest. It announces regret, accident, and unforeseen distress. Nay, I think we thus are informed of dangers which menace one we love. I think there is a real link between souls which love each other, a mysterious tie, an invisible union, so powerful however, that how great soever the distance may be, one cannot suffer without the other being unhappy; I will even say, that I think these bonds exist between the living and the dead, that the chilly grave does not crush all love, that the dead are touched by the tears we shed for them, and by the fidelity of our affections to them. I will not in this connection repeat to you stories of apparitions, ghost stories, etc. If you do not believe what I say, you will also doubt all popular anecdotes. There are sentiments which cannot be demonstrated, inductions and revelations which austere reason rejects, and casts amid the empire of dreams, which exert a great influence over the heart. I saw one night my mother standing at the foot of my bed. She died when I was born. She leaned over me and kissed my forehead. Her lips seemed cold as ice, yet her kiss burned me. She looked at me for a moment in silence, and her large blue eyes were filled with tears. She then slowly withdrew, and as she did so, opened her arms to call me to her. Once again, as I opened a door I saw myself, pale as my father used to describe my mother to me, and clad in a long, white robe, which fell about me like a shroud. Old people will tell you there is no more certain sign of death, and I am sure I shall not live long. For that reason I do not attach myself to this world, nor indulge as others do in reveries about the future."

This conviction of Ebba was evidently deeply rooted that Ireneus knew not how reply to it. He, however, sought to represent to Ebba that these impressions should not be taken too seriously to heart, and that at her age, and with her qualities, she should not anticipate a sacrifice of existence, nor give up the joys and hopes of life.

Ebba said nothing. She, however, looked long and moodily at him, clasped his hand and left him.

Ireneus was yet more desolate than he had been during the days preceding Alete's marriage. A letter from one of his friends greatly excited him. This friend informed him that the legitimist party was about to attempt the reconquest of the realm. The Duchess de Berry had left Scotland, for Massa, thence she had opened a correspondence with many provinces. La Vendée and the south opened their arms to her, and crowds of devoted servants had pledged themselves to her.

All announced an approaching conflict, and all seemed to promise success. Will you not, said his enthusiastic correspondent, join in our enterprise, and share in our glory? I have always known you faithful to your principles, and determined to defend them. You will not suffer yourself to be led astray by a repose which is unworthy of you, and slumber in peasant life. Shall I write to you some day as the valliant Beornere did, "go hang yourself, Crellon, for there was a battle at Arques, and you were away?"--No, the color under which you first fought is about to be flung to the wind, and your friends will not expect you in vain.

When he heard this news, when he heard the trumpet call, Ireneus felt all his military ardor revived. Often in the peaceable days he passed in his uncle's house, he reproached himself with a happiness to which he did not think himself entitled. Now he could not absent himself from the arena, in which his friends were about to enter; he could not desert them. In the ardor of his monarchical sentiments he forgot that this enterprise was civil war, in which brothers would be arrayed against each other, and the soil of France steeped in the blood of its own children. He only thought of his oath of allegiance and his banner. His first idea was to go. When, however, he reflected more calmly, he thought it his duty to inform his uncle of his plans, and, under the pretext of hunting, wandered over the fields with his gun on his shoulder, forming his schemes and dreaming of the glory that awaited him.

An accident delayed the execution of his plans, and at the same time gave him an additional excuse for leaving Sweden. M. de Vermondans, who saw him come home every night with an empty game bag, said to him:

"I must, dear Ireneus, recompense you for your useless wanderings; and I will procure you the pleasure of a bear-hunt. There are two young men in the village, who will take you to a good place; and, in case of accident, will assist you with a sure aim. Shall I send for them?"

Ireneus, who was anxious to be actively engaged during the few days he expected to pass in Sweden, accepted the proposition with eagerness. The two huntsmen, having been sent for, said that they knew the lair of an old bear they had hunted during the last winter. It was arranged, that on the next morning, they should come for Ireneus.

Ebba had heard this conversation with evident uneasiness; but had said nothing. When the huntsmen left, she said, with an emotion which was evident in every glance, tone and gesture.

"Cousin, bear-hunting here is a very serious affair, and none but the boldest of the villagers undertake it. When one of these ferocious animals is killed, it is borne home in triumph, and the victory is celebrated with shouts of joy and traditional ceremonies. He who kills one of these old northern forest-kings, drives a brass nail in the stock of his gun. Our peasants have various superstitions about the bear. They will not pronounce his name aloud for fear of offending him, but style him the 'old man' and the 'grandfather.' When they have killed one, they ask forgiveness, and speak kindly to him, and beg him to come with them, where he will he gladly welcomed. All these customs, and many others, which it would be too long to relate, evince the idea of danger attached to the pursuit of the bear. I do not wish to divert you from a plan, the very danger of which, perhaps, pleases you. Be prudent, however, my dear Ireneus, and take care of yourself. I beg you."

These words were uttered with an accent, the tenderness of which the young officer had not previously remarked. He looked at Ebba and saw that she was troubled. A loud laugh, an exclamation of M. de Vermondans, dissipated the vague impression which Ireneus had received. "Pardon," said the old man, "women are strange things. If one yielded to their terrors, the front-door would never be passed, and a gun would be useless. Because our peasants will not call a bear, should a brave young fellow hang up his gun, and never venture to pursue the animal? I trust, Ireneus, that you will refute the dreams of this girl by success, and bring me home tomorrow a fine skin, to make a new hearth-rug of."

Ireneus said, "I have listened to my cousin, but having a sure foot and a quick eye, I shall be rash enough to wait until the bear reaches the muzzle of my gun, or I shall seek him out in his lair."

Before dawn, on the next day, the young officer, being well armed and equipped, took the field with his two companions. A servant had arisen to give him breakfast. Every one else in the house slept. As, however, he was about to leave the house, Ireneus heard a faint noise on the first story. He looked up and saw a window. A white figure advanced to the glass, and then withdrew, as if afraid of being seen. Doubtless this was Ebba. Under other circumstances, Ireneus would have called to bid her adieu. Since the conversation of the evening before, however, Ireneus felt annoyed, when he thought of her, and left without seeming to have seen her.

His guides led him across hills and ravines to a forest some leagues from the village. When they had reached it, there was an eager discussion between them.

Thenceforth they differed about the course to be followed. One wished to go directly forward, and the other insisted that a detour should be made. After a long discussion, they resolved to place Ireneus between them, and advance in three lines, keeping, however, near enough together to be able to unite against the enemy. They made Ireneus understand them by signs, and he assented to their plan. One of them took a bottle of brandy from his pouch, and offered it to the young officer, who, _par complaisance_, placed it to his lips, and handed it to his companion; he gave it an embrace, and passed it on to the third, from whom it received equal attention. Ireneus, who also had brought some provisions, drank a glass of generous wine to their health.

The three huntsmen then entered the forest. The boughs of the pines were sufficiently far apart not to impede their passage. The ground, however, was covered with underwood, and trunks of trees covered with snow on which his foot slipped every minute. After a short time the peasants slackened their pace, and sought for the tracks of the bear. Ireneus went on, without observing that he was in advance. He soon found that he was far ahead, and halted for them. As he looked round for them, he saw something at the foot of a tree.

It was the bear, and an immense one. His paws were bent under his body, his head was concealed in the snow, and he seemed asleep.

Ireneus rejoiced at this discovery, and recalling what Ebba had said, smiled at the idea of acquiring, in the first attempt, the honor so much desired in the country, of having a brass nail in the stock of his gun.

To make his shot surer, he ascended a little eminence still nearer the animal. He cocked his gun, and advanced carefully. The eminence, however, was formed only of a mass of leaves and twigs, the interstices being concealed by the snow. As he put his foot on it, it gave way, he fell, and his gun was discharged.

Before he could rise the animal was awake, and rushed on him. It placed its two paws on the shoulder, and having him thus in its power, with its eye sparkling with rage, joked at its victim. Unable to move, Ireneus closed his eyes, and commended his soul to the mercy of God.

The claws of the animal had already pierced his flesh, when he heard the report of a gun both on his right and left. Each had reached the animal's head, which fell dead on the meditated victim, covering him with blood, and lacerating Ireneus's breast and chest in its convulsive agony.

At the same moment, with a cry of triumph, the two peasants ran to him. They found him paralyzed by the weight of the animal, and bathed in blood. They lifted him up, rubbed his temples with brandy, and holding him by the belt, made him take a step or two, to see if he could walk. He could do so.

It was necessary to take him out of the forest, where no assistance could be had. With great care, and frequent pauses, they at last reached the open country. There the strength of Ireneus completely gave way, his wounds bleeding, and his limbs failing him. One of his companions took off his vest, laid it on the ground, and assisted Ireneus to stretch himself on it, with touching kindness of heart and solicitude. The other ran toward the high-road, and seeing a car loaded with hay, induced the driver by tears, threats and promises to come to Ireneus's aid. They placed him in it, and thus went to the village.

When there, one of the hunters sent for his wife, and said:

"Go, fast as you can, to M. de Vermondans, and say that his nephew is ll, but in no danger, and hurry back to prepare the table. We have made a famous hunt. To-morrow we will have the bear-feast."

The old gentleman, when he heard the news, hurried to his nephew. Then Looking into the huntsman's face, he passed his hand over Ireneus's body.

"Nothing serious, that is good."

Soon after came Ebba, pale and trembling, who, when she saw her cousin's blood, fell half dead in her father's arms.

The physician said that the wounds of the young officer were trifling. He, however, enjoined a few days of rest and repose.

Immediately, on hearing of the accident, Eric and Alete hurried to see Ireneus, evincing the tenderest sympathy for him. M. de Vermondans, by his assiduous care, proved how he loved his nephew. He also gave the two preservers a munificent reward.

Ebba seemed completely crushed. Her sister found her seated in a chair, with her eye fixed, her lips motionless, and her face pale. Completely wrapped in thought, the young girl did not rouse, except at the sound of Ireneus's name, and when she heard the various reports of the physician. Often, during the day, she went to the invalid's chamber, passing timidly up the steps, and placing her ear to the door. She would then to her father, and sink again into her morbid sadness.

One night, when the nurse who sat with him had seen him sink to sleep and retired, the young officer awoke under the impression that a delicate hand was passed lightly over his forehead. He opened his eyes, and saw the shadow of a woman flit behind the curtains. It was Ebba, who, unable even to sleep at night, had furtively come, when she thought no one would be aware of it, to be certain that his medicine was prepared, and to look into his position.

Through the care of the physician and the affectionate friends who surrounded him, Ireneus regained his strength.

The day he returned to the table was a very festival. M. de Vermondans had invited his daughter, son-in-law, the doctor, and the two huntsmen to dine with him. The latter brought the skin of the bear they had killed, and which they wished to present to their less fortunate companion.

They then told gaily all the incidents of that memorable day; and when, during the course of conversation, they heard how lightly Ireneus had considered the bear-hunt, one of them said:

"Ah, I am not surprised at what has happened. One should not trifle with a bear. He is cunning and proud, and understands everything said of him. If he is not treated with respect, he takes a cruel revenge. I would not be surprised if, having heard what Monsieur said, he laid at the foot of the tree expressly to teach him a lesson."

Ireneus, to whom Ebba translated this, laughed at the superstition. The huntsmen, seeing him laugh, shook their heads, as if to say, "There is an imprudent fellow, who will not profit by experience."

As he regained strength, Ireneus again felt the necessity of action. The last letters he received informed him that the legitimist movement had become more serious, the Duchess de Berry preparing to leave Massa. He also heard that she had gone successively to the south, and had unfurled the white flag in La Vendée. Ireneus resolved to go. When he saw the conduct of Ebba, her deep distress when he was sick and the joy which had burst forth when he recovered, he could not conceal from himself that she entertained sentiments toward him which he did not reciprocate. He loved the young girl, and experienced much pleasure from the contemplation of her delicate grace and melancholy beauty. He loved the sound of her melodious voice. More than once since the discovery he had made, he asked himself if he should not look on what had happened as a signal interposition of Heaven in his favor. A quiet life, a comfortable home, the love of friends and of a pretty woman, certainly deserved some thanks. He however was soon hurried from this idyllic existence by the ardor of his youth, and the prospect of an adventurous career. To some men a peaceable life does not seem existence. They are like certain birds, which show themselves only in the tempest.

Ireneus was of this character. When he carefully scrutinized his heart, he saw that but a portion of it could belong to Ebba: that with her he would constantly be persecuted by repinings at fate, and would long for the excitement of battle and camp. Should he then accept a pure heart from the young girl? Should he deceive her? Honor required him to leave her.

M. de Vermondans was painfully surprised when he heard of this determination. He had grown to look on Ireneus as a son, and perhaps, in the fondness of his heart, had made a happy dream for the future career of Ebba and himself. He attempted to persuade him to lay aside the plan, but in vain.

"Take care, dear Ireneus, that you do not become dazzled by the prestige of a sentiment, generous and noble it is true, but which may result in misfortune to yourself, without benefiting others. How many men thus neglect their advantages, and attribute the blame to Providence, which places happiness within their grasp, but which they do not see, so dazzled are they by some imaginary attraction. If this attraction fades away, they tell how they looked behind; they regret what they have lost when it is too late. Fortune has granted what they wished but neglected to others."

"But duty, uncle! duty!"

"God forbid that I cease to respect that word. Suffer me only to observe, that in the ardor of youth one easily mistakes that obligation. There are circumstances in which duty appears so clearly and distinctly, and speaks so loudly, that it must be obeyed at all risks. Our force must be devoted to it--our soul, our life. Ordinarily, however, we are forced to decide between conflicting duties, and the one which seems the best is ordinarily the least praiseworthy. The man who devotes himself to daily toil has family affections, and diffuses good around him. Does not he discharge his duty? Does not he occupy an honorable place in the social system? Does virtue exist only in extraordinary actions? Is there no crown to be gathered except in adventurous enterprises or in the battle field? And is not he a good citizen, who toils usefully, and properly educates his children?"

Ireneus did justice to his uncle's arguments, and was moved by the touching kindness he evinced. His mind was however made up, and nothing could divert him.

Alete, her husband, and the old pastor, sought to retain him. When Ebba heard he was about to leave, she said nothing: her head sunk on her bosom, and tears stole into her eyelids.

Ireneus left not without effort and distress. At sunset the rays of the sun have singular beauty, and life is never so attractive as to the dying man. Just at the moment of separation a strange reaction also takes place. In an instant we see a kind of dazzling light, unfolding to us what we love and what we abandon. We regret in anticipation what we are about to leave. The door is not yet passed, the farewell is not spoken. We pause and hesitate. We may return, and joyfully cast ourselves into arms still open to us. This is the last contest of the heart, perhaps the last remonstrance of a good genius. Passion however conquers, and the bark is launched upon a sea without a port, beneath a sky without a star. May God guide it!

Thus Ireneus departed, deserting domestic peace, leaving a family in distress, and crushing a young heart. He was himself unhappy, but was sustained by the idea that he hearkened to the voice of honor, and that the sacrifice was noble in proportion as it was painful.

It was the beginning of summer. The earth had become green, and the woods Were filled with the sound of birds. A pure sky, silvery lakes, all the varied beauty of the north, seemed revived as if by magic at the first breath of spring. Had anything been able to retain him, nature would.

Thanks to the clearness of the nights which permitted him to travel, he soon reached Stockholm, where he embarked on the Lubeck steamer, went to see his mother, and hurried to La Vendée, where he joined the flag he had come so far to stand beneath.

During his voyage, he wrote more than once to his uncle. Three weeks, however, rolled by and they received no news. M. de Vermondans complained of his silence--Alete sought to excuse him. Ebba suffered in silence. After the departure of her cousin, the delicate young girl had sunken into a state of sadness which daily assumed a more dangerous character. She loved to sit alone, looking toward the south, as if there lay her last hope. She sometimes tried to read, but from her very look it was plain that her mind was unoccupied. If she saw her father, she sought to smile and appear gay to soothe him; as soon, however, as he left, she became prostrate again. Her cheeks grew thin and flushed, she was ill, and the physicians were sent for--one said she had a slow fever, another that she was consumptive. Ebba carefully followed their advice, and did all that her father and sister recommended. When alone, she shook her head as if she thought all remedies in vain.

Two weeks passed without a word from Ireneus. What was he about? It was Known that he had passed through Paris, and should be in La Vendée. Could he not correspond with his friends? Could his letters have been intercepted? Might he not already have fallen a victim to his chivalric ardor, and be wounded, a prisoner, perhaps dead!

The post was looked for with anxiety. The newspapers were read anxiously. Vain hope! those of Sweden gave very meager details of the legitimist movement.

At last M. de Vermondans became angry and humiliated at suffering his impatience to become manifest, and forbade Ireneus or La Vendée to be mentioned. He could not, however, stifle thought in his own mind or in Ebba's.

One morning the young girl arose in great distress, and with a feverish agitation which made her look better. She dressed hastily, and went to her father's room. She said she wanted to see her sister.

"Really," said the old man, deceived by this deceitful animation, and quivering with joy at the idea of her recovery. "Do you wish to go? I will go with you."

He hurried to the stable, had his horse harnessed, and in a few minutes, seated in his cabriolet, was crossing the fields. On her way, Ebba, with peculiar tenderness, pointed out various scenes of her childhood and youth, the home of old servants, spots where she had been with Alete, and made memorable by various little incidents.

Suddenly she ceased to speak--looked at the scenery with deep interest glancing at the sea and the sky, and seemed absorbed in a melancholy reminiscence.

Her father had listened to her with pleasure, and turned to ask why she was silent. He was filled with delight. Had he been able, however, to look into her mind, he would have seen a deep sentiment of sadness and resignation, united with resignation and hopelessness.

In the silent meditation of the poor invalid there might be read a last adieu to the blue wave, the green wood, the distant prospects which so often had occupied her reverie. The warm summer breeze, which played in her hair, the clear sky, the whole tapestry of nature she was about to leave, instinct as it was with poetic fancy. By her half open lips, by her wondering eye, she bade adieu to the scenes amid which she had lived, to the flowers which smiled on her as a sister, and where birds sang their matin lays as if she had been one of their kindred.

When he reached the parsonage, her father stopped to chat with the old pastor. Ebba took Alete by the hand, and hurried her into the chamber.

"Dear sister," said she, "I wished to see you again."

"Again, Ebba--I hope you will, and for many a year."

"Yes--yes--but not here, in another world." She grew pale as she spoke.

"What an idea!" said Alete. "I was so agreeably surprised by your visit. Have you come to distress me?"

As she spoke, Alete covered her face, now suffused with tears, with her hands.

"Excuse me, Alete. I was wrong to give way so. Let us talk of something else."

"Yes, yes," said Alete, smiling amid her tears. "Has anything been heard of Ireneus?"

"Ireneus is--dead!" said Ebba sadly.

"Dead!" exclaimed Alete; "how so?"

"I know he is. I saw him last night."

"Ah, I have sometimes dreamed of a person's death, whom on the next morning I met perfectly well."

"I tell you I saw him struck by a ball in the breast, the blood running from the wound, looking staringly around, and smiling in the agonies of death."

"Madness! my dear Ebba," said Alete, with a burst of strange unnatural laughter, for in spite of herself she was impressed by the words of her sister. "Come, Eric and his father expect us. Let us pass our evening happily together, and shake off all these presentiments, which I pray to God may never be realized."

"Yes, come," and attempting to look gay, she said, "Madness! we will see."

During the next week, a letter from the mother of Ireneus informed them that the young officer had died on the very day of Ebba's dream, of a wound received at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.

Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her father and sister, who wept at her bedside. Her last breath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.

* * * * *

POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, have never before, we believe, been printed in this country.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.

The way was lone, and the hour was late, And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate. The night came down, by slow degrees, On the river stream, and the forest-trees; And by the heat of the heavy air, And by the lightning's distant glare, And by the rustling of the woods, And by the roaring of the floods, In half an hour, a man might say, The Spirit of Storm would ride that way. But little he cared, that stripling pale, For the sinking sun, or the rising gale; For he, as he rode, was dreaming now, Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow, Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted, Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted, Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes. And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches, So the earth below, and the heaven above, He saw them not;--those dreams of love, As some have found, and some will find, Make men extremely deaf and blind. At last he opened his great blue eyes, And looking about in vast surprise, Found that his hunter had turned his back, An hour ago on the beaten track, And now was threading a forest hoar, Where steed had never stepped before.

"By Caesar's head," Sir Rudolph said, "It were a sorry joke. If I to-night should make my bed On the turf, beneath an oak! Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;-- Now, for thy sake, good roan, I would we were beneath a roof, Were it the foul fiend's own!"

Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close The sound of a listener's laughter rose. It was not the scream of a merry boy When harlequin waves his wand of joy; Nor the shout from a serious curate, won By a bending bishop's annual pun; Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;--oh, no! It was a gentle laugh, and low; Half uttered, perhaps, perhaps, and stifled half, A good old-gentlemanly laugh; Such as my uncle Peter's are, When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr. The rider looked to the left and the right, With something of marvel, and more of fright: But brighter gleamed his anxious eye, When a light shone out from a hill hard by. Thither be spurred, as gay and glad As Mrs. Maquill's delighted lad, When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown, Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down, And flies, at last, from all the mysteries Of Plaintiffs' and Defendants' histories, To make himself sublimely neat, For Mrs. Camac's in Mansfield Street. At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted; Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted: And he blew a blast with might and main, On the bugle that hung by an iron chain. The sound called up a score of sounds;-- The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds, The hollow toll of the turret bell, The call of the watchful sentinel. And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder, As the huge old portals rolled asunder, And gravely from the castle hall Paced forth the white-robed seneschal. He stayed not to ask of what degree So fair and famished a knight might be; But knowing that all untimely question Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion, He laid his hand upon the crupper. And said,--"You're just in time for supper." They led him to the smoking board. And placed him next to the castle's lord. He looked around with a hurried glance: You may ride from the border to fair Penzance, And nowhere, but at Epsom Races, Find such a group of ruffian faces, As thronged that chamber; some were talking Of feats of hunting and of hawking, And some were drunk, and some were dreaming, And some found pleasure in blaspheming. He thought, as he gazed on the fearful crew, That the lamps that burned on the walls burned blue. They brought him a pasty of mighty size, To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes; They brought the wine, so rich and old, And filled to the brim the cup of gold; The knight looked down, and the knight looked up, But he carved not the meat, and he drained not the cup.

"Ho ho," said his host with angry brow, "I wot our guest is fine; Our fare is far too coarse, I trow, For such nice taste as thine: Yet trust me I have cooked the food, And I have filled the can, Since I have lived in this old wood, For many nobler man."-- "The savory buck and the ancient cask To a weary man are sweet; But ere he taste, it is fit he ask For a blessing on bowl and meat. Let me but pray for a minute's space, And bid me pledge ye then; I swear to ye, by our Lady's grace, I shall eat and drink like ten!"

The lord of the castle in wrath arose, He frowned like a fiery dragon; Indignantly he blew his nose, And overturned the flagon. And, "Away," quoth he, "with the canting priest. Who comes uncalled to a midnight feast, And breathes through a helmet his holy benison, To sour my hock, and spoil my venison!"

That moment all the lights went out; And they dragged him forth, that rabble rout, With oath, and threat, and foul scurrility, And every sort of incivility. They barred the gates: and the peal of laughter, Sudden and shrill that followed after, Died off into a dismal tone, Like a parting spirit's painful moan. "I wish," said Rudolph, as he stood On foot in the deep and silent wood; "I wish, good Roland, rack and stable May be kinder to-night than their master's table!"

By this the storm had fleeted by; And the moon with a quiet smile looked out From the glowing arch of a cloudless sky, Flinging her silvery beams about On rock, tree, wave, and gladdening all With just as miscellaneous bounty, As Isabel's, whose sweet smiles fall In half an hour on half the county. Less wild Sir Rudolph's pathway seemed, As he fumed from that discourteous tower; Small spots of verdure gaily gleamed On either side; and many a flower, Lily, and violet, and heart's-ease, Grew by the way, a fragrant border; And the tangled boughs of the hoary trees Were twined in picturesque disorder: And there came from the grove, and there came from the hill, The loveliest sounds he had ever heard, The cheerful voice of the dancing rill, And the sad, sad song of the lonely bird. And at last he stared with wondering eyes, As well he might, on a huge pavilion: 'Twas clothed with stuffs of a hundred dyes, Blue, purple, orange, pink, vermilion; And there were quaint devices traced All round in the Saracenic manner; And the top, which gleamed like gold, was graced With the drooping folds of a silken banner; And on the poles, in silent pride, There sat small doves of white enamel; And the vail from the entrance was drawn aside, And flung on the humps of a silver camel. In short it was the sweetest thing For a weary youth in a wood to light on: And finer far than what a king Built up, to prove his taste, at Brighton. The gilded gate was all unbarred; And, close beside it, for a guard, There lay two dwarfs with monstrous noses, Both fast asleep upon some roses. Sir Rudolph entered; rich and bright Was all that met his ravished sight; Soft tapestries from far countries brought, Rare cabinets with gems inwrought, White vases of the finest mould, And mirrors set in burnished gold. Upon a couch a grayhound slumbered; And a small table was encumber'd With paintings, and an ivory lute, And sweetmeats, and delicious fruit. Sir Rudolph lost not time in praising; For he, I should have said was gazing, In attitude extremely tragic, Upon a sight of stranger magic; A sight, which, seen at such a season, Might well astonish Mistress Reason, And scare Dame Wisdom from her fences Of rules and maxims, moods and tenses. Beneath a crimson canopy A lady, passing fair, was lying; Deep sleep was on her gentle eye, And in her slumber she was sighing Bewitching sighs, such sighs as say Beneath the moonlight, to a lover, Things which the coward tongue by day Would not, for all the world, discover: She lay like a shape of sculptured stone, So pale, so tranquil:--she had thrown, For the warm evening's sultriness, The broidered coverlet aside And nothing was there to deck or hide The glory of her loveliness, But a scarf of gauze, so light and thin You might see beneath the dazzling skin, And watch the purple streamlets go Through the valleys of white and stainless snow, Or here and there a wayward tress Which wandered out with vast assurance From the pearls that kept the rest in durance, And fluttered about, as if 'twould try To lure a zephyr from the sky. "Bertha!"--large drops of anguish came On Rudolph's brow, as he breathed that name,-- "Oh fair and false one, wake, and fear; I, the betrayed, the scorned, am here." The eye moved not from its dull eclipse, The voice came not from the fast-shut lips; No matter! well that gazer knew The tone of bliss, and the eyes of blue. Sir Rudolph hid his burning face With both his hands for a minute's space, And all his frame in awful fashion Was shaken by some sudden passion. What guilty fancies o'er him ran?-- Oh, pity will be slow to guess them; And never, save the holy man, Did good Sir Rudolph e'er confess them But soon his spirit you might deem Came forth from the shade, of the fearful dream; His cheek, though pale, was calm again. And he spoke in peace, though he spoke in pain "Not mine! not mine! now, Mary mother. Aid me the sinful hope to smother! Not mine, not mine!--I have loved thee long Thou hast quitted me with grief and wrong. But pure the heart of a knight should be,-- Sleep on, sleep on, thou art safe for me. Yet shalt thou know, by a certain sign, Whose lips have been so near to thine, Whose eyes have looked upon thy sleep, And turned away, and longed to weep, Whole heart,--mourn,--madden as it will,-- Has spared thee, and adored thee, still!" His purple mantle, rich and wide, From his neck the trembling youth untied, And flung it o'er those dangerous charms, The swelling neck, and the rounded arms. Once more he looked, once more he sighed; And away, away, from the perilous tent, Swift as the rush of an eagle's wing, Or the flight of a shaft from Tartar string, Into the wood Sir Rudolph went: Not with more joy the school-boys run To the gay green fields, when their task is done; Not with more haste the members fly, When Hume has caught the Speaker's eye. At last the daylight came; and then A score or two of serving men, Supposing that some sad disaster Had happened to their lord and master, Went out into the wood, and found him, Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him. Ere he could tell his tale romantic, The leech pronounced him clearly frantic, So ordered him at once to bed, And clapped a blister on his head. Within the sound of the castle-clock There stands a huge and rugged rock, And I have heard the peasants say, That the grieving groom at noon that day Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff, At the base of the black and beetling cliff. Beside the rock there is an oak, Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke, And I have heard the peasants say, That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay, And coiled in many a deadly wreath A venomous serpent slept beneath.

* * * * *

STANZAS, WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE.

Most beautiful!--I gaze and gaze In silence on the glorious pile; And the glad thoughts of other days Come thronging back the while. To me dim Memory makes more dear The perfect grandeur of the shrine; But if i stood a stranger here, The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt, As reverently their feet have trod On any spot where man hath knelt, To commune with his God; By haunted spring, or fairy well, Beneath the ruined convent's gloom, Beside the feeble hermit's cell, Or the false prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne, Than thus the limner's art hath traced From the time-honored stone? The spirit here of worship seems To hold the heart in wondrous thrall, And heavenward hopes and holy dreams, Came at her voiceless call;--

At midnight, when the lonely moon Looks from a vapor's silvery fold; Or morning, when the sun of June Crests the high towers with gold; For every change of hour and form Makes that fair scene more deeply fair; And dusk and day-break, calm and storm, Are all religion there.

* * * * *

A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD:

TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

Non voglio cento scudi.--Song.

Oh say not that the minstrel's art, The pleasant gift of verse, Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart, Can ever be a curse;-- Though sorrow reign within his heart, And Penury hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;-- Though he charm no rich relation, The Fairies all his labors bless With such remuneration, As Mr. Hume would soon confess Beyond his calculation.

Annuities, and three per cents, Little cares he about them; And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, He rambles on without them: But love, and noble sentiments,-- Oh, never bid him doubt them!

* * * * *

Young Florice rose from his humble bed, And prayed as a good youth should; And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread, Into the neighboring wood; He knew where the berries were ripe and red, And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay, at the noon of day, Beneath the ancient tree, A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way; A holy man was he, And he was wending forth to pray At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh, his was a weary wandering, And a song or two might cheer him. The pious youth began to sing, As the ancient man drew near him; The lark was mute as he touched the string, And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him!"

He sand high tales of the martyred brave; Of the good, and pure, and just; Who have gone into the silent grave, In such deep faith and trust, That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save Spring from their buried dust.

The fair of face, and the stout of limb, Meek maids, and grandsires hoary; Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn, As they passed to their doom of glory;-- Their radiant fame is never dim, Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the dead With angels watching round them; The mourner's grief is comforted, As he looks on the chains that bound them; And peace is shed on the murderer's head, And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard In a trance of voiceless pleasure; For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred, By the sad and solemn measure: "I give thee my blessing,"--was his word; "It is all I have of treasure!"

* * * * *

A little child came bounding by; And he, in a fragrant bower, Had found a gorgeous butterfly, Rare spoil for a nursery dower, Which, with fierce step, and eager eye, He chased from flower to flower.

"Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call; And the urchin left his fun; So from the hall of poor Sir Paul Retreats the baffled dun; So Ellen parts from the village ball, Where she leaves a heart half won

Then Florice did the child caress, And sang his sweetest songs: Their theme was of the gentleness, Which to the soul belongs, Ere yet it knows the name or dress Of human rights and wrongs.

And of the wants which make agree All parts of this vast plan; How life is in whate'er we see, And only life in man:-- What matter where the less may be, And where the longer span?

An d how the heart grows hard without Soft Pity's freshing dews; And how when any life goes out Some little pang ensues;-- Facts which great soldiers often doubt, And wits who write reviews.

Oh, Song hath power o'er Nature's springs Though deep the Nymph has laid them! The child gazed, gazed, on the gilded wings, As the next light breeze displayed them; But he felt the while that the meanest things Are dear to him that made them!

* * * * *

The sun went down behind the hill, The breeze was growing colder But there the minstrel lingered still; And amazed the chance beholder, Musing beside a rippling rill, With a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame, A sleek Arabian mare, The Lady Juliana came, Riding to take the air, With Lords of fame, at whose proud name A radical would swear.

The minstrel touched his lute again.-- It was more than a Sultan's crown, When the lady checked her bridle rein, And lit from her palfrey down:-- What would you give for such a strain, Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?

He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes, Of Beauty's melting tone; And how her praise is a richer prize Then the gems of Persia's throne: And her love a bliss which the coldly wise Have never, never, known. He told how the valiant scoff at fear, When the sob of her grief is heard; How they couch the spear for a smile or tear How they die for a single word;-- Things which, I own, to me appear Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough: She turned to hear Sir Denys Discourse, in language vastly gruff, About his skill at Tennis-- While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile, And the Lady rode away.-- There is not a lady in all our Isle, I have heard a Poet say, Who can listen more than a little while To a poet's sweetest lay.

* * * * *

His mother's voice was fierce and shrill, As she set the milk and fruit: "Out on thine unrewarded skill, And on thy vagrant lute; Let the strings be broken an they will, And the beggar lips be mute!"

Peace, peace!--the Pilgrim as he went Forgot the minstrel's song; But the blessing that his wan lips sent Will guard the minstrel long; And keep his spirit innocent, And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought Of the moral the minstrel drew; But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought-- Brings it not peace to you? And doth not a lesson of virture taught Teach him that reaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh For the minstrel or his hymn;-- But when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky, Or lip the goblet's brim, What a star in the mist of memory Her smile will be to him!

* * * * *

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG.

The men of sin prevail! Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn: Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where The good and true, the terrible and fleet? They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat, With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie, Upon the bloody pillow of their rest: Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;-- We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts. Will call for comfort: to the God of Hosts We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song; For we are wandering o'er our native land, As sheep that have no shepherd: and the hand Of wicked men is strong.

Only to thee we bow. Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup; And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up To heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge--oh, not our years Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrs shed; The ashes heaped upon the hoary head; The maiden's silent tears;

The babe's bread torn away' The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof; The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof; Judge not for those to-day!

Is not thine own dread rod Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained, Thy name blasphemed, thy temple's courts profaned? Avenge thyself, O God!

Break Pharoah's iron crown; Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings; Wash from thy house the blood of unclean things; And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in thine own good time! We will abide: we have not turned from thee; Though in a world of grief our portion be, Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide! Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go. That we may worship where the torrents flow, And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.-- On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there Safe temples, quiet graves!

* * * * *

HOPE AND LOVE.

One day, through fancy's telescope, Which is my richest treasure, I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope Set out in search of Pleasure: All mirth and smiles I saw them go; Each was the other's banker; For Hope took up her brother's bow, And Love, his sister's anchor.

They rambled on o'er vale and hill, They passed by cot and tower; Through summer's glow and winter's chill, Through sunshine and through shower, But what did those fond playmates care For climate, or for weather? All scenes to them were bright and fair, On which they gazed together.

Sometimes they turned aside to bless Some Muse and her wild numbers, Or breathe a dream of holiness On Beauty's quiet slumbers; "Fly on," said Wisdom, with cold sneers: "I teach my friends to doubt you;" "Come back," said Age, with bitter tears, "My heart is cold without you."

When Poverty beset their path, And threatened to divide them, They coaxed away the beldame's wrath, Ere she had breath to chide them, By vowing all her rags were silk, And all her bitters, honey, And showing taste for bread and milk, And utter scorn of money.

They met stern Danger in their way, Upon a ruin seated; Before him kings had quaked that day, And armies had retreated: But he was robed in such a cloud, As Love and Hope came near him, That though he thundered long and loud, They did not see or hear him.

A gray-beard joined them, Time by name; And Love was nearly crazy, To find that he was very lame, And also very lazy: Hope, as he listened to her tale, Tied wings upon his jacket; And then they far outran the mail, And far outsailed the packet.

And so, when they had safely passed O'er many a land and billow, Before a grave they stopped at last, Beneath a weeping willow: The moon upon the humble mound Her softest light was flinging; Sad nightingales were singing.

"I leave you here," quoth Father Time, As hoarse as any raven; And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme Upon the rude stone graven: But Hope looked onward, calmly brave; And whispered, "Dearest brother, We're parted on this side the grave,-- We'll meet upon the other."

* * * * *

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LADY ARABELLA FUSTIAN TO LORD CLARENCE FUSTIAN.

--Sweet, when Actors first appear The loud collision of applauding gloves! MOULTRIE.

Your labors, my talented brother, Are happily over at last; They tell me that, some how or other, The bill is rejected,--or past: And now you'll be coming, I'm certain, As fast as four posters can crawl, To help us draw up our curtain, As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements, are nearly completed; But still we've a lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated, We'd keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces,-- Lord John is a trifle too tall,-- And yours are the safest embraces To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;--it's really enchanting To listen and look at the rout; We're all of us puffing, and panting, And raving, and running about; Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle; There Andrew and Anthony bawl; Flutes murmur, chains rattle, robes rustle, In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By the bye, there are two or three matters We want you to bring us from town; The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's, A nose and a hump for the Clown: We want a few harps for our banquet, We want a few masks for our ball; And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet His white wig, for Fustian Hall.

Huncamunca must have a huge saber, Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl; And we're quite at a stand-still with Weber, For want of a lizard and owl: And then, for our funeral procession, Pray get us a love of a pall; Or how shall we make an impression On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you'll really delight us, If you'll do your endeavor to bring From the Club a young person to write us Our prologue, and that sort of thing; Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely, Is gone, for a Judge, to Bengal; I fear we shall miss him extremely, This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;--your idol Albina Will make a sensation, I feel; We all think there never was seen a Performer, so like the O'Neill. At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy Has deeply affected us all; For one tear that trickles at Drury, There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall.

Dread objects are scattered before her, On purpose to harrow her soul; She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her, At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. The sword never seems to alarm her, That hangs on a peg to the wall, And she doats on thy rusty old armor Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,-- Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,-- And trampled, in anger and scorning, A bonnet and feathers to death. But hark,--I've a part in the Stranger,-- There's the Prompter's detestable call: Come, Clarence,--our Romeo and Ranger, We want you at Fustian Hall.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES

Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diccret, Si quid opus caset, "nunc quidem paullulum," inquit, "a sole."--_Cicero Tusc. Disp._

Slowly the monarch turned aside; But when his glance of youthful pride Rested upon the warriors gray Who bore his lance and shield that day, And the long line of spears that came Through the far grove like waves of flame, His forehead burned, his pulse beat high, More darkly flashed his shifting eye, And visions of the battle-plain Came bursting on his soul again.

The old man drew his gaze away Right gladly from that long array, As if their presence were a blight Of pain and sickness to his sight; And slowly folding o'er his breast The fragments of his tattered vest, As was his wont, unasked, unsought Gave to the winds his muttered thought, Naming no name of friend or foe, And reckless if they heard or no.

"Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing, Puppet, which mortals call a king, Adorning thee with idle gems, With drapery and diadems, And scarcely guessing, that beneath The purple robe and laurel wreath, There's nothing but the common slime Of human clay and human crime:-- My rags are not so rich,--but they Will serve as well to cloak decay.

"And ever round thy jeweled brow False slaves and falser friends will bow; And Flattery,--as varnish flings A baseness on the brightest things,-- Will make the monarch's deeds appear All worthless to the monarch's ear, Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame, So vilely drest, is worse than shame!-- The gods be thanked for all their mercies, Diogenes hears naught but curses!

"And thou wilt banquet!--air and sea Will render up their hoards for thee; And golden cups for thee will hold Rich nectar, richer than the gold. The cunning caterer still must share The dainties which his toils prepare; The page's lip must taste the wine Before he fills the cup for thine!-- Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer? I dread no royal hemlock here!

"And night will come; and thou wilt lie Beneath a purple canopy, With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed Their feverish fragrance round thy bed, A princess to unclasp thy crest, A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.-- Dream, happy one!--thy dreams will be Of danger and of perfidy;-- The Persian lance,--the Carian club!-- I shall sleep sounder in my tub!

"And thou wilt pass away, and have A marble mountain o'er thy grave, With pillars tall, and chambers vast, Fit palace for the worm's repast!-- I too shall perish!--let them call The vulture to my funeral; The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den, Are all he leaves his fellow men,-- Heedless how this corruption fares,-- Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs!"

* * * *

[From Household Words.]

THE LAST OF A LONG LINE.