[1]The present national flag, consisting of the stars and stripes, was not adopted until 1777, when Congress passed a resolution to that effect. Prior to that time each commander used whatever device suited his fancy. The first ensign of Paul Jones is said to have been a pine tree, with a rattle-snake coiled at the foot, about to strike, and the motto, “don’t tread on me.” The arms of a colony, as in this instance, were often used.—Eds.
[1]
The present national flag, consisting of the stars and stripes, was not adopted until 1777, when Congress passed a resolution to that effect. Prior to that time each commander used whatever device suited his fancy. The first ensign of Paul Jones is said to have been a pine tree, with a rattle-snake coiled at the foot, about to strike, and the motto, “don’t tread on me.” The arms of a colony, as in this instance, were often used.—Eds.
THE HAUNTED CASTLE.
A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.
Onthe brow of a lofty and rugged hill, which overlooks the Rhine, stand the ruins of the ancient Castle of Ehlendorf. The ivy has clambered over its crumbling towers, as if to shield them from the destructive hand of time, and bind with its creeping tendrils the wounds which he has made. Once its halls resounded with the mirth of the young and gay, of brave knights and ladies fair, while the songs of minstrels, and tales of heroic enterprize, whiled away the hours of night, until the purple light of dawn appeared. Now it has fallen to decay: the race of its noble possessors has become extinct; and the ivy grows, and the owl hoots amid its deserted courts.
At the time when our tale commences, it was in the possession of Conrad, Baron of Ehlendorf, the remaining scion of that noble family. His brother had died in Palestine, leaving to him the title and all the vast estates of his ancestors. In early life he had wedded the beautiful Elfrida, of Aldenburg, and never was a purer gem more dearly valued than the young bride of Ehlendorf by her doting lord. Years of bright, unclouded happiness rolled over their heads; and if unalloyed pleasure has ever dwelt on earth, it was the portion of Conrad, of Ehlendorf, when he looked upon his angel bride and their little Katrine, scarcely knowing which was the loveliest, the mother or the child. Often as he saw their fair offspring, with bounding footsteps, dimpled cheeks, and laughing eye, throwing back her golden curls, and rushing with playfulness and love into her mother’s arms, he felt that without her his treasures were but glittering dust.
Like the other barons of ancient times, his retinue was composed of a vast number of armed retainers, and his power and wealth were unequalled by any other of equal rank in the country. His kindness and hospitality were every where proverbial, and the noblest of the land delighted to gather round his festive board. Thus, love, wealth and beauty conspired to fill the heart of Ehlendorf with joy, and nought could dim his happiness till his loved Elfrida was called from earth to blossom in a fairer clime. Sad and afflictive was this bereavement to the young baron, overthrowing as it did the dreams that he had been weaving through eight bright years of wedded happiness. Still, as he turned in anguish from the lifeless form of the object of his heart’s best affections, one ray of hope enlivened the surrounding gloom. His lovely Katrine grew more and more beautiful day by day, and in her he felt that he possessed a purer treasure than wealth could afford. In his constant watchful care over her helplessness, and the fond confiding affection with which she repaid his tenderness, he found forgetfulness of every sorrow.
As successive years rolled on she grew more and more lovely, and new charms in her unfolded daily. No opportunity had been neglected which would tend to her intellectual advancement; and at the age of sixteen she possessed the charms of beauty, and an intellect of the highest degree. Their castle was thronged with young cavaliers, eager to win so lovely a prize,—and though her smiles were bestowed on all, yet no one of the noble train had received any evidence of her preference. Happy in the fondness, nay, almost idolatry of her father, she remained insensible to any other than paternal affection. The baron, though still in the pride of manhood, had never indulged serious thoughts of a second union, and when bright eyes beamed on him, and silvery voices fell in tones of melody upon his ear, he had only to look upon the face of Katrine, where every feature of her sainted mother was reflected as in a faithful mirror, and his heart was steeled against every attraction.
It was a beautiful morning in the month of June, when the baron and his daughter went forth for their accustomed ride. The air was balmy; the fragrance of the flowers was borne upon the breeze, and the groves were vocal with the melody of the feathered songsters. Suddenly dark clouds obscured the sky, and foretold a coming tempest. They hurried on, but when they arrived at the castle, the storm-clouds hung darkly and fearfully over its rugged towers. Then loud thunders rent the sky; gleams of lightning darted from pole to pole. The rain fell in torrents from the darkened sky, hour after hour, incessantly; the swollen waves of the Rhine beat in fury upon their rugged banks. Katrine was seated at her chamber window, watching the raging billows as they rushed in wild commotion against the rocks. Suddenly her attention was attracted by the sight of a cavalier upon the opposite shore. The vision was transient, for scarcely had he appeared ere his fiery charger leaped from the towering height of the rock into the boiling waves below. The baron’s sturdy vassals had witnessed his disaster, and rushed forth to rescue him if possible. Urged on by impassioned signs from Katrine, they put forth every effort. For awhile he struggled successfully against the foaming billows, but was at length thrown with violence against the rocks, and when the vassals of the castle had succeeded in bearing him to the shore, he was insensible. Hour after hour the baron and Katrine hung anxiously over his couch, watching for signs of returning consciousness, but he remained pale and motionless as the work of a statuary; his faint breathing and a slight pulsation alone giving evidence that life was not extinct. At length a delicate flush overspread his marble countenance; his eyelids gently raised, and he gazed in bewildered astonishment on all around him.
“Fear not,” said the baron, “you are with friends, who will watch over you carefully, until you have recovered from your late disaster.”
The following morning he was able to relate the circumstances which had led him there. He gave his name as Hildebrand, a young knight of Hanover. He had been engaged in the chase, the day before, and had followed the deer so far that he lost sight of his companions, and wandered through the intricate mazes of the forest, not knowing whither his way might lead. Soon the tempest arose, and as he reached the opening of the forest, he spurred on his charger, ignorant of his proximity to the Rhine, until he was precipitated down the frightful chasm. He expressed his gratitude in the highest terms to his noble host for his kindness, and a wish to leave the castle as soon as possible. The extreme debility resulting from his late accident, however, precluded the possibility of his immediate departure. Besides, the ravages of the storm had rendered the highways impassable.
During this time the fair Katrine left no means untried to cheer the lingering hours. Her harp beguiled those moments which would otherwise have been tedious, and her voice, whose melody was unrivalled, seemed even more sweet than it was wont to be, as she sung the wild and beautiful legends of their country. Charmed by her beauty, her accomplishments, and filial affection, young Hildebrand became daily more and more attached to Katrine, while she returned his affection with fond idolatry. Thus passed day after day in peace and happiness, and the only sorrow which dimmed Katrine’s pleasures was the thought of parting, and his wish that their engagement should be concealed from her father, until he should return to claim his affianced bride. Sincere and trusting, she yielded to the conviction that he was urged to this wish by powerful motives, then unknown to her, nor allowed the slightest suspicion of his constancy to enter her mind.
One bright morning three weeks after his arrival at the castle, a courier alighted with despatches for Hildebrand. As he perused them, a cloud rested upon his brow, and he hastened to find Katrine. He told her that his presence was demanded at court, but with many promises of a speedy return, he bade her a fond farewell. Weeks, nay, even months passed away, and still Katrine received no tidings from her stranger lover. She had withdrawn herself from gay society, and her gladsome laugh no longer resounded through the silent halls. Her anxious parent saw with anguish the sorrow of his child, and finally won from her the tale of her love. In vain he used every endeavor to find the retreat of their guest. The name of Hildebrand was unknown to any of the barons of the vicinity, and he was forced to relinquish his fruitless inquiry. At length it was announced that a tournament was to be held at the capital, in honor of the nuptials of the Elector of Hanover, and the baron hoping that this scene of gaiety would dissipate her melancholy, won the consent of Katrine to accompany him. The morning of the day appointed dawned with unusual splendor, and the eye of Katrine beamed with the light of hope, as she took her place in a gallery commanding a full view of the field of action. “Surely,” she thought to herself, “when the bravest of the land are about to signalise themselves, Hildebrand will not desert the noble band.”
The field was elegantly prepared; and the tents, glittering with all the splendor of martial panoply, added double richness to the scene. On either side of the lists were galleries of blue and red and purple silk, crowded with the beauty of the land. All was anxious expectation. Soon a shout of joy from the assembled multitude announced that the elector and his young bride were approaching. Mounted on a fiery charger, which he managed with perfect skill, his noble form appeared to the best advantage. His bride rode a beautiful white palfrey, and though there was something noble in her flashing eye and masculine firmness, still her beauty could not be compared, without disparagement, to the angelic loveliness of Katrine. As they advanced near the place where Katrine was seated, an undefined horror thrilled through her frame, yet her eyes remained fixed upon the prince. Surely it was the same noble form. Could it be Hildebrand? He turned his dark eye upon her and met her anxious glance; the color receded from his cheek. She uttered a faint cry of agony, pronounced the name of Hildebrand, and fell senseless into the arms of her attendants.
The tale can be told in a few words. Her faithless lover had been summoned from his delightful retreat at Ehlendorf by the duties of state; and ambition had led him to form an alliance from which his heart revolted. In the cares of state and the hilarity of his nuptials he had in a measure drowned the memory of Katrine, but now she seemed to rise like a gentle spirit to reprove his falsehood. The arrows of remorse had entered his soul and poisoned his enjoyment. Though surrounded by all the honors and dignities of this world he found no peace. Katrine was borne by her afflicted parent to their once happy home, but the light of existence had fled forever, and the house of Ehlendorf was soon to be remembered as among the dead. A few sad years rolled on. The baron was borne to his last resting place. Katrine with her attendants alone remained within the castle walls. At length she yielded up her vast domains in favor of a distant relative, with this restriction, that the old castle should remain undisturbed, and as it was reported, retired to a convent in Switzerland. From this period the old fortress was left to the ravages of time, uninhabited by any mortal, though the superstitious inhabitants of the vicinity declared it to be the abode of supernatural beings. A tall form according to the neighboring villagers, robed in white, had been seen upon the battlements at midnight, while strains of wild unearthly melody were heard floating on the breeze; and when the storm was raging, the same spirit form was seen hovering over the yawning chasm and keeping its fearful vigils where no mortal foot durst approach. The benighted traveller turned away, choosing to wander through the mazes of the forest, rather than pass the fearful place, and even the adventurous mountain boy fled in terror from its lonely walls.
Years had rolled on, when the Elector of Hanover chanced in hunting to pass through the domains of Ehlendorf. One of his followers related to him the superstitions concerning the castle, and despite their entreaties he insisted upon exploring its recesses. He reached it just as its towers were gleaming in the pure moonlight; and the waters of the Rhine flowed gently on, while each tiny ripple wore its glittering coronet of moonbeams. How vividly bright the visions of the past rose in his memory, as he entered once more through the castle’s lonely gates. Just as he passed the threshold the notes of an Æolian harp sent a thrill of superstitious terror through every vein. He opened the door which led to Katrine’s boudoir, when a sight met his eye which caused him to recoil with terror. Extended on a couch, and guarded by an old attendant, was the form of the once beautiful heiress of Ehlendorf. The deep flush of agitation overspread her cheek as she recognised him and said,
“Why intrude upon the sanctity of one devoted to Heaven, or strive to bind a heart to this earth which its sorrows have broken?”
These words assured him that the true Katrine and not the spirit was before him, and he slowly approached her saying,
“I come, to crave the boon of pardon from one so deeply injured as you have been.”
A sweet smile beamed on her placid countenance as she said,
“It is granted, and may kind Heaven forgive all your wanderings, as freely as I now forgive your falsehood. I have found the bitterness of earthly sorrow, and for awhile brooded sadly over disappointed love, but the deep dream now is past. For years my hopes have been fixed upon a brighter world, and not one lingering trace of earthly idolatry has mingled in my devotions. I would have secluded myself in the sacred walls of a monastery, but my heart clung with fondness to my father’s halls. I have traced the Creator’s power in the starry heavens and stolen abroad to view the glories of nature in the pure moonlight. This has given rise to the superstitions of the peasantry, and I have carefully avoided undeceiving them lest they should intrude upon my retirement. And now, farewell. My sands of life are well nigh spent, and I shall soon join my sainted parents in Heaven. Leave me in solitude, I entreat you, lest the lingering spell be thrown again upon me. Once more farewell.”
Thus saying she motioned to the door where he had entered, and he retired in sadness of spirit. A few weeks after, the form of Katrine was deposited in the family vault, and the castle remained untenanted. The peasantry still call it the Haunted Castle, asserting that the fair lady of Ehlendorf is seen to wander by moonlight over its crumbling towers.
EMMA.
Female Seminary, Yonkers, N. Y. 1841.
Female Seminary, Yonkers, N. Y. 1841.
ALETHE.
———
BY J. S. FRELIGH.
———
I sawAlethe—she was young and fair:A rose-bud op’ning to the balmy spring;And as she knelt in holy, fervent prayer,Her youthful heart to God surrendering,The music of her voice in murmurs low,Sounded like tones of sweetest melody,Half-waking heard—or like the silver flowOf some lone woodland stream—she seem’d to beA type of perfect beauty—Heav’nly symmetry.Again I saw Alethe.—It was whereDwelt sickness, poverty, and misery deep—Where prison-walls enclos’d a parent dear;And like an angel, she had come to keepWatch while he slept—to comfort him—to pray.In innocence she came, like Mercy’s dove,With healing balm, to sooth his care away!Oh! such sweet tenderness—such holy love,Must be akin to that in the bright world above!Once more I saw Alethe—at her breastHung a sweet infant, and the radiant smileThat revell’d round its lips while calm at rest,Was like the smile of cherubs,—free from guile.Ethereal—bright—surpassing Fancy’s dreaming,The mother shone—for Fancy ne’er could paintAught so much like a guardian Angel beamingIn full beneficence upon a saintAs sweetly innocent—as free from earthly taint.
I sawAlethe—she was young and fair:A rose-bud op’ning to the balmy spring;And as she knelt in holy, fervent prayer,Her youthful heart to God surrendering,The music of her voice in murmurs low,Sounded like tones of sweetest melody,Half-waking heard—or like the silver flowOf some lone woodland stream—she seem’d to beA type of perfect beauty—Heav’nly symmetry.Again I saw Alethe.—It was whereDwelt sickness, poverty, and misery deep—Where prison-walls enclos’d a parent dear;And like an angel, she had come to keepWatch while he slept—to comfort him—to pray.In innocence she came, like Mercy’s dove,With healing balm, to sooth his care away!Oh! such sweet tenderness—such holy love,Must be akin to that in the bright world above!Once more I saw Alethe—at her breastHung a sweet infant, and the radiant smileThat revell’d round its lips while calm at rest,Was like the smile of cherubs,—free from guile.Ethereal—bright—surpassing Fancy’s dreaming,The mother shone—for Fancy ne’er could paintAught so much like a guardian Angel beamingIn full beneficence upon a saintAs sweetly innocent—as free from earthly taint.
I sawAlethe—she was young and fair:A rose-bud op’ning to the balmy spring;And as she knelt in holy, fervent prayer,Her youthful heart to God surrendering,The music of her voice in murmurs low,Sounded like tones of sweetest melody,Half-waking heard—or like the silver flowOf some lone woodland stream—she seem’d to beA type of perfect beauty—Heav’nly symmetry.
I sawAlethe—she was young and fair:
A rose-bud op’ning to the balmy spring;
And as she knelt in holy, fervent prayer,
Her youthful heart to God surrendering,
The music of her voice in murmurs low,
Sounded like tones of sweetest melody,
Half-waking heard—or like the silver flow
Of some lone woodland stream—she seem’d to be
A type of perfect beauty—Heav’nly symmetry.
Again I saw Alethe.—It was whereDwelt sickness, poverty, and misery deep—Where prison-walls enclos’d a parent dear;And like an angel, she had come to keepWatch while he slept—to comfort him—to pray.In innocence she came, like Mercy’s dove,With healing balm, to sooth his care away!Oh! such sweet tenderness—such holy love,Must be akin to that in the bright world above!
Again I saw Alethe.—It was where
Dwelt sickness, poverty, and misery deep—
Where prison-walls enclos’d a parent dear;
And like an angel, she had come to keep
Watch while he slept—to comfort him—to pray.
In innocence she came, like Mercy’s dove,
With healing balm, to sooth his care away!
Oh! such sweet tenderness—such holy love,
Must be akin to that in the bright world above!
Once more I saw Alethe—at her breastHung a sweet infant, and the radiant smileThat revell’d round its lips while calm at rest,Was like the smile of cherubs,—free from guile.Ethereal—bright—surpassing Fancy’s dreaming,The mother shone—for Fancy ne’er could paintAught so much like a guardian Angel beamingIn full beneficence upon a saintAs sweetly innocent—as free from earthly taint.
Once more I saw Alethe—at her breast
Hung a sweet infant, and the radiant smile
That revell’d round its lips while calm at rest,
Was like the smile of cherubs,—free from guile.
Ethereal—bright—surpassing Fancy’s dreaming,
The mother shone—for Fancy ne’er could paint
Aught so much like a guardian Angel beaming
In full beneficence upon a saint
As sweetly innocent—as free from earthly taint.
St. Louis, 1841.
St. Louis, 1841.
MY GRANDFATHER’S STORY.
———
BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.
———
“Well, well,” said my grandfather, “sit down, girls, and I will tell you all about it.”
Cousin Sarah and myself accordingly got our work, and sitting down at a proper distance, assumed the attitude of earnest listeners.
“If you had ever been in France,” he commenced, “I could make you understand my story much better, but your little rustic American imaginations can never conceive any thing like the refinement, and yet freedom of society in that polished country; the softness and beauty of the earth and sky; or the striking magnificence of the old ruinous chateaux; but as it is I shall be very brief in my sketches of these things.”
“Oh, no, no, grandfather,” we both exclaimed at once, “you must be the more particular in your description; for being strange to us they are the more interesting.”
“Well,” he replied, “I will as much as I can, without making a long story of it; but do not interrupt me, for that will utterly break the chain of my recollections.
“First, you must consider that although I am an old American citizen, I was once a young French nobleman; and your grandmother whom you see busied in household duties is a Stuart, of the royal blood of Scotland. The estate of my ancestors lies in view of the ancient and noble city of Lyons, stretching from the beautiful Rhone west to the Cervennes mountains. A fine chateau near the river is the modern residence of our family; but its ancient strong-hold is a rude and magnificent old castle, built on the rocky summit of a mountain which stands alone in its majesty, looking down with seeming scorn on the proud city, and the river which can never more than kiss its feet. My noble grandsire had two sons, of whom my father was the younger. My uncle, of course, inherited the title and estate, and was sole lord of the old castle; although my father occupied magnificent apartments in the chateau. I remember when quite a child, accompanying my father in his visits to my uncle, at such seasons as he chose to reside on the mountain. My awe and admiration of the dark, old structure were boundless. There it sat, firm as the eternal rock to which it was secured, utterly inaccessible on the side toward the river; and scarcely approachable in any direction, save by an expensively constructed road, dug or built along the margin of a brook which flows at the bottom of a ravine, down the mountain, toward the river. This traversed ravine presented to my eyes a thousand wild, beautiful, and romantic spots. I had not then seen the forests, and mountains, and wild glens, of this panorama of nature’s most grand and beautiful works; this land of the majestic and the terrible; the lovely and the sweet; from the savage chieftain beside the soul-stunning Niagara, to the enameled humming bird kissing the blossoms that overhang the silver fountain. Oh! this is a glorious country; but it is not my native France.
“In that dear land every perpendicular rock, every babbling cataract, every gnarled tree, or ragged shrub was a picturesque and wonderful object to my young imagination; and to be allowed to visit my uncle at the castle was the highest reward at which my efforts were aimed. My uncle was a widower. At thirty years of age he married a beautiful child of seventeen, whom he fervently idolised: but in less than two years the fair creature began to fade. He carried her to balmy Italy, but he returned alone. From that time he was sad and gloomy, almost morose. He never left the castle, except to ramble over the mountains, among the wild recesses of which he often spent whole nights, and I sometimes shuddered as I heard the domestics hint that he was or would be utterly crazed. Such was my uncle’s condition, when on a beautiful summer morning my father set out with me toward the castle. I was eight years of age, and had just been made master of a fine sleek mule, which I was permitted to ride by the side of my father’s noble Arabian horse. That was a proud day to me. Never since have I felt myself of as much consequence as then. My uncle’s steward who saw in me the future lord of the estate, always paid me great deference, and I was an idol in his family. Of course I spent the time of my visits with them, after paying my respects to my uncle, who always saluted me with grave courtesy, and then turned sorrowfully away. I was an especial pet of the steward’s daughter, a pretty girl of about seventeen, who always treated me with choice cakes and delicious fruits. On this day she spread a table in a garden arbor with her choicest viands, adding rich creams and sweet-meats, to which we sat down joyfully. But she soon made me sad by saying that in all probability I should not soon dine with her again. She was about to be married, and go far away. But she wished to tell me something of great importance, only she feared that I was too young to have discretion sufficient to manage so strange an affair. This mysterious prelude wrought my curiosity to the highest pitch. I protested and promised every thing she required of me, and so she began:
“ ‘You see the square tower all covered with ivy that stands on the angle of that perpendicular rock. Did you ever notice how lonely it is; how small and high the windows are, and that there is no way of getting to it from without? Well, you see it is only connected with the rest of the building by one long, dark gallery; the other sides being closed up with strong walls. This tower has been called the Haunted Tower these hundred years. I used to be afraid to go near it. You were a very little baby when your beautiful aunt died abroad, and your uncle came home a mourner to this place. I was then about as old as you are now. I cried bitterly for the loss of my young lady, and pitied my lord exceedingly. I observed that he went frequently to that tower, and remained for hours within it. Once I ventured to follow him. I know not what impelled me; but I was surprised when I entered the hall. It was tastefully furnished, and adorned with the most beautiful and fragrant exotic and native plants and shrubs. I stood a moment lost in admiration, when I thought I heard low voices in conversation. I listened; I distinctly heard my lord speaking, and detected the murmur of a soft female voice. A door on one side the hall stood partly open. I approached it stealthily, and saw my lord kneeling before a most beautiful woman, who sat upon a low seat, resting her face upon her hand, seemingly in deep sorrow. She was dressed in black, and her hair was of the same dark hue, while her hands, face, and shoulders were white as alabaster, I did not look long, but I saw my lord press her hand to his lips, when she suddenly withdrew it with a shudder, and bending down placed both her hands over her face and wept. I stole away; but whether I was observed, or my intrusion suspected, or from some other cause, my lord ever after secured the door behind him, so that I entered there no more. Yet often in the mellow twilight I have heard strains of solemn music, so soft and sorrowful that I have sat down and wept until the melody ceased. But I never saw the lady since that time. I have heard others assert that they have seen an apparition, which they say is like our deceased lady, and that while they gazed it vanished away. But the person whom I saw was as unlike my lady as possible, and as to vanishing, as these sights were always seen in the evening, I suppose she wore a white dress and a black mantle, which on being alarmed she drew around her, and so became invisible. Now who she is, or how she came here, or why she keeps herself concealed I cannot guess. I have kept it secret out of respect to your uncle, but I thought as you will be lord here after his death, and as he is slowly wasting away, I would tell you, and so when you come to the estate you will examine into it. But do not mention it until then; for I am sure that any discovery or investigation would greatly afflict your poor uncle, whose melancholy I am sure is connected with this mystery.’
“Now, girls,” said my grandfather, “if you can tell me how such a piece of information would make you feel, I shall have no need of telling you the wonder, the terror, the curiosity and anxiety which it awakened in my mind. Sleeping or waking my thoughts were full of Annette’s story. Once I ventured to ask my mother why people thought my uncle’s castle haunted? ‘It is a common thing,’ she replied, ‘for the vulgar to tell marvellous tales of old buildings, castles in particular; but I hope that you will show your superior breeding, by never giving heed to such tales. Your father has been there much by day and night, and he never saw any thing wonderful; and it would grieve him if he knew that you had been listening to stories of supernatural agency.’ I assured her that I did not believe in ghosts; and I never again ventured to propose the subject. As years passed on, the impression became less vivid, until Annette’s tale of wonder seemed to me like some old familiar legend. I was about eighteen when I was suddenly summoned from the University to attend my uncle’s death-bed. When I found myself again in that old familiar place, although the old steward had died, and his place was filled by a stranger, the story of the old tower came first among the recollections of the past. My uncle was so wan and wasted that I should not have known him, yet he seemed exceedingly glad to see me. In the night as I sat beside his bed, he dismissed the nurse, saying that she must need rest and sleep. He then said that as I was his kinsman and successor, he hoped that he might confide to me something which nearly concerned his honor. I remarked that as his honor was mine he need be under no apprehension. So he commenced.
“ ‘I was, according to custom, betrothed in my boyhood to a sweet little babe almost as soon as she saw the day. Our fathers were sworn friends, and I saw the little Adela frequently, and loved her as a dear sister. But when I began to consider myself a man, I sometimes felt as if I could not wait for her, for she was much younger than I. Being fond of reading, and naturally romantic, I drank in with avidity every wild and passionate legend, and longed for some thrilling adventure. My alliance was tasteless, because it lacked the excitement of adventure or opposition. And yet when weary of noise and pleasure, I found it sweet to pass an hour in her society; she was so gentle, unassuming, and affectionate. At the age of twenty-five I departed on my travels, with a soul thirsting for adventure. I pass over all, however, until I arrived at Constantinople. Here among the licentious I felt that all the passions of man’s nature had full licence. I shall not carry you by my details into scenes by which I pray God you may never be polluted. Suffice it that a young and lovely creature, whose innocence and fond confiding I should have respected, forgot her alliance to her nominal lord, and became mine with a fervor of affection which is never equalled, or even understood in these cold climes. I thought only of dallying with her awhile when I first sought to win her; but there was an enchantment about her which I often fancied to be in reality the magic of which I had often read. At length the time of my sojourn in that unequalled city was expiring. I sought to tear myself away, for I never dreamed of taking Alma with me. But she would not leave me. I felt embarrassed as to the manner in which I should dispose of her if she accompanied me to France. But my hackneyed heart felt no compunction for the deceit I had practised upon her; and I resolved formally to retain her, keeping her, if possible, in ignorance of our laws and customs, and of Christianity of course; and to marry Adela according to contract. So I gave myself up to the pleasures of her society; and she dreamed not of the workings of the heart which she fondly considered all her own.
“ ‘Arrived at home, I placed her in an elegant mansion, furnished her with attendants, and every elegance and luxury of life; and while preparations were going forward for my union with Adela, found my highest enjoyment in the society of the ardent Alma. She was a perfect contrast to Adela in every particular. I loved them both, just as you may admire the lily and the rose. The wedding-day arrived, and I pledged to Adela a perjured vow.
“ ‘I had been married one year when my wife enquired of me who the beautiful girl was whom I was in the habit of attending to places of public amusement. I was prepared for this, and told her that it was a Turkish lady, the wife of a sea captain, a particular friend of mine, who was absent at sea. Adela insisted on being introduced to her, for she said she felt a great curiosity to look on the woman whose beauty had become the theme of every tongue. Here was a dilemma for which I was utterly unprepared. I could make no reasonable excuse, and the hesitancy and embarrassment of my manner excited or confirmed suspicion. It seemed that Adela was completely a woman, and determined to gratify her curiosity, although by so doing she made herself wholly miserable. When I next visited Alma I found her sorrowful and pale. She had been visited by a lady, whom, from her description, I knew to be my wife, who had drawn from her artless tongue her whole history, and then set before her the ignominy and sinfulness of her present situation. These were strange words for the poor girl’s ear, yet I succeeded in calming her mind, and left her with emotions of such sorrow as I never felt before. I fully comprehended the wrong that I had done her, and the anguish that must from this time be her portion. I felt angry at Adela, and yet how could I blame her. She discovered a coldness and restraint in my manner, and became herself cold and restrained; in short, we were all three wretched. Adela in her zeal employed her confessor to teach Alma the mysteries of religion. Alma was ever in tears; and Adela began to pine and waste away. At length she became so ill that the physician declared that nothing could help her unless it were a journey and short residence in Italy. But before I set forward I conveyed Alma to this castle, and placed her in the tower which superstition had cast a spell around; entrusting her to the sole care of an aged female domestic, lest during my absence she should be persuaded to enter a convent.
“ ‘I came home widowed, but not in heart. I flew to Alma, and told her there was no drawback on our happiness now; that she should now possess both hand and heart. She wept long and agonisingly upon my bosom, and then told me that the magic glass of life was broken. That the clear cold light of reality now lay upon all the ways of love. That earth to her was no longer a blissful paradise. And finally, that she had resolved to enter a nunnery. Oh! the agony of that hour. I sought by every argument to divert her from her purpose, but she was unyielding. For a long time I refused to let her go, and kept her prisoner in the tower. But when I could by no means move her, when she turned ever weeping from me, or kneeling besought me no longer to keep her from the court of heaven, I gave her the keys of her prison, and left the castle. I returned after a few days. She was gone. I was desolate; and from that hour I have been dying.
“ ‘Last week my confessor put a letter into my hand, observing that it was given him by one who said that it required no answer as the writer was dead. It was from Alma. She said she must be brief, for her minutes on earth were few. She bade me reproach myself on her account no more, as she was passing away to heaven, leaving me her prayers and blessings. She had loved me ever and alone. She begged that I would freely pardon her if she had done me wrong. But her chief object in writing was to entreat my protection forour child. Oh! my God, how that word thrilled me. I had not dreamed of such a thing. Yet she said that during my absence with myinjured wifeshe had borne a female child. That she had concealed the circumstances from me, lest it should be made an impediment to her becoming a nun. That the child was named Adela, was now in the convent, and was ignorant of her parents. She desired me to suffer her to continue so, if she should prefer to remain and take the veil; but if she should leave her sanctuary, she besought me to be her guardian. I visited the convent; I knelt on the cold marble that lies above my Alma’s colder bosom—I saw my daughter; she told me that she would take the veil. I passed as her mother’s uncle; told her that she was an orphan, and offered her protection if she would leave the convent. She replied that as she had no earthly parents she would never leave her present place of refuge. I came home and lay down to die.
“ ‘I have now, my dear nephew, told you that which I had thought would never pass my lips; but it is for the sake of my poor child. My heart bleeds for her, orphan, and pennyless as she is. I could not speak of her to your father; but you are young, and your heart is as yet uncalloused. You will eventually succeed to these estates. Albert, I do not wish my child to become a nun; I will give you a letter and casket; you will find them in that bureau; take them to her when I am no more. Say I bade you deliver them only to her. You will thus obtain an interview with her. I am sure you will love her, for she is the image of her mother. If so, take her from the convent, and make her your wife. Promise to do this and I will die content. Your relationship need be no obstacle, for it is known only to yourself. Will you promise?’ ‘I swear to do all you ask, provided Adela is willing.’ ‘Thank you, my son. Now I can depart in peace.’
“My uncle died, and was laid in the stately mausoleum of the family. I went to execute his commission to my cousin. As I looked upon her face and figure I no longer wondered that my uncle loved her mother. She was beautiful beyond all description. No eye could scan her features, for her face was like a pellucid fountain, in which all lovely objects of earth and heaven were constantly and changefully reflected.
“As she was not of the sisterhood I was allowed to see her daily, and converse with her through the grate, and I need not tell you that I loved her madly. She confessed that her heart was mine, and promised to leave the convent and become my wife. I was now obliged to go on business into Germany. I told Adela that I would be back in eight weeks.
“I wrote to her frequently, and at length despatched a letter naming a day for our meeting. Soon after I had mailed it, I fell on the ice and broke my leg, beside injuring my head so severely that I was unconscious of my own existence for nearly three weeks. As soon as I was sufficiently recovered I wrote an account of the accident to Adela, and continued to write at short intervals until I was able to travel.
“I arrived at home after an absence of four months, and flew to the convent to see my soul’s delight once more. Judge of my agony when I was told that I could not see her, and that she had taken the veil. I felt as if the whole beautiful world had become a miserable chaos, amid the horrors of which I was eternally lost. At length I began to hope. I got a letter conveyed to her, in which I pictured as forcibly as language could, the distraction of my mind, and besought her to give me some consolation. She sent me an agonising reply. She had ever been taught that men were false, and that love was sin. When I failed in my return these precepts were enforced, and she gave them renewed credence. She saw no letter from me afterward, and being urged to join the sisterhood, in her despair and agony consented, and was now lost to me forever. But I could not so resign her. I plead with her that her promise to me being prior made her monastic vows null; and I urged her to elope with me to America.
“She at length gave a reluctant consent. I gathered up a large sum of money, and we soon found ourselves on ship-board, and plying from our native land. Think you that I was then happy? Alas for human hopes and passions! I was in possession of my adored and beautiful Adela, but I was a fugitive from my country, I was fleeing like a felon from my father’s house, and I felt that I had left mourning and bitterness in the places where I should have been diffusing peace and joy. Of the rank and wealth that I had relinquished I thought little, for poverty and contempt had not then taught me to value them. But I was sad even in the hour in which I had attained that for which I would freely have given life itself. Adela and I were united by the chaplain of the ship, on board of which we sailed, but he was a Protestant. Poor Adela scrupled at the validity of a ceremony thus performed; and the prejudices of her education, with the vows she had broken, were persecuting spirits ever torturing her heart, and mixing gall and venom forever with the cup of joy. Her eyes lost their lustre, and her smile was sorrowful; I saw it, and my heart grew sad. I had one hope left, that she would regain her spirits when we should arrive amid the novel and beautiful scenes of the New World; and then I hoped that she would become a Protestant, in which case she would cease to agonise over her monastic vows. The chaplain, at my request, used every argument with her in vain; her distress augmented and ere we had been one month at sea she was attacked by a violent fever.
“Oh! the bitter, dreadful agony with which I watched beside her couch. Her pains of body were intense, but her distress of mind was more terrible still. At length her reason failed her, and her death-bed scene was indeed agony. But as death approached more nearly, her pains remitted, and her phrenzy passed away. She said that she was forgiven, and ready to appear before God, leaning on the mercy of her Redeemer. She besought me to seek His consolations, and bidding me a fond farewell, her young spirit passed away.
“And now what remained to me of all my treasures? I had bartered every thing for her; and a cold and rigid form was all that I had left. Terrible and hideous as death had come to her, I longed to feel his hand upon me also. But he turned from me. I was obliged to live and see my poor Adela cast into the deep sea, almost as soon as her spirit had departed. My misery was now overflowing. I was bereft, and alone in the world. I dared not return to France, for I feared the power of the religion whose sanctuaries I had feloniously invaded. I assumed the name which I and all my descendants bear, and landed in Philadelphia a heart-broken and sorrowing stranger. I was greatly disappointed; for I had been taught to believe America a beautiful paradise, in which wealth and happiness awaited every adventurer who was so fortunate as to set his foot upon its shores. But I learned in time to procure a decent livelihood; the romance of youth was dissipated; I became a reasonable creature; I married your good grandmother with rational expectations, and now I am an old man, surrounded by a numerous progeny, and almost ready to depart in peace. And now girls that I have told you the story of my life, which you have entreated of me so often, I hope you will find instruction in it, and learn to value the frail and evanescent things of time, less than the peace of others, and the approbation of your own mind. Now go, and leave me to seek the repose which agitation of mind occasioned by retracing the scenes of my youth renders so necessary for me.”
THE PARSONAGE GATHERING.
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BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.
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Thelast Sabbath of the year 18— was far spent, and the little band of worshippers who had assembled in the village church of ——, were preparing to return to their respective homes, and digest the homily of their worthy pastor; when deacon Gravely advanced toward the altar, with all the dignity of official-bearing in his step, where pausing in the measured tones of one who is in authority, he requested the congregation to “tarry a moment.” There was a sudden revolution of faces—a quick rustling of cloaks, and rattling of foot-stools, and then all was so still, one might have heard a pin drop, and every eye bent with eager curiosity on the speaker; who only wished to remind them that the annual visit to their “beloved pastor” would take place as usual on January first, and it was hoped there would be a general attendance on the occasion.
An instantaneous gleam of pleasure ran over the faces of the audience, followed by a motion for the door, which was obstructed here and there by the meeting of female friends, who kept impatient footsteps in the rear, whilst in audible whispers, they exchanged opinions touching the sermon, the proposed visit, and their various domestic grievances. But the little church was at length empty, and the sexton proceeded to extinguish the fire in the stove, and close its sacred doors against any week-day intruders. It would be detracting from the solemnising-powers of the respected dominie, to say that the few words spoken by the deacon, had been more effectual than his well-written discourse on the departure of the year, and uncharitable to suppose that the church-going villagers thought more and talked more on their way home, of visiting their minister, than of attending to the admonitions he had that day given them; and though I am telling a true story, it does not follow that thewholetruth must be told; so let me pass on to the following Monday, which dawned without a cloud.
There was an earlier stirring than usual in the village, particularly among the farmers’ wives, who must needs get their week’s-washing out of the way as soon as possible, that preparations might commence for the anticipated visit, which was to take place on Wednesday. The city-reader may not be aware that it is a custom in country villages throughout many of the older states, to atone somewhat for the meagre salaries allotted to the ministerial department, by donations from those whose hearts are opened to give of such things as they have, to him who breaks the “Bread of Life” to their souls. Furthermore, it is so arranged by the considerate deacons’ wives, that these donations shall be sweetened on the part of the donors, by a social cup of tea at the parsonage; which certainly cannot be considered as among “The multitude of Sins” which need the mantle of charity for a covering.
By the hasty moving to and fro of the villagers through Monday and Tuesday, it was evident that until their memories were jogged by deacon Gravely, they had thought nothing of, nor made any reservations for the annual gathering: but to their credit be it said, that they were not slow to act on this occasion, and designed having everything in “apple-pie order.” The farmer unlocked the rich treasures of his granary, corn-crib and fruitery: wheat in “good measures, pressed down” and overflowing, was laid aside; the best of the yellow corn was selected; the golden pippins packed systematically, and even the more solid wealth of the pork barrel gave of its abundance to complete the New Year’s offering. The axe too of the woodman resounded through the neighboring forests, and many a sturdy hickory and oak bowed the willing head, at the bright promise of adding cheerfulness and comfort to the parsonage hearth. Nor was the ambitious house-wife to be out-done by her lord: from the “wool and the flax,” which she had sought and worked “willingly with her hands,” a worthy portion was chosen for the pastor’s wife and her nursery-flock. And the store-room held out its donation of butter and cheese; not forgetting that weightier matter of economy, ycleped “black-butter”—so indispensable to the farmer’s table! (being a mixture of quinces and apples, boiled down to sauce in sweet cider, and eaten on bread by the children, instead of butter.) Nor was this all: Doughnuts and twisted cakes were soon dancing merrily over the fire, plumcakes swelling in the oven, and many a little delicacy contrived by the inventive geniuses that were busy on the occasion;—for it is understood that these gatherings are to be no source of trouble or expense to the minister’s wife. One of the neighboring house-wives is appointed to the high office of mistress of ceremonies, and some half dozen others move at her beck and call through the parsonage-house, making all needful arrangements, while the lady herself is but an admiring spectator of the scene, and has only to dress and receive herprofitablevisiters.
The farmers were not alone in their “labors of love,” for the enterprising shop-keepers were as busy on their part in preparation. “Dry-goods and Groceries,” read their signs, and “the signs of the times,” were read in the liberal offerings that were made ready for the day, each having the savor of their trade withal.
Andtheday at length arrived! A New Year’s sun enlivened the spirits of the villagers, (albeit, they knew nothing of fashionable “calls” on Time’s natal day,) and threw open the gates of the parsonage. At an early hour might be seen gliding over the polished surface of a late fallen snow, the farmer’s sled, bearing its ponderous load of wood; here and there, wheel-barrows and hand-barrows, groaning with the burden of such variety as would puzzle any head to remember, all wending their way to the pastor’s dwelling. Two o’clock, P. M. found the elder portion of his congregation, having sent their gifts as a passport, preparing to appear in person before their minister. For once, the “Sunday suit” of true blue and shining gilt, was put in requisition on awork-day; and the buxom dame came forth from her toilet in her “best” gown and cap, and when in addition, the “meeting-bonnet” and hat were donned, away trudged the farmer and his “better half,” leaving the care of the homestead to the young folks, who were to take their turn at candle-light; when it was understood that the old folks were to return, and give them a chance by themselves.
Ye who love the cheerful, unostentatious scene, peep with me in imagination into the minister’s parlor:—see that weather-beaten group of farmers in the corner, animated by the light of each other’s countenances, while the crops of the late season are compared, and the improvements in modern husbandry denounced as “innovations,” and hostile to the wisdom and practice of their respected fore-fathers. Or if you would hear of broken banks and money-matters in general, listen to that trio, which comprises the chief of the village merchants: and then pass to those social wives and spinsters who are rocking, knitting and gossiping, all most industriously at the same moment. The latter accomplishment they evidently excel in; as can be proved by their remarks on the domestic qualifications of Mrs. Tidifield; the lax government of Mrs. Gadabroad; the inferior household management of Mrs. Carelittle, and the “high notions” of Mrs. Citybred, (a late comer among them,) which they “guesswill have to come down, after she has lived in the country awhile,” &c. &c. But as these industriousladieshad no illmeaningin this species of detraction, and would do “a good turn” for any of their erring neighbors before mentioned, we must attribute this propensity for scandal, to the “original sin” which is inherent to their sex. The tea “goes off” in old presbyterian style, and each discovers something of her own handiwork amid the variety spread before them. * * * But alas! all earthly pleasures must terminate. As the evening shades gather without, there is a breaking up of the gathering within, and the afternoon visiters disperse to the “quickstep” of “Homeward bound.”
The first light that gleamed through the parsonage-windows was a signal, that seemed well understood by the belles and beaux of the village; who light of heart and light of step, hurried in blooming clusters to the evening gathering, evidently reckoning on a merry-making of no common order. But after the excitement of arriving was over, and the last guest had been ushered into the presence of the company, there arose a question in the minds of some, as to what they had met together for; and in sooth no one seemed exactly to know. On one side of the ample apartment, in bright array, were seated all the fair of the neighborhood, in blushing, simpering silence! While opposite, in formidable rows, sat the young farmers and shop-keepers of the village, as “slick” as pomatum and starch could make them, twisting their thumbs one way for lack of thought, and the other way, for lack of talk; but not daring to cross the dividing-line, into “fairerrealms beyond.”
“The awful pause” was at length broken by a proposition which came from some unknown source, to “get up a play,” and many were the bright smiles that responded to it. Every one knows, that when the young folks of a village once throw off the stiffness of distance, and mingle in the unrestrained mirth of a rustic game, they are the happiest of the happy! On this New Year’s evening, they would have had a regular “jollification,” but for the timely caution of deacon Gravely, who remained to sustain the dignity of his office, by keeping the lambs of the flock within due bounds; reminding them that they were at theminister’s house: a fact which they seemed quite willing to forget.
The deacon’s notice proved something of a damper upon their gaiety; but after all was far lesseffectualthan that given on the preceding Sunday; as many a chasing for the kiss which was to redeem a pawn, and loud bursts of merriment testified; much to the discomfiture of the deacon. But there were at the partytwowho kept themselves aloof from the festivities of the evening, and were observed to sit in a corner together, engaged in conversation and apparently unconscious of the merry scenes around them. They were none other than the daughter of Mrs. Citybred, and the intelligent young physician of the village. It was evident that they had been accustomed to the refinements of education and good society, and were for the first time in their lives at a parsonage gathering. Many were the sly jokes and whisperings interchanged by the company touching theseexclusives; but of none effect on the doctor and his unsuspecting companion.
What they conversedaboutis none of our business; but certain it was that the lady’s countenance glowed with pleasure; and it was observed by all that the doctor never looked happier before. On the breaking up of the party, it did not escape observation nor remark, that the doctor waited on Mrs. Citybred’s daughter home.
What the effect of such an agreeable meeting was, none could say decidedly; but as they were afterward seen riding together several times in a veryexclusivelooking vehicle; and as the doctor has never before been known to ride out with a lady alone, since he settled in the village, of course there wererumorsof a wedding to take place before the next gathering, and much commiseration wasted on the doctor in anticipation of his “extravagant wife.” But as the next New Year’s day found him still a bachelor, it yet affords matter for gossip and conjecture among the villagers whether the Dr. and Mrs. Citybred’s daughter will ever be married or not.