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The Danes, Sketched by Themselves. Vol. 3 (of 3)

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Title: The Danes, Sketched by Themselves. Vol. 3 (of 3)

Translator: Mrs. Bushby


        
Release date: October 23, 2011 [eBook #37833]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive


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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive










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   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].





                               THE DANES

                        Sketched by Themselves.

                A SERIES OF POPULAR STORIES BY THE BEST
                            DANISH AUTHORS,



                       TRANSLATED BY MRS. BUSHBY.



                     _IN THREE VOLUMES.--VOL. III_.



                                LONDON:
                RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
                                 1864.

                           *   *   *   *   *

               [_The right of Translation is reserved_.]






        LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
                           AND CHARING CROSS.





                         CONTENTS OF VOL. III.


   The Fair Prospect.
   Death and his Victims.--By Adam Oehlenschl[oe]ger.
   All Souls' Day.--By B. S. Ingemann.
   Lisette's Castles in the Air.--By H. V. Holst.
   Twice Sacrificed.--By Carit Etlar.
   Herr Sinclair.--By E. Storm.
   The Aged Rabbi.--By B. S. Ingemann.
   The Bankrupt.--By Carl Bernhard.
   The Hereditary Goblet.--From the Swedish of Uncle Adam.
   The Death Ship.--By B. S. Ingemann.
   The Brothers; or, A Good Conscience.
   Esben.--By S. S. Blicher.




                               THE DANES

                        Sketched by Themselves.

                           *   *   *   *   *

                           THE FAIR PROSPECT.


From his infancy he had loved the sea, with its restless waves; the
dark blue ocean, with its white sails; and the idea of a sailor's
pleasant life pervaded his very dreams. During the winter months he was
satisfied to go to school, and learn to read and write; but in summer,
when the soft wind stole with its balmy breath through the windows of
the schoolroom, he used to fancy that it brought him greetings from the
adjacent sea--that it came fraught with the odour of the sun-bleached
deck, of the tarry rope, of the swelling sail--and then the schoolroom
became too confined for him, and his little breast heaved with a
longing which he could not repress.

All his holidays were spent at the quays, or on the seashore. When a
ship arrived from some foreign land, he would gaze at it with longing
eyes, and he would wish it were not speechless, that it might tell him
of the magnificent clear moonlights on which the tropical skies and the
dreamy ocean seemed to unite, and form one wide and bland expanse, or
of the dark stormy night on which the tempest, resting on its breezy
pinions, broods over the foaming sea. Oh! how he envied the careless,
sunburnt sailors, who looked down from the gunwale, or hung, apparently
in frolic mood, amid the yards above! Who could be so happy as they, to
skim over the sea with only a slender plank beneath their feet, with
the white sails outstretched like wings above their heads!

When it became late in the evening, he would saunter slowly and
sorrowfully homewards to the small, confined house in the suburbs of
the town, where his mother, who had, perhaps, just finished her day's
hard work, would meet him with gentle reproaches for staying out so
long. When he had then assisted her to bring in the heavy pail of
water, to stretch the somewhat blackened ropes in the court, and prop
them up with long sticks; to water the flowers in the little garden,
and the pots of balsam and geranium in the window; and when their
simple supper was finished, it was his delight to place himself on a
low wooden stool at his mother's feet, while she knitted, and listened
to the stories she told him of his poor father, who had gone far away
and had never returned. Vivid were the pictures the good woman drew
from the magic-lantern of her memory. Now, it was of her maritime
wedding, with the two waving Dannebrog flags, the numerous
smartly-dressed sailors, with their short jackets, white hats, and red
pocket-handkerchiefs, each with his sweetheart on his arm; now, of the
day when his father came home from a voyage, and found him--the boy--in
the cradle, a welcome gift on his arrival; now, of the dreadful hour
when the owner of the ship sent for her, and she was informed, in a few
cold words, that her husband had died out on the wide ocean, had been
wrapped in his hammock, and lowered into the deep. The stories always
ended here with the widow's tears; but the boy would sit lost in deep
thought, and would follow in his imagination the sinking hammock, with
his father's corpse, down beneath the blue, blue waves, lower and
lower, into the darkening abyss, until he became giddy from his own
fancies.

Sometimes his mother was not at home; then he always fixed his gaze
upon a miserable little picture which hung against the wall, and which
represented a brig in full sail. He would fancy himself standing
beneath its broad canvas, and waving his farewell to the land; or he
would steal into the recess of the window, and please himself by
imagining that he was in the cabin of a ship, and that the white
curtain which hung in the window, and was slightly agitated by the
wind, was the flapping of the sails in a storm. His little head would
at length droop and rest against the window-sill, whilst sleep closed
his eyes, and permitted him to continue in dreams his fancied voyage.

One day--a bright sunshiny day--he was strolling along the edge of the
harbour wall, gazing at the ships, and chattering now and then with the
seafaring people. His little white hat had fallen back, and rested awry
upon his curly head, as the poor boy jumped and played about, his shirt
sleeves tucked up, and without any jacket. How happy he was when the
sailors bade him run an errand for them, or what was better still, help
them to move or lift anything. As he wandered farther and farther on,
he came upon a large ship that was lying close to a wharf, and taking
in its cargo. The boy stood long opposite to it, and looked attentively
upon it.

That strange, mysterious feeling in the human mind, which arises at the
sight of the place where our death-bed is to be, or our coffin is to
rest, prompted him to exclaim, 'How quiet; how peaceful it is here.'
Though he thought--unknowing of the future--that his grave would be
under some shady tree, yet in contemplating the scene before him, he
felt that it was cool, and fresh, and inviting to repose. It was with a
peculiar and undefinable sensation that his eye wandered over the
newly-tarred hull of the ship--around which the glancing waves were
lightly sporting--up the supple mast, till it rested on the pennon at
its top. The busy crew went backwards and forwards, to and from the
vessel, which appeared to be nearly ready for its approaching voyage,
and the master stood upon the deck, issuing commands, and
superintending everything.

The boy ventured nearer and nearer; with earnest looks he watched
everything on board, and everything seemed to have been familiar
to him in some dream of the past--everything, from the nicely-painted
half-open cabin-door, to the dog that rattled its chains whenever any
of the sailors passed it. The captain at length came forward, and, as
he leaned over the gunwale, his scrutinizing eye fell upon the boy, who
as steadily gazed at him. For a time they stood thus--both silent. At
last the captain said:

'What do you want here, boy? Are you waiting for anyone?'

'No; I am only fond of seeing ships, sir,' was the boy's answer; as he
took off his little white hat, and twirled it about in his hand.

'To whom do you belong?' asked the skipper.

'My mother supports herself by her labour, sir,' replied the boy, 'and
my father lies out yonder;' he pointed towards the ocean. 'I also
should like to go to sea; but my mother says I am too little yet. Do
you think, sir, I am _really_ too little?' he added, with an arch,
insinuating smile, as he looked up into the captain's eyes.

'Well, well, perhaps not,' said the master of the vessel. 'Do you know
anything about a ship?'

How happy was the boy at that moment; with one bound he was at the side
of the captain, and he proceeded with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks
to name to him all parts of the ship; there was not a sail, not a rope,
not a topmast unknown to him, and the master's looks followed him with
approbation and goodwill.

'I am bound to the Brazils,' said he; 'would you like to go with me?
But it is a long voyage, and the weather is not always good.'

The boy's answer was a cry of joy; he seized the skipper's hard hand
and pressed it to his soft cheek, but suddenly his gladness was
checked.

'My mother!' he exclaimed, sorrowfully.

'We will go to her,' said the captain, as he laid aside his pipe and
took his hat.

Next day there was a fresh and stiff breeze, but the wind was fair,
and the good ship 'The Fair Prospect' bent its way out of the harbour
under full sail; it was going to the Brazils, far away beyond the
wide, wide ocean, and many a month must pass before its anchor
would again drop amidst the waters that laved the shores of the
dear native land. But--'Away, into the world--away!' came wafted
on the joyous breeze;--'Be of good cheer!' smiled the gay, bright
sun;--'Farewell--forget me not!' whispered the rolling waves; and high
up amidst the masts hung the exulting ship-boy, while he waved his
little red cap, and wept from mingled feelings of grief and joy.

How many remained upon that shore in unruffled tranquillity! They only
felt that they were obliged to be stationary, and would never see all
the beautiful, the grand, and the wonderful things that the vast world
has to display. But among them stood the loving mother, who had no joy
on earth but him who had just left her--and in deep sorrow she
concealed her tearful countenance. 'Dear mother, farewell!' he breathed
upon the air; but she could not hear these, his parting words. Yet he
felt as if his heart would have burst from his breast, and flown to
her. And surely she knew this. Did she not feel that there were some
sad, tender, affectionate thoughts from him who was gone, following her
to her humble home, to her deserted rooms, to the empty little couch,
on which she cast herself in an agony of grief? Alas! how many anxious
nights would she not have to pass in that lonely cottage, now terrified
by frightful dreams, now startled from her troubled sleep by the
howling and uproar of the midnight storm!

_One_ was terrible to listen to. It was a night in spring; but the
heavens were black and threatening, so that all was darkness around.
The tempestuous clouds chased each other wildly through the skies, and
cast their gloomy masses from one part of the heavens to another; the
moon shone forth every now and then for a moment, as if in derision of
its own impotence, and when its straggling beams then glanced in
through the small windows, they seemed for one second to gleam upon the
floor, merely to vanish again. The low house shook; the tiles fell from
the roof with a loud crash into the little court below; the doors
swayed backwards and forwards as if moved by invisible hands; and the
wind absolutely roared in the chimney.

The mother lay awake in her little chamber: she sat up in her bed,
clasped her hands, and cried in her agony of spirit, 'Oh, my dear, dear
child! where are you this fearful night?' Then she looked at his bed,
which had so long stood empty. How willingly she would have cheated
herself into the idea that all was a dream, and that it _really_ was
his fair little head she saw resting on his pillow; but it was
fancy--only fancy--for no living form was there! There was none to
speak one word of comfort to her; no human being near to console her;
she raised her thoughts to heaven, and prayed to God to spare the life
of her child in that terrific night; she prayed that she might once
more be allowed to fold him in her arms, and earnestly did she
further pray--alas! for a mother's heart--that if he _must_ die, the
death-struggle might be brief!

And where was the boy while these anxious prayers were ascending to
Heaven on his behalf? Behold! Yonder on the vast wild sea, where the
tempest is lashing the waves into mountains, flies the slight bark with
the lightning's speed! The subordinate has become the master: the wind,
that but lately, managed by the sailors' art, wafted their vessel
gently along, has suddenly burst forth in its might, and in its wanton
fury assails them from every point. Now the ship seems engulfed by the
raging waters; now borne aloft as if it were about to career in the
air. Yet on these frail planks, which seem to be but as a toy to the
elements, there is a will stronger than theirs. See how every stitch of
canvas disappears from the towering masts! Look at the fearless,
determined countenance of the man who holds the rudder in his strong
grasp! See how boldly, how firmly, yon sailors tread upon and hang
among the swaying yards above! Oh slip not, slip not! for ye hold life
and death in your hands; place cautiously the searching foot; turn the
swimming eye from yonder raging deep. Hark! what a frightful blast of
wind! It seems to come howling from afar, then rolls with a hollow
sound over the foaming waves. The ship trembles from stem to stern;
and, as if battling with the ocean, it swings first to one side, then
to the other, and then it seems to rise and ride triumphant over the
heaving billows. In its lightness lies its only hope of safety.

But what is that which has fallen from the main-topsail-yard down into
the sea beneath? The bubbling foam conceals it for a moment, but it
rises to the surface. From a break between the dark heavy clouds the
moon casts a solitary ray, mild as a compassionate smile. It is the
boy--the boy who loved the blue billows so much--he has fallen into
their wild embrace, and they like him too well to give him up again. In
vain do anxious faces bend over the side of the ship; in vain are ropes
cast out; the small hands fight but a feeble battle for life; the fair
curly head, over which his unseen mother's prayers and blessings are at
that moment hovering, raises itself once more in the pale moonshine;
but the struggle is soon over. Some few undefined thoughts flit through
his soul: he fancies that he hears his mother's voice. Yes, peace be
with you, child! She is praying with you at your hour of death. And he
sinks down--down--calmly beneath the waves. The subsiding tempest
chants his requiem; the moon sheds a farewell ray upon the spot where
he sank; and the grave has closed over the sea-boy's corpse! The war of
the elements is over, and the ship glides peacefully into its destined
harbour.




                         DEATH AND HIS VICTIMS.

                       BY ADAM OEHLENSCHL[OE]GER.


      Though I am feeble, yet, dear Death,
         Awhile let me remain!
      'Old man--thy locks are white as snow--
      Still thou art loth with me to go:
         But come--thy pray'r is vain!'

      I am in manhood's prime--wouldst thou
         Then break my staff to-day?--
      'The tall pine on the mountain's side,
      By lightning struck, falls in its pride,
         My call thou must obey!'

      I am a maiden--beauteous, young,
         Wouldst hide me in the tomb?
      'Thou, for this world, art all too fair,
      The bright rose never withers where
         Thou soon again shalt bloom!'

      So soon, a hero canst thou snatch
         From glory's high career?
      'I come, clad as a warrior proud--
      What wouldst thou? 'neath my mailed shroud
         No fleshless bones appear.'

      Extinguish not--oh yet--dear Death!
         Love's fire--that burns so bright!
      'Oh! I can hold in close embrace,
      And though my mouth no warm lips grace,
         Behold--my teeth are white!'

      Wouldst tear me from my golden hoard
         With merciless commands?
      'Follow! beneath the earth's black mould
      Gold never rusts--and thy dear gold
         Shall shine in others' hands!'

      What! from his country's councils drag
         The statesman proud? away!--
      'I call thee to a court more high,
      Where angel-forms, above the sky,
         Throng round God's throne alway!

      Against my ancient 'scutcheon--ha!--
         To raise thy scythe dar'st thou?
      'Adam--the noblest of thy race--
      Was made to bow before my face,
         Thy farce is ended now.'

      Thy vengeance wreck not thou on me.
         Behold--this brow a crown adorns!
      'Vain is thy claim--thy power is o'er--
      Death on the cross God's own Son bore;
         Think on His crown of thorns!'

      We are so little--us at least
         From the dark grave--oh, spare!
      'Does not your Heav'nly Father love
      Young children? Ye shall sport above
         With winged cherubs there.'

      Call not the anxious mother hence
         From those her cares employ!
      'Come--at Heaven's window thou shalt stand
      And gaze on the beloved band,
         And thou shalt weep with joy!

      'For though my form is frightful--I
         Am less your foe than friend,
      I bring ye all but transient woe;
      Your souls my scythe may never mow,
         These shall to God ascend!'




                            ALL SOULS' DAY.

                           BY B. S. INGEMANN.


It was a stormy autumn evening; the last yellow leaves of the
beech-trees were whirling through the forest near Soroee, and the
usually calm lake was lashed into wild waves like those of the open
sea.

'Does Italian Franz reside in this wood?' asked a clear, manly voice
from the road, as Count Otto stopped his grey steed close to a
peasant's cottage, and knocked at the little window with his
riding-whip.

'You can't lose your way,' replied an old woman, opening the window a
very little. 'If you take the path on the left, alongside of the lake,
the first house you will come to is where the under-ranger lives.'

The young count thanked her and proceeded on. When he turned into the
path by the left, where the moon shone full through the trees, and cast
its silver rays upon the agitated lake, his horse shied, and sprang to
one side; at the same moment the count's eyes fell upon the trunk of a
hollow oak-tree by the side of the road, against which a figure
appeared to be leaning. It was that of a man in the garb of a hunter he
saw; his rifle lay at his feet; his horse, bound to the old tree, stood
by his side, and, as a moonbeam fell on his face, lighting up his
features, the young count felt, for the first time in his life, a
strange sensation of terror--it was as if he beheld before him a
well-known countenance, but terribly changed and distorted. He gave
himself no time to examine into the cause of this fear, a feeling which
he had never before experienced in any of his numerous journeys, not
even when he had fallen in with highwaymen and robbers, with whom he
had often had desperate encounters, but without reasoning one moment
with himself, or taking time to think why he felt such sudden dread, he
plunged his spurs into his horse's sides, and galloped on as fast as
possible. The solitary hunter leaning against the decayed tree was
Italian Franz. This name had been bestowed on him on account of his
having been in the employment of a noble family, with whom he had
resided for several years in Italy, and who, as a reward for his
faithful services to them, had obtained for him the rangership he now
held near Soroee. He was born in this part of the country, where his
father had been the owner of a mill. But his long residence in a
southern climate had tanned his originally fair northern complexion,
and imparted a swarthy, sunburnt hue to his cheek, while his light hair
had also become darker in these remote lands. He was a man somewhere
about forty years of age, and when he was in good spirits, or in a gay
humour, he might have passed for much younger, especially when he
indulged in the vivacity of manners he had acquired in the South. But
when his fierce and gloomy fits came over him, he looked so old, and
also so wild and formidable, that no one would willingly have met him
alone in the woods. He would often remain whole nights in the forest,
with his gun over his shoulder, whistling or singing Italian airs in
the moonlight, especially when autumnal gales whirled the leaves around
him, and the lake was dark and agitated.

While he thus wandered in the deep woods or by the lonely lake, his
only child, the beautiful Giuliana, who was born in Italy, sat, a
solitary being in the forest lodge, and gazed at the charming pictures
of Capri, Torrento, and Ischia, and many other lovely spots, views of
which her father had brought with him from her enchanting native land,
and which she in vain tried to recall to memory, for she had left it at
so early an age that she retained but a very faint recollection of it,
and to her its beauties were almost ideal. She did not remember her
mother at all; her father could never be induced to speak of her; and
from the time she first began to notice what was going on around her,
she had always felt inclined to cry when other children spoke of their
mothers, because she had none herself.

She was about three years of age when the Countess R. took her from
Salerno on her journey home from Italy, accompanied by her father, who
had attended the noble family on a previous journey; and thenceforth
Giuliana had never seen her beautiful unknown native land. During the
two years, over which period their travels had extended, her infantine
mind had opened considerably; and of that time she preserved many
reminiscences. She had always been a pet of the beautiful countess, and
had travelled in the inside of the carriage with her and the two young
counts Otto and Wilhelm, while her father went outside with the
servants, though he was by no means always their companion, for when
the party arrived at inns in towns where they knew no one, it was
always Jaeger Franzesco who enlivened them, and amused the whole party.
Giuliana well remembered how the countess and both her sons had wept
when her father, ten years back, took leave of them, and carried her,
then only five years of age, to the forest lodge at Soroee, while the
young counts, who were then nearly grown up, accompanied their invalid
and melancholy mother to some German watering-place.

From that time, no year had passed over Giuliana's head without her
having received several kind and costly souvenirs--dresses, and other
gifts--from the countess. She always wore, however, the simple dress of
a peasant girl, not to seem peculiar or arrogant amongst her
neighbours; and she looked much prettier on Sundays, in her knitted red
sleeves and flowered bodice, than the smartest country girls, who,
instead of appearing in their national costume, awkwardly attempted to
sport what they thought fashionable attire. It was only at weddings,
and on other great occasions, that she drew forth from her stores some
pearls, or other precious stones, to adorn herself; and occasionally
when she was alone, or on her father's or her own birthday, she could
not resist the childish temptation to put on the pretty foreign garb
which she knew was worn in her native country, and which, copying from
her father's Italian pictures, she had amused herself by making up out
of the foreign silks and other materials the bountiful countess had
sent her.

Jaeger Franz bad acquired more knowledge from his foreign travels than
was usually possessed by men in his situation of life. He had been a
great favourite of the deceased count, and had been treated by him more
as a friend than as a servant. Being the companion of so superior and
well-informed a man as the count, had improved him greatly. Up to the
last hour of the count's life, Franz had been, next to the countess and
their two children, his chosen associate; and when, on his return from
a scientific tour in Sicily and the coasts of Barbary, he was attacked
by a fever at Naples, which put an end to his life, the countess, being
at that time confined to her bed by illness, Franz was the only one
from whose hands he would take the medicines prescribed for him; and
his last request to his wife was, that she would provide for the future
days of his faithful Franz.

The many foreign countries Franz had visited, and the intercourse in
which he had so long lived with his superiors, had much improved his
mind and tastes, and he was able to give his daughter a much better
education than the generality of country girls could aspire to. Italian
Franz's pretty daughter was, therefore, well known over the whole
district of Soroee, and the daughters of the principal burghers in the
town did not think it beneath them to visit her. If ever they took upon
themselves the least airs of superiority, she soon put them down in a
gay and seemingly whimsical manner. She was a favourite, also, among
the peasant girls, and they were not a little proud that she generally
classed herself amongst them, notwithstanding her intimacy with the
daughters of the clergyman and other young ladies in the neighbourhood.
Within the last few months, however, her numerous young female friends
had evinced some lukewarmness towards her, and she was left more to
solitude in her father's somewhat lonely house; but if those of her own
sex partly deserted her, the young gentlemen of the neighbourhood, both
those who belonged to town and country, began to pay much attention to
the little Italian, who was now fifteen years of age, and had been
confirmed the last Easter.

Franz had secretly embraced Roman Catholicism in Italy, but had not
found it possible to avoid letting his daughter be brought up in the
Lutheran religion, although in her early childhood she had learnt the
Ave Maria, and treasured the Holy Virgin and all the saints in her
heart.

In a small side-chamber in the forest lodge, into which no one entered
but the father and daughter, there hung over a little domestic altar,
made of oak-tree, a beautiful picture of the Queen of Heaven, before
which a lamp burned day and night, and Giuliana never forgot to keep
the lamp always trimmed, and to ornament the little altar with fresh
flowers on every festival day. Her father often retired to solitary
meditation, or prayer, in this little oratory; but on one particular
day every year he locked himself in there for twenty-four hours, and
always issued from it in a state of great agitation, and as pale as a
corpse, exhausted by fasting and earnest prayer. This was always on the
2nd of November, _All Souls' Day_.

Giuliana had once asked her father why he kept that particular day so
strictly, but she never ventured to repeat the inquiry, she had been so
frightened by the terribly withering look he cast upon her. There also
lay an impenetrable veil of mystery over her mother's fate, and the
history of her own childish years, which she never dared to attempt to
raise. She was always glad when her moody father seemed for a little
while to forget the past and the future. He also appeared to enjoy
these short intervals of forgetfulness, and many people thought him the
gayest and happiest man breathing. However, whenever All Souls' Day
approached, he avoided the society of his fellow-beings, and plunged
into the depths of the forest night and day, apparently in quest of
game; but he frequently returned on these occasions without having shot
anything, and often without having once discharged his gun.

It was on just such an evening in the beginning of October that
Giuliana, in her loneliness, had taken out her dear Italian costume, to
please herself by putting it on, and perhaps amuse her father when he
came home. She was sitting with the silver ornaments in her dark hair,
with the rose-coloured bodice and skirt of which she had read, and with
the little pictures she loved so much before her, fancying herself
amidst the charming scenes her imagination so often portrayed. It was
late in the evening when she heard the sound of a horse's feet
approaching, and observed that it had stopped at the paved pathway
which led to the house. She concluded it was her father, and rose to
meet him, when the door opened, and the young Count Otto entered,
starting with astonishment at seeing the beautiful Italian girl in a
Danish forester's house. He did not know if he was dreaming or awake,
for never before had he beheld any one so lovely, and the Southern
costume gave to the charming figure which stood before him an air
strangely fanciful and romantic.

'Giuliana!' he exclaimed, after a moment's reflection. 'Yes, you must
be Giuliana herself; and I am Otto,' he added--'the frolicsome little
Otto, who teazed you with bitter oranges in the corner of the carriage
ten years ago.'

'Otto!' cried Giuliana, calling to mind the half-grown boy who used to
be her playfellow, as she had often seen him in her dreams of
childhood. In her joy she had almost thrown her arms round his neck,
but she beheld a handsome young man before her, and drew back,
blushing. 'You have taken me by surprise, count,' she said, colouring
still more deeply. 'I was only a very little child when you last saw
me, and now you find in me but a big child. I expected no one but my
father this evening, and this dress--'

'Becomes you admirably,' interrupted the count, 'and transports me
back, as if by magic, to fair Italy. Do not thus cast your eyes down;
let me see if I can recognize my little pet of five years old again.
Yes, the eyes are the same; but I must not now speak so familiarly to
you, or call you "my Giuliana," as I did then.'

'And my little knight Otto, with his wooden sword, which was to protect
me from the brigands, has also disappeared,' said Giuliana. 'But tell
me, count, what fortunate circumstance has recalled us to your
recollection, that you should surprise us with a visit here, in our
remote hermitage?'

'I shall tell that to your father,' replied Otto, gravely. 'He is not
at home, I find: but do you not expect him back this evening?'

'He is out hunting in the forest,' said Giuliana. 'However, I hope he
will come home this evening; I have seen very little of him for some
days past. But you must be tired after your long journey, and must
require some refreshment. Please to make yourself at home here, Herr
Count, and excuse my absence for a few minutes; I will soon return.'

So saying, Giuliana tripped out of the room, and Count Otto sat down
near the table. At first he observed nothing around him; he could see
nothing but the image of the beautiful Giuliana, who had made a sudden
and strong impression upon him, which, however, he chose to ascribe to
her fanciful attire, and the surprise of their first meeting.

Nevertheless, he almost forgot why he had come, and that his visit was
more to the father than to the daughter. But he now decided on
remaining a little time at Soroee. Carelessly glancing over the table,
he observed some of the best travels in Italy that had ever been
published, and lying near them, collections of engravings of the
most remarkable places, and of national costumes. He also saw some
nicely-bound volumes, containing Tasso and Aristo in their original
language, and, on a shelf against the wall, handsome copies of the old
Danish tragedies, with selections from the best Danish and foreign
poets.

A small wooden crucifix, on which was placed a wreath of _immortelles_,
stood on a chest of drawers in an alcove, and at its feet lay an open
Bible. The count rose, and, approaching the recess, he saw a curtain,
which he drew aside, when a small bed on a pretty oaken bedstead in a
corner became visible.

'Here, then, that lovely creature sleeps,' thought he, 'happy in her
sweet, innocent dreams: and she has chosen very intellectual and
refined company for her solitude. Who would have expected to find such
a girl in an abode like this?'

At that moment a nice-looking peasant girl entered, and began to
arrange the table for supper--it was Giuliana, who had laid aside the
foreign costume in which she had felt so embarrassed before the
stranger. He thought she looked still more charming in the simple,
unpretending peasant dress, but he did not wish to make her feel
bashful by letting her see how much he admired her. He questioned her
about her father's circumstances, and her own position; and then
informed her of his mother's death, a piece of intelligence which made
a much deeper impression on Giuliana's feeling heart than he could have
anticipated.

He himself was much affected when he told of his bereavement; but his
extreme grief seemed to be caused by something more than even sorrow
for her loss. As soon as they had recovered themselves a little, the
count took pains to avoid entering further on a subject so distressing
to them both, and led the conversation towards those topics on which
the various books of travels scattered about made him think he could
venture. He soon perceived how the dim, childish recollections in
Giuliana's excitable mind had been revived, and kept from fading away,
by the beautiful engravings and interesting works depicting the
enchanting land of her birth, and how it was that she felt herself such
a stranger in the bleak North, and longed so much to return to the
sunny South. To her it appeared like a wonderful fairyland, where her
brightest dreams and hopes were centred. Her father's fits of deep
melancholy, and his frequent uncontrollable bursts of agony of
soul--the cause of which she could not fathom, and which she had no
means of alleviating--often grieved her extremely. The constraint under
which she generally felt with him, even when he was in good spirits,
and unusually cheerful, contributed much to increase her longing for a
change to a brighter land, and also to make her contrast in her young
mind the peace and happiness entwined amidst her childish
recollections, with her gloomy life in the lonely forest lodge.

She did not, however, express these sentiments to the young count, or
dwell upon her own feelings, but they were soon perceived by her
observant guest. He had begun to place before her some pleasanter
prospects for the future, and had just mentioned that he knew a
family who were soon going to Italy, and that they were in want of a
lady-companion, who would take charge of two little girls. He was just
speaking of this, and feeling in his own secret soul some dim,
undefined hopes of agreeable days to come, when the neighing of a horse
was heard close by. Suddenly the door was opened, and a man entered, in
whom the count recognized the solitary hunter he had seen near the old
tree in the forest, whose countenance had appeared so dreadful to him
in the pale moonlight.

'My dear father,' cried Giuliana, springing forward to meet him, 'guess
whom I have to present to you! Hush!' said she to Otto, 'let us see if
he can find out who you are.'

Otto, who had been standing in the shade, now came forward towards the
light which Giuliana held up near his face, and looked earnestly and in
silence at Italian Franz.

'What is the matter, father?' exclaimed Giuliana. 'You have turned
deadly pale--you seem to be seized with giddiness!'

'Who art thou?' cried Franz, starting back from Otto as if struck with
sudden insanity. 'If thou art a living being, speak!--speak, and do not
thus gaze like a spectre at me!'

'Good Heavens, father! it is only Otto!' said Giuliana, anxiously, yet
soothingly.

'We take turns in being afraid of each other this evening,' said the
count. 'For as I rode past you in the forest, Franz, I took _you_ for a
spectre, or some awful apparition, and now you pay me the same
compliment, I see. But how goes it, old Franz, and how are you?'

'Very well, Herr Count--very well, thank you,' said Franz. 'I recognize
you now by your voice, though it has, of course, become much deeper
than when I heard it last. So it was you who rode past me down yonder,
near the lake, upon that fiery horse? I was standing wrapt up in my own
thoughts, when suddenly a horseman sprang forward from among the trees,
and, passing me in wild haste, vanished speedily from my sight. By the
glimpse I had of him, I thought his face was not altogether unknown to
me, but I should as soon have expected to have seen the Wild Huntsman,
or a ghost, as you, Herr Count.'

'Am I so much changed?' asked the count. 'I can now quite recognize you
again, Franz, although you certainly look a little older. And
Giuliana's eyes shine like a pair of well-remembered stars from my
childhood's heaven. I believe I am as tall as my father was, and I am
thought very like him.'

'I can't see any very strong resemblance,' said Franz, turning away
from him. 'But has the count had no refreshment, Giuliana? Move that
light a little farther off, it hurts my eyes; sit down, Herr Count, and
let us be merry. I have still a flask of old Syracuse--we shall empty
that together to the health of your mother, the noble countess.'

'I wear this mourning for her,' said Otto, suppressing his emotion.
'Three months ago, at Toplitz, she was released from her long-continued
sufferings.'

'Dead!' exclaimed Franz, and covered his face with his hands. 'You
come, perhaps, Herr Count, as the envoy of the dead, and bring me a
word of farewell; or, more probably, she has latterly forgotten Jaeger
Franz. She has had no communication with me for ten long years.'

'My dying mother sent this ring to your daughter, said Otto, handing to
Giuliana a gold ring, with a little diamond cross on it. On the inside
of the ring was engraved, 'Keep watch over your soul, and pray for the
dead.'

'I have a few words to say to you, Franz, when we are alone.'

'Go, my daughter, and fetch us some wine,' said Franz, bending the
while a scrutinizing look upon Otto, yet trying to appear quite at his
ease, though a degree of nervousness and anxiety in his countenance and
demeanour proved that he was not so.

Giuliana left the room; and after a moment's silence, which seemed
embarrassing to them both, Otto took Italian Franz's hand, and said:

'You must solve an enigma for me, which embitters my remembrance of my
mother's last hours. She suffered exceedingly, but I think not so much
from bodily as from mental pain. In the last interview I had with her,
when I hoped she would have opened her mind to me, and have cast off
the burden of some secret which seemed to oppress her heart, it was
almost too late; she could scarcely speak, but she pronounced your
name, and said, in a trembling voice, "Go to him, and ask him if _that_
be true about which I have never ventured to ask him, and which, for
full fifteen years past, like a frightful suspicion, has haunted my
soul--ask him, for the sake of my eternal salvation, if--"'

'If what?' demanded Franz, springing up from his seat.

'I could not understand another word; she was dying, and her speech was
very imperfect. Suddenly a convulsive fit came on, and in a moment she
was gone. It is now, alas! too late to obtain, for _her_ peace, an
answer to the mysterious question; but for the sake of my own peace, I
would claim it. Tell me, Franz, what is it you know which made my
mother so miserable on her death-bed?'

'And did she really and truly say nothing more?' asked Franz, with a
relieved look.

'Not another word. But you must tell me the rest.'

'Thank your God that you have escaped hearing more, Herr Count! I will
carry to my grave what I know; it would be good neither for you nor for
myself, were I to disclose it.'

'You shall, though,' cried the count, grasping his short sword. 'I will
know it, or--'

'Act as you please, Herr Count,' said Franz, coldly, and without
appearing to be in the least intimidated by the threat. 'You would be
doing me a service by putting an end to a life which I care not to
hold; but no power on earth shall wring from me one word I do not
choose to utter.'

The coolness of Franz checked the rising anger of the young man.

'Forgive my impetuosity, Franz,' he said, in a lower tone; 'your
firmness and your calm demeanour put me to shame; I have no right to
insist on any explanation from you. But I shall remain for a little
while in this neighbourhood; we shall probably meet often, and when you
are convinced of the great importance it is to me to discover what you
now think advisable to conceal, perhaps you will change your
determination.'

'I doubt that,' replied Franz. 'If you were a holy priest, Herr Count,
and belonged to the true church, in which alone salvation can be found,
but which is proscribed hereabouts, it would be another thing.'

'It is, then, a matter of conscience, Franz, about which my mother--'

'Think what you will of me, Herr Count, but do not implicate your
mother! Whatever she may have fancied, and whatever account I may have
to render to Him who will judge every soul, and the actions of every
being, at the great day of doom--for the sake of your own peace of mind
seek not to dive into the mystery of my gloomy fate; enough that it
casts a dark shadow over my life. For Giuliana's sake, let me also
entreat of you to keep this conversation secret from her, and if you do
not wish to destroy the childish simplicity and peace of that
unfortunate girl, leave us as soon as you possibly can, that she may
not witness such scenes between you and myself.'

'I have a plan in regard to Giuliana, Franz, which I shall tell you
to-morrow. To-night I do not feel in spirits to enter on the subject.
Farewell!'

So saying, the young count left him, and when Giuliana entered shortly
after with the wine, she found her father alone, and asked why Count
Otto had gone away in such a hurry, and without even bidding her
farewell.

'He had business to attend to, my child,' replied her father; 'but he
intends to remain at Soroee to-night, and he will pay us another visit
before he goes away.'

'What! is he going away so soon?' sighed Giuliana. 'I thought he meant
to have stayed some time among us.'

'Have you, then, much pleasure in the thought of seeing him, my
daughter?' asked Franz.

'Oh yes, yes! he is my dear old playfellow, and it seems to me as if we
had always known each other. If he had not been so tall, and also a
count, a nobleman of high rank, I would actually have embraced him when
he came in so suddenly, and told me he was little Otto.'

'Never forget, my child, to behave to him with the respectful distance
which becomes the difference between his situation and ours,' said
Franz gravely, and fell into a gloomy mood.

In the hope of enlivening him, Giuliana took up the little Italian
mandolin which her father had brought from her native land, and sang,
in the language of that foreign country, Franz's favourite song, which
ran as follows:--


                 'If life's joys thou wouldst find,
                  'Twere well oft to be blind,
              Let the changeful hours roll as they may.
                  The stranger who goes,
                  Where the summer wind blows,
              Dreads to think of a dark wintry day.

                 'The stranger who goes,
                  Where the summer wind blows,
              Dreams that brightness and beauty shall last.
                  But too oft as he strays,
                  Where life's fountain plays,
              He turns with regret to the past.

                 'Yet sometimes he strays,
                  Where life's fountain plays,
              And pleasures unfading are met.
                  Where the balmy breeze sighs,
                  'Neath the soft Southern skies,
              His soul can all sorrow forget!'


The next day Count Otto came again. Contrary to his usual custom, Franz
remained at home, and he sought, by lively conversation and jovial
manners, to efface the remembrance of the painful scene of the previous
evening. He seemed determined to entertain his guest himself without
any assistance from Giuliana, with whom Otto had, therefore, very
little communication. Thus several days passed, yet the young count did
not seem to think of his departure, although Franz often reminded him
of it by drinking to his safe journey home.

Otto no longer doubted that Franz had observed the impression which the
beautiful Giuliana had made upon him, and at the same time he became
more watchful of his own feelings. Upon reflection, he allowed to
himself that the father was acting wisely in wishing to check a passion
which, if it were implanted and nourished in the heart of the lovely
Giuliana, might cause, on account of the difference in their rank and
station in life, great unhappiness to both. For several days he battled
with himself, and several times he resolved to go away at once, and to
give up the plan about Giuliana, which he had not yet communicated to
her father. This plan would indeed gratify her long-cherished desire to
visit her dear native land, but it would necessarily place her and him
in a position which might be dangerous to the peace of both, unless he
could sacrifice for her the opinions of his family, and the prejudices
inherent to his standing in life. The longer he considered the matter,
the more he felt convinced that the situation he proposed her filling
was far beneath Giuliana. After all, he was his own master, and _he_
valued mind, beauty, and amiable disposition more than all the
genealogical trees and worm-eaten patents of nobility that ever
existed.

Notwithstanding all her father's efforts to prevent Giuliana from being
much with the count, he met her frequently by accident, and often saw
her when Franz's occupations obliged him to be absent, and it was not
long before he perceived that the interest she took in him, and the
attention she paid him, sprang from something more than mere good will,
or simple childish affection. She tried, indeed, to obey her father's
directions, and to be distant and respectful; she called him, as she
had been desired, 'Herr Count,' and always corrected herself when the
familiar 'Otto' trembled on her lips. Yet, from a thousand little
circumstances, the said Otto could not fail to see that he was very
dear to her, and when his departure was mentioned, it was evident that
she tried in vain to conceal her distress at the idea of his going.

One evening, on returning home, Franz found Count Otto at the forest
lodge, where he was sitting close to Giuliana, reading some beautiful
old ballads to her; the sight of their intimacy displeased him, and by
way of reminding the count of his long-delayed journey, he asked what
day of the month it was.

'It is the second of November,' replied Otto; whereupon Franz, who for
some weeks past seemed to have dismissed all his old sad thoughts, and
had been always cheerful, often in a gay humour, became suddenly silent
and gloomy. In a minute or two he rose with a grave air, and entering
the little side-room, which he had fitted up as an oratory, he locked
himself in. As he did not come back, Otto asked Giuliana what could
detain him so long there.

'This is All Souls' Day,' she replied; 'my father did not remember it
until you mentioned the day of the month. He keeps _this_ day more
strictly than any of the other fasts or festivals of the Church. He
always passes it in fasting and prayer. I shall not see him again until
about this time tomorrow evening.'

'Who would have thought that Jaeger Franz was so pious?' said Otto. 'For
some days after my arrival he scarcely gave me an opportunity of saying
one serious word, he was so full of mirth and pleasantry.'

'My father's humours are very changeable now-a-days,' sighed Giuliana,
'and I am certain he would be happier if he did not get into such wild
spirits sometimes. These strange fits of gaiety are generally succeeded
by moods of deep dejection. Do you remember,' she continued, 'the
evening that you arrived--'

'Let us not think of that evening,' cried Otto, interrupting her, while
his countenance darkened at the recollection of the dreadful secret
which he had come on purpose to discover, but his anxiety about which
had given way to the new and softer feelings which his daily
intercourse with the beautiful Giuliana had awakened in his heart. He
tried in vain to recover his equanimity of manner, and finding that
even _her_ society could not, that evening, chase away the gloom that
was stealing over his mind, he took his leave earlier than usual.

When Count Otto returned the next evening, he found that Franz had not
yet made his appearance, and that Giuliana was very uneasy at his long
self-imprisonment; but she did not dare to knock at the door, or in any
way to intrude on his solitude. At length the door of the oratory was
slowly opened, and Franz came out of it, but so altered in appearance
as scarcely to be recognized. There was such agony in the expression of
his wild, almost livid face, that he looked like one who might be
supposed to have died in a state of despair, and arisen from the grave
because he could find no rest there.

'But, dear Franz, what strange whim induces you to do such terrible
penance?' asked Otto, with a mixed feeling in his own mind of horror
and compassion.

Giuliana made a sign to him to be silent, while she quickly, yet
quietly, set about getting something to revive and strengthen her
father. It was not until he had drunk a whole flask of wine that he
seemed to recover his consciousness, and to observe who was in the
room.

'What, you still here, Herr Count?' he said, turning to Otto. 'I
thought you had gone long ago. I have been ill, as you may perceive,
and my memory is not quite clear yet, but I shall soon be better. Some
good wine and the fresh air will speedily set me to rights. Will you
hunt with me to-morrow?'

'Oh yes, with pleasure,' replied Otto, who treated him almost as if he
were a lunatic, who must be coaxed and humoured. Before he left the
lodge, however, that evening, Franz had quite recovered himself, and
was as talkative and lively as usual.

'I have done penance long enough,' said he, as he emptied glass after
glass of wine. 'Let us be merry now, as long as we can.'

The next day they rode out hunting together. On their way homewards
Giuliana became the subject of their conversation, and Otto praised her
warmly, and commended Franz for the care he had taken in educating her
so well, and in cultivating her natural taste for all that was grand
and beautiful. 'But,' he added, 'what sort of abode is a forester's
lonely cottage for such a superior girl? Such a jewel would adorn a
crown, and is too good to be thrown away among low people, or hidden in
obscurity. She is fitted to shine in a much higher station of life.'

'I pray you not to put any such nonsense into the girl's head, count,'
replied Franz. 'I see that you like her, but she can never be a
countess; and if you say one syllable to her touching upon love or
admiration, I shall be compelled to make it my earnest request to you
to give up coming to my house.'

'But if I now ask her hand, Franz--'

'Are you mad, Herr Count?' said Franz, stopping his horse, and looking
inquiringly at him. 'If things have really come to this pass, I must
only warn you, Herr Count, that you will have to put up with my society
alone for the future, should you continue to honour us with your
visits, for hereafter I shall lock Giuliana up out of your way.'

'But if she herself, as I hope--'

'So much the worse,' cried Franz, interrupting him. 'She shall _never_
be yours, Herr Count; rather than that, I would bury her in a convent,
if I could find one here.'

'But what are your reasons?'

'I am the girl's father, and do not choose to give my consent; if that
is not a sufficient reason, fancy any one you please. Cast a glance at
your genealogy, and see how well a woodman's daughter would look among
such a noble assemblage. Doves may not mate with eagles--that is _my_
opinion. Breathe not a single word about love to Giuliana, Herr Count;
not a single whisper. Promise me this, upon your honour, or you shall
never see her again.'

'Well,' replied Otto, 'for the present I cannot escape giving you the
promise you require; but you must, and shall, withdraw your
unreasonable objections.'

'Never, as long as I live. Nothing can make me alter my decision while
I have life; and when I am dead, perhaps you will change your mind
yourself.'

After this conversation, Otto determined, as soon as possible, to tear
himself away from the vicinity of the beautiful Giuliana, that he might
not be tempted to break the promise her singular father had wrung from
him; but he also resolved, in the course of a very few years--under, he
hoped, more propitious circumstances--to return, and seek future
happiness in a marriage with the beautiful girl, to whom, he now felt
convinced, his whole soul was bound by the most delightful and
indissoluble of chains, and from whom, he thought, that only an absurd
and obstinate whim was the cause of his present needless separation. He
had not, as yet, said a single syllable to Giuliana of his feelings for
her; but she had not failed to read them in his amorous glances, and
perceived them in the warm interest he took in her, and in his pleasure
at the congeniality of their minds and tastes. That she seemed to find
new life in his society, that he had made a deep impression on her
heart, and that her sentiments were an echo of his, were evident to him
also; he saw that a word, a breath from his lips, of love, would
develop the sweet feeling of affection, which she scarcely understood
herself, and cause the opening rosebud to burst into the full-blown
charming flower. If that word were not to be spoken, Otto knew that he
must fly from the lovely girl. But he was angry at himself for not
having resisted the opposition he had encountered from selfish tyranny,
and for having bound himself by a promise, which he could not break
without creating disunion and unhappiness in a family circle; a
proceeding from which he shrank, even though he believed that despotic
and unjust authority was exercised on one side. He determined, however,
once more to endeavour to make Franz yield to his wishes; and while
waiting for an opportunity of doing this, an event occurred which
materially changed the face of affairs.

The celebrated painter, Carl van Mander, who was invited by Christian
IV. from the Netherlands, to improve the arts in Denmark, resided for
some time at Soroee, where he painted an altar-piece for the church. He
was an ardent lover and studier of nature, and was anxious always to
give truthful design and colouring to his pictures. This caused him
often to introduce real portraits into his historical or Scripture
pieces, and whenever he beheld a striking countenance he hastened to
make a sketch of it, which he afterwards worked up to suit different
subjects.

Thus the countenance of Italian Franz had often almost terrified him
when he met him accidentally in the woods, and on one occasion he had
seized an opportunity of sketching him while they were both sitting,
among other chance visitors, in a little tavern to which the painter
sometimes resorted for the purpose of seeing a variety of faces.
Without considering that there might be any harm in so doing, the
painter transferred the likeness of Franz to his altar-piece for the
church of Soroee. The artist had gone, and the picture was put up in its
proper place in church. Everyone, from far and near, hastened to see
it, and Carl van Mander's 'Last Supper' was pronounced a masterpiece.

Italian Franz seldom attended church; he liked the doctrine of
absolution, and the rites of the Roman Catholic Church, which he had
joined in Italy; and there being none within reach of his residence, he
had fitted up an oratory in his own house. When he felt indisposed, or
his gloomy fits came on, he often lamented that no Catholic priest was
near to give him absolution, or to administer extreme unction to him
when he should be at the point of death. At such periods of excited
feelings he would lock himself into his oratory, and, as he had no
priest to whom to make his shrift, he would write his confessions in
secret, with injunctions that the document should not be opened until
after his death. He had often thought of taking a journey to the
capital to see a priest, but had always put it off, and sometimes he
seemed to forget altogether that he had anything to confess.

Franz had acquired in Italy a taste for the arts--he had become fond of
paintings; therefore, when he heard that the new altar-piece was
finished and hung up in the church, he felt a wish to see it, and
agreed to accompany Count Otto to the morning service one Sunday. They
entered just as the clergyman was finishing his sermon. He had been
endeavouring to awaken to a sense of their sins the souls around him;
and with fervent eloquence was likening those careless Christians, who
heard the Word but did not obey it--who acknowledged Christ with their
lips, but denied him in their actions--to Judas Iscariot, who, with a
kiss, betrayed his kind Lord and Master.

Franz started at these last words. At that very moment his eyes fell on
the altar-piece, in which he instantly beheld his own likeness in the
face of Judas Iscariot, who sat like a traitor amidst the holy group.

'Yes, I am Judas!' he shrieked, in accents of agonized despair. 'Do you
not all see that I am Judas? Why do ye not curse me? Why do ye not
stone me? I am Judas--the execrable Judas!

The entire congregation turned and looked with horror at the frantic
being, who stood like a maniac, his whole countenance fearfully
distorted, gazing wildly at the picture over the altar, and who, at the
first sound of the organ, rushed out of the church with a piercing cry,
as if its deep tones had sounded on his ear like the last trumpet's
blast.

Otto was so overwhelmed with astonishment at this extraordinary scene,
that he stood for a time as if nailed to the floor of the church. When
he remembered himself, and hastened after the unfortunate Franz, whom
he now sincerely believed to be deranged in his intellects, and who, he
feared, might commit self-destruction in his access of insanity, that
individual was nowhere to be found. After he had in vain sought for him
in the town, he decided on taking the road to the forest lodge, to see
if he were there, and to prepare Giuliana to hear of the calamity, the
existence of which he thought could no longer be doubted. As he pursued
his way in much anxiety, a terrible suspicion crossed his mind--a
dread, which Franz's strange conduct, and his last astounding outbreak,
rendered but too likely to be realized. When, on following the path to
the left through the wood, he approached the shores of the lake, he
beheld a crowd of peasants gathering round a tree, on which some
miserable person had hanged himself, but whom, in their terror at the
sight, and their horror of a suicide, they had not attempted to cut
down.

It was Italian Franz, who thus fearfully had carried out his insane
fancy that he was Judas, and who had put an end to himself in this
dreadful manner. Count Otto had the body cut down instantly, and he
resorted to every means of restoring animation, but in vain, for life
was quite extinct. With many entreaties, and considerable bribes, Otto
at length prevailed on some of the peasants to remove the corpse, at
dusk, to the town, where it was quietly buried in the churchyard, and
the affair was hushed up as much as possible.

Giuliana was sitting alone at the forest lodge when Count Otto entered,
and broke to her, cautiously and kindly, the sad intelligence of her
father's sudden death; but he considerately withheld from her the
knowledge of the mode of his death, as well as the strange scene in the
church. But when she insisted on seeing the body, and was told that it
was already consigned to the grave, she herself suspected what Otto had
taken such pains to conceal from her. Her tears then flowed in silence,
and in silence she prayed, with her whole soul, to the Almighty for the
salvation in eternity of her unhappy parent.

While Giuliana sat absorbed in her sorrow, Otto, who had constituted
himself the guardian and adviser of the orphan girl, undertook the duty
of looking through the papers of her late father. During his search
among them, he found, in a hidden drawer, the secret confession, which
the unfortunate deceased had written in his moments of wretchedness and
self-upbraiding. He carried it privately away with him, and read it
when quite alone.

When Giuliana met Otto again, she almost forgot her own grief in her
distress at the deep affliction which she saw in his countenance. She
anxiously inquired if he were ill, and she forced herself to battle
against her own dejection in order to cheer him, and restore peace and
happiness to his heart. But the more warmly and affectionately she
showed him her sympathy and solicitude--the nearer their common sorrow
seemed to bring their hearts, and to accelerate the moment, when their
deep, though unconfessed mutual attachment need no longer be pent up,
but all, of which neither could doubt, might be openly admitted--the
more unaccountable became Otto's melancholy and singular conduct. He
avoided all intimate conversation. He assumed a measured calmness of
manner, and a degree of distance in his communication with her, which
she would have believed to arise from coldness, indifference, or a
narrow-minded regard to their different positions in life, had she not
before observed such unmistakable marks of his love for her, and known
how little he cared for the distinctions of rank, and how capable he
was of overcoming all such obstacles if he pleased.

'I can no longer delay my departure,' he said to her one day, when the
constraint which prevailed between them was most painful to both; 'but
I am not now going to Italy--America is my destination.' He then
entreated the astonished Giuliana to accept of a large portion of his
fortune, in order to secure her from all pecuniary adversity in the
future, and which would enable her to purchase a small property in the
country, or to reside in the capital with a respectable family, to whom
she was related, and who would receive her kindly.

Giuliana could hardly suppress her tears, but she forced herself to
smile, while she declined any assistance.

'I thank you, Herr Count,' she said, with composure--'I thank you much
for the sympathizing kindness you, unasked, have shown me. I have but
one wish in this world, and that is to see my native country again.
Here I cannot live, and if you have any benevolent desire to benefit
me, Herr Count, have the goodness to procure for me a situation as
waiting-maid, or in some other capacity, in a family who are going to
Italy. You once yourself proposed this; and I venture to hope that
perhaps you will, if possible, indulge me in my dearest wish, now that
I am left a solitary being in the world.'

'Well, then,' said the count, after a moment's reflection, 'since your
longing to revisit your native country is so strong that you cannot
live happily anywhere else, I will myself accompany you thither, and we
shall adopt my original plan. You shall travel as companion to my aunt,
and go with her and her children to Rome and Naples, where I shall see
you safely settled in some agreeable family circle before I set off on
my more distant voyage.'

Giuliana's childish delight at the hope of seeing the much-loved land
of her birth could not, however, overcome her deep, secret sorrow at
the alteration which had taken place in Count Otto; and her wounded
feelings would not permit her to accept of his offer, for her sake, to
relinquish for a time the visit to another continent, on which he had
so recently determined. She entreated him, therefore, earnestly not to
delay his voyage, but allow her to attend his aunt and her children,
without himself accompanying them.

But he had made up his mind to go, and he told her that, without _his_
escort, his aunt would not undertake to travel so far as Italy.

All was soon prepared for the journey. The aunt was informed of the
count's plan for Giuliana, to which, fortunately, she was willing to
agree. In a few days afterwards she made her appearance in her
travelling carriage at the door of the principal hotel at Soroee; the
count met her there, and took her and her children to the forest lodge,
where they were introduced to their travelling companion, who
immediately joined them, and who soon made a favourable impression on
them all by her beauty and sweetness of manners.

The aunt had conjectured that there was some love affair between the
young count and the pretty daughter of the sub-ranger, in whose
neighbourhood he had remained so long, and she fancied that, in order
to escape the taunts and gibes of the other members of his family, her
nephew intended to marry Giuliana in a foreign country. Rumour had not
failed to busy itself in the capital, by assigning a reason for the
count's stay at Soroee. Poor Giuliana had been described sometimes as a
simple peasant girl, who had allowed herself to be deluded by the gay
count, and who believed his fine speeches, mistaking them for more
honest ware; sometimes as an artful, half-Italian wood-nymph, who,
under the mask of modesty and virtue, had enticed the hoodwinked young
count into a snare, from which he could not escape.

His aunt had not troubled herself much about all this gossip; she
educated her children herself, and had only accepted Giuliana's
companionship because the count had made _that_ the condition of his
escort, without which she would not have liked to have ventured on so
long a journey.

Now, however, she was very curious to ascertain the exact nature of
their connection, and found, to her great surprise, that they
themselves avoided that degree of intimacy and freedom in behaviour
which travelling together almost rendered necessary; and that, far from
seeking each other, they rather seemed to shun every opportunity of
being near each other, even though these often occurred by accident. On
the other hand, she could not but remark the anxious attention, nay,
even devotion, with which the count forestalled every wish of Giuliana;
and the quiet, retiring manner in which she sought to take her place as
an inferior among the travelling party, although in mind and manners
fitted to be their equal. The expression of patient sadness in her
countenance, which neither her youthful pleasure at approaching
Italy, nor the enlivening effect of the frequent changes of scene
during a long journey, seemed to chase away, soon won the heart of the
good-natured baroness; and she was pleased to see that Giuliana had
also become a favourite with her children. The young girl seemed to be
always more at ease and more cheerful in the count's absence than when
he was present. Giuliana had taken her mandolin with her in the
carriage, and she often amused the children by playing on it, and
singing for them. When they stopped at the different inns, and she was
alone in her own room in the evening, the baroness sometimes heard her
playing and singing there also, but not the lively airs she sang in the
carriage. Her songs were all expressive of deep sadness, and if the
baroness entered her room unexpectedly, she generally found the sweet
songstress with tears in her eyes.

The count's melancholy surprised his aunt still more, as he had always
been remarkable for his gaiety and high spirits. He would now sit for
hours in the carriage without uttering a syllable, and when they were
all enjoying themselves at the evening's repast, after the fatigues of
the day, he would often start up and leave them, complaining of a
violent headache.

However, when they had crossed the Simplon, and were descending into
the paradise of Giuliana's dreams--when they beheld the rich plains
where the vines festooned themselves gracefully around the elms--where
the lovely lakes were studded with beautifully wooded islets, and the
lofty hills reared their blue summits to the skies, all gloomy thoughts
seemed to have vanished, and everyone gazed with delight on the
enchanting view. Giuliana clapped her hands in her transport of joy,
and seizing Otto's hand, she pressed it to her heart, while she
exclaimed:

'May God bless and reward you, dear count! I shall never cease to thank
you for affording me yonder sight, and this happy moment!'

Tears sprang to Otto's eyes, and throwing his arm round her, he pressed
her suddenly with impetuosity to his heart; but as if frightened at
this unpremeditated act, he immediately afterwards got out of the
carriage, and thenceforth took a seat on the outside, where, he said,
he could have a better view of the country.

This scene in the carriage, of which the baroness had been a witness,
fully convinced her of Otto's suppressed passion for Giuliana; and soon
after their arrival at Florence, some words spoken to herself in her
own apartment by Giuliana, in which Otto was named in terms of deep
attachment--and the words of a song which she sang in her solitude, all
of which had been overheard by the baroness--proved to her that the
same sentiments pervaded both their hearts, though both seemed to wish
to conceal their feelings.

She had, in consequence, a serious conversation with Otto, and urged
him to explain what was the reason of his conduct, and why he seemed
thus to seek and to repress the poor girl's affection.

In reply, he placed before her the confession of Italian Franz, and
then hastened out to order post-horses for Leghorn, where the American
ship, by which he had engaged a passage, was lying almost ready to
sail.

The baroness shut herself up in her own chamber, and read:

'I, Franz Ebbeson, born September--, anno Domini 1--, and, when this
shall be read, dead, as I hope, in sincere repentance, and trusting to
mercy hereafter, confess and make known, that in my irregular youthful
days I burdened my soul with fearful sins, for which I pray that the
mediation and 'good offices of the Holy Church may be granted,
therewith to obtain pardon for me at the great day of judgment.

'For some years I attended the noble family of R--ske while they were
travelling and residing in Italy. The count was very kind to me, and
raised me from the situation of his servant to that almost of a friend.
But, notwithstanding his goodness, I betrayed and wronged him, out of a
criminal love for his beautiful wife. In his absence on a scientific
tour in Sicily and the coast of Barbary, which lasted nearly two years,
during which he had left his family to my care at Naples, T took
advantage of the weakness and the kind condescension of the young
countess. At the time of the count's return, the consequences of the
countess's and my faithlessness were too evident; and she pretended
illness to screen herself. The count, almost immediately after his
arrival, was taken ill, and I was the only one whom he would allow to
attend him. In my wretchedness at having plunged myself and the
countess into a misfortune which would lead to inevitable disgrace, the
Wicked One inspired me with a horrible thought--a dreadful temptation
that my sinful soul could not chase away; and when I ought to have
mixed a few drops of laudanum with the medicine the poor count was to
take, my hand trembled, and more than a hundred drops fell into it. I
was going to throw the medicine away, but it seemed as if Satan seized
my hand, and--I carried the deadly mixture to my unfortunate master.

'"God reward you for your kind attention to me, Franz," he exclaimed;
and he speedily fell into that deep sleep from which he never more was
to awaken. For fifteen years I have borne alone the burden of this
guilty secret, of which neither the repentant countess, nor her and my
daughter Giuliana, had the slightest knowledge, though perhaps during
our last journey together, the countess might have suspected it. On All
Souls' Day--the day of my ill-requited master's death--I have for ten
years past devoted myself to praying for his eternal salvation. On that
solemn day may some purer spirit pray for me, and may God have mercy on
my sinful soul!'

The paper fell from the hands of the baroness, but she instantly caught
it up, and destroyed it.

'Then they are half-sister and brother!' she exclaimed. And she
understood what had seemed poor Otto's strange conduct.

But did Giuliana know it also?

At that moment a letter was brought to her from the young count, in
which he entreated her to conceal from Giuliana what it would be better
she should never know, and to treat her with motherly kindness for his
sake. He added, that he had himself provided for her future comfort in
pecuniary matters. There was, however, a little note addressed to
Giuliana enclosed, which he requested should only be given to her if it
were necessary to calm her grief for his departure.

A few days after he had left them, Giuliana became extremely ill and
the baroness, thinking it was better she should know the truth, handed
her Otto's farewell letter, which ran as follows:


'EVER-BELOVED SISTER,--In this world we must separate, but yonder,
where bride and bridegroom are as sister and brother, where there are
no ties of blood, you will find the fond and faithful spirit, which is
eternally bound to you, before Him who is Lord of the living and the
dead.'


Giuliana outlived her grief for being separated from Otto, and learned
to love him as an angel whom she would meet in future at the holy gates
of the heavenly paradise. She retired into a convent dedicated to the
Virgin Mary, and never forgot, on All Souls' Day, to pray for the
repose of her unhappy father's spirit.

Count Otto returned no more to Europe. He died in a skirmish with some
savage Indians. But by his papers which were sent to his family, it was
evident that, unlike the more tranquil Giuliana, he had never overcome
his unfortunate passion, but had carried that fatal attachment in its
full force to his distant grave.




                     LISETTE'S CASTLES IN THE AIR.

                    FROM THE DANISH OF H. P. HOLST.


I have always considered a garret as one of the most poetical abodes on
earth. Ye happy beings who, from that lofty altitude, can look down
upon the paltry bustle of the world, do ye not also appreciate the
advantages which ye possess? Envy not those whose cradles were rocked
in palaces or gilded saloons, for their good fortune cannot be compared
to yours. In these airy regions peace and freedom reign. Ye are
surrounded with the purest atmosphere--ye have but to throw open your
elevated casements to inhale the clear, fresh air, whilst the rich
beneath you, in their close chambers, seek eagerly for one breath of it
to refresh them, and assist their stifled respiration. No prying
opposite neighbour watches you, or disturbs your peace: there is
nothing except the swallow which builds its nest upon the roof, or the
linnet that flutters before your window, and greets you with its song.
Ye are raised far above all human misery, for none of it is apparent to
your eye; the manifold sounds of the busy street--the itinerant
vendor's varied cries--the rumbling of carriages and carts, scarcely
reach your ears. Ah, happy tenants of those lofty regions! how
frequently, and with what magnetic power, do ye not draw my glances
upwards towards you!

Far up yonder--high--high--mounting towards the clouds--where the
rosebush and the white curtains adorn the window, lives a little
milliner girl, about seventeen years of age. Courteous reader, if you
are not shocked at the idea of ascending that steep staircase, and
these innumerable steps, we will visit her together. Be not afraid!
Your reputation shall not suffer--I shall cast Peter Schlemil's cap
over you--you shall see all, and be yourself unseen. You will! Then
follow me, but be silent and discreet; it is a charming girl whom we
are going to see.

We enter--hush! Make no noise, for Heaven's sake; Lisette is occupied.
At this moment she is busy trying on, before the mirror, a bonnet of
the newest fashion, which she has just finished making. This is one of
the most important incidents in a milliner's life. It is to her of as
much consequence as his pieces are to a dramatic writer; with every new
bonnet which _she_ has constructed--with every new play which _he_ has
composed--comes the deep anxiety, whether the work shall add another
blossom to the garland of their fame, or shall despoil them of their
_renommee_. Let us not disturb her, but rather let us take a survey of
the little apartment which contains all her treasures.

If your eye be accustomed to rest on silken tapestry, rich carpets,
elegant toilet, and costly work-tables, these principal embellishments
of a young lady's boudoir, I would advise you somewhat to lower your
ideas, for Lisette possesses none of these, nor does she feel the want
of them. All that belongs to her is simple and frugal, but scrupulously
clean and neat. The ceiling and the walls rival in whiteness the snowy
coverlet which is spread over her couch. Near this stands a wardrobe,
in which hang two dresses and a shawl; and on a chair close by lie a
couple of caps and a straw hat, trimmed with gay ribbons. These form
her little stock of habiliments. A large oaken table occupies the
centre of the room; it is covered with pieces of _crepe_, silk, satin,
artificial flowers, plaits of straw, patterns, a knife, and a pair of
scissors. These are all her store, and all her apparatus. On a plain
chiffonier lie a Psalm-book, a well-worn romance of Sir Walter Scott,
some songs, and a little pamphlet, entitled 'The Ladies' Magic and
Dream Book.' These comprise her whole library. I had nearly forgotten
the most valuable article among her furniture--yon old lounging-chair,
covered with morocco leather: I call it the most valuable, for _it_ was
her only heirloom from her forefathers. A mirror is suspended over the
chiffonier, before which Lisette is standing, fully engaged in taking a
survey of herself. There is no mistaking the smile that is playing
around her lips--the light that is beaming from her eyes. The critical
examination has been satisfactory, and she is pleased with her own
handiwork. And well may she be so; for the tasteful white silk bonnet
casts a soft shade over her brow of ivory, and the rose-coloured
_crepe_ with which it is trimmed seems pale when compared to her
blooming cheek. I could venture to wager a thousand to one that
Lisette's face is a hundred times prettier than that of the fair dame
or damsel for whom this bonnet is intended. Doubtless this idea has
struck _her_ also; see, she hastens to her wardrobe, and takes from it
her light green shawl. She throws it around her shoulders, arranges it
in graceful folds over her slender throat and fairy form, turns to the
glass and contemplates herself, first on one side, then on the other,
and laughs in the glee of her heart.

Brava, Lisette--brava! Hark! she sings--


           'For a country girl I surely may
              Look on myself with some small pride;
            Alonzo--yes! all the world will say,
              Thou hast chosen a nice little bride.'


At that moment she fancies she hears some one knock at her door. In the
twinkling of an eye everything is put in due order; the shawl is hung
on the peg in its proper place, the bonnet laid conspicuously on the
table, and 'Come in' is answered to the summons. 'Come in, Ludvig,' she
repeats in a clearer voice; but Lisette must surely have been mistaken,
for no one enters at her bidding. She goes towards the door and
listens, she peeps through the keyhole, and finally opens the door and
looks out, but no mortal is there.

The foregoing scene is resumed: the shawl is taken again from its
sanctum, the bonnet is replaced on her rich glossy brown hair; again
her dark eyes shine, and again she smiles in the most captivating
manner. Happy little Lisette! How unpretending must be her claims to
the joys of life! A bonnet is sufficient to minister to her happiness.
She parades up and down the room. How proudly she carries her little
head; what fascination in her air and figure! She has that grace which
is neither acquired nor affected; that untaught grace which nature, in
its caprice, sometimes bestows on a milliner's girl, and denies to a
lady of the court, or to a princess!

At that moment her glance falls on the forgotten common straw hat with
its pink ribbons, and the sight of it instantly dispels all her gaiety.
Who now wears such a bonnet? It is quite, quite out of fashion,
unfortunate Lisette! You--you alone are born to hide your lovely
countenance under such a hideous shade; and not one single male being
may behold how charmingly the modern little silk bonnet becomes you.
Another is to enjoy the fruit of your labour, to sport the work of your
hands, and the production of your taste and skill! Poor girl! It is
hard, it is unjust, your sad fate is really to be pitied.

With the slightest look in the world of chagrin she has cast herself
into the leather arm-chair to take some rest after her fatigues. The
clock has struck half-past seven, and she has been working since four
in the morning. She can hardly repress her impatience. 'What can have
become of Ludvig!' she exclaims to herself. 'Everything seems to
conspire against me to-day; surely he cannot have taken it into his
head to visit me in the forenoon, when he knows that _this_ is my
leisure time? Why does he not come? For though he plagues me sometimes,
and he is often vexed with me, he knows very well how glad I am to see
him.'

Lisette becomes thoughtful, and begins to meditate upon the future. Her
position is trying enough. What signifies it to her that her
embroidery, her flounces, her caps, are always beautiful; that her
bonnets look quite as fashionable as those of the court milliners? She
barely makes a maintenance, and she has an invalid mother to support.
What prospect is there of any change in her circumstances? What good
fortune has she to hope for in the future? She throws herself back in
the lounging-chair, closes her eyes, and begins--_to dream_.

Ah! who does not know what happy miracles take place in dreams? Real
joys are seldom the growth of this world, and are only found by a few,
but to compensate for their absence, by the bounty of Providence, a
reflection of them is permitted to all mankind; for _fancy_ may, for an
instant, bestow that happiness which never can be realized. The
pleasures of imagination are open to all; in dreams we may taste of
felicity, and surely none are so wretched as never in fancy to have
known a moment of consolation and comfort.

Lisette is smiling; she is not asleep, but she has closed her eyes, the
better to enjoy her little world of phantasies and dreams. Her
situation in life is altered. She is no longer the poor Lisette who
must toil from day to day to supply her urgent wants, and whose
wardrobe consists only of two or three dresses, a shawl, and a coarse
straw hat. Oh, no; it is far different! She need no longer exert
herself so much, and is no longer obliged to rise with the swallow,
whose nest is near her window. She has bought silk dresses, a pretty
bonnet, and a fashionable shawl. She has been to Charlottenlund; has
heard the band at Frederiksberg; and wandered in the woods with her
young friends. What magic has suddenly wrought this change in her
destiny? She dreams it; and who would recall her from the harmless
enjoyment of her vivid waking visions? Lisette delights in the theatre;
she has been there twice in her life, and has seen the 'Elverhoei' and
'King Solomon;' but she knows all the opera and vaudeville airs by
heart, and sings them like an angel. She has just settled that she will
take a box for the season, when she hears a knock at the door. 'Come
in!' she exclaims, languidly; and this time it is no false alarm, for a
waiting-maid walks in with a parcel and a bandbox. Lisette is somewhat
annoyed at the interruption; however, she rises and asks what is
wanted. The maid brings an old bonnet to be retrimmed for her mistress,
and orders a new one for herself, which she desires may be ready by the
next Sunday, when she is going out, and will call for it. She dares not
let her mistress see it; but her lover, the mate of a ship trading to
China, insists on her being nicely dressed. He has presented her with a
China-crape shawl, which she begs may be allowed to remain at Lisette's
until the important Sunday.

As she is leaving the room the clock strikes eight, and Lisette
suddenly remembers that she has not watered the rosebush, which was
given her by Ludvig. What shameful carelessness! She hastens to perform
the pleasing task: that in doing this her glance falls upon the
pavement below, and that at the same moment the handsome hussar
officer, Lieutenant W----, is passing by--surely must be the work of
chance. He bows--it must be to the family of the Councillor of State in
the lower story, not to the inhabitant of the poor garret up at the
roof of the house. He casts a look up towards heaven, and sees a heaven
in Lisette's beautiful eyes. Perhaps he was watching the clouds, and
thinking of the weather; but his eyes sparkled like the beam of the
noonday sun, or like two very bright stars. He lifts his hand to his
military cap--how elegant are his movements! What a pretty compliment
to pass unnoticed! Unnoticed? If so, what means that deep blush on
Lisette's cheek? Is it the blush of triumphant beauty, or is it merely
a passing tint, cast by the roses over which she is bending?

Lisette busies herself with the plant, and trains its branches with
more than usual assiduity. It would seem that she redoubled her care of
the rosebush, by way of making up to its donor for her momentary
faithlessness. 'I will never see him more,' said Lisette to herself; 'I
will never come near the window again at eight o'clock. To-day I have
done so for the last time. But why so? I am guilty of nothing--I have
never once spoken to him; all I know is, that he always passes this way
precisely at eight o'clock; but I have no right to think that it is on
my account. Perhaps it is not good for my rosebush to be watered so
late; and Ludvig is so jealous--oh, _so_ jealous! I can't imagine why;
I am sure he has no cause for jealousy. It is too bad. Ah--these men!
these men! They expect from us one sacrifice after another, but not the
slightest pleasure will they allow to us.'

During this monologue her eye had fallen on the parcel left by the
waiting-maid. Her curiosity became excited to see what is in it, and
especially what sort of a shawl the mate had bestowed upon 'that stupid
Lena.' She stands for some time debating with herself, her eye riveted
on the parcel; at length she determines to open it. What a beauty it
is! No countess could have a handsomer shawl. Lisette wraps it round
her, and betakes herself again to the glass, where she gazes at it with
the utmost admiration, slightly tinctured perhaps with a _little_ dash
of envy. Taking it off, and laying it on her table, she places herself
a second time in the old leather arm-chair, and sinks back into the
world of dreams. But it is no longer the box at the theatre that
occupies her imagination; her head is full of the charming shawl. She
fancies that she has one as pretty; that her plain dress is exchanged
for another of splendid materials; that she is surrounded by admirers,
and--little coquette that she is--that she gives them no hope, for she
loves only Ludvig: but still, she does not quite discard them.

But where is Ludvig himself all this time? Look round, and you will
behold him now!

Do you see that young man with an intelligent countenance, with bright
speaking eyes and dark curly hair, who at this moment has entered the
room. That is Ludvig. His open collar exhibiting his throat, and the
rest of his somewhat fantastic costume, at once evince that he is an
artist: but we must add that he is an artist of no ordinary talent, and
that as a portrait-painter he is admired and sought after, he has
closed the door softly, and stealing forward on tiptoe, he approaches
Lisette, who, lost in her magic world of dreams, is not at all aware of
his presence. She is leaning gracefully back in the large easy-chair,
her eyes closed, their long dark lashes reposing on her fair soft
cheeks, and an enchanting smile, caused by the drama of her
imagination, playing around her rosy lips. He bends over her as if he
would fain, from the expression of her countenance, read her unspoken
thoughts. What a study for a painter! What an exquisite pleasure for an
ardent lover! Ludvig can no longer merely _look_--he snatches up her
hands, and covers them with kisses. Lisette opens her eyes. At that
very moment she had been dreaming of him; she had refused all her other
suitors for his sake; she had forgotten the caprice, the jealousy, the
absurdities of which she had often accused him, and only remembered how
happy she was to be beloved by him. Ludvig could not have arrived more
opportunely. She reproaches him playfully for being so late, scolds him
for keeping her waiting so long, but soon allows herself to be
appeased. She tells him how industrious she has been, shows him the
newly-finished bonnet, and does not omit to try it on before him--for
she must have _his_ opinion to confirm her own. Perhaps all this may be
called coquetry; well, allowing it to be coquetry, there is no guile or
deceit in it. Poor Ludvig is over head and ears in love; therefore he
is charmed with Lisette, with the bonnet, with everything. His warm
feelings find expression in compliments such as Lisette is not
accustomed to hear from him, and she naturally thinks him more than
usually agreeable. They chat about their first acquaintance, the simple
incidents of their love history, and '_Do you remember when?_'--'_Do
you recollect that time?_'--these phrases, so often introduced into the
colloquies of lovers, pass and repass from their lips; they dwell, not
only on their past reminiscences, but on their future hopes, and above
all, on their mutual affection, that theme which never seems to become
wearisome, and the variations to which appear to be endless. Lisette
then relates her day-dreams and her castles in the air--at least a part
of them, as much as she thinks Ludvig can bear to hear, but even that
part seems to displease him, for an ominous shake of his head, as he
listens to her, does not escape her observation.

'Good Heavens!' she exclaimed, 'how have I sinned now? What does that
grave look portend? It is really very tiresome. Two minutes ago you
were so lively and so good-humoured. Is there any harm in my building
castles in the air to amuse my leisure moments, and laying plans in
fancy which I know can never come to pass?'

'And how can _you_ be so hasty, and seem so vexed about nothing? I am
not at all displeased, my dear girl. I do not deny that these dreams of
yours are quite innocent; but I do say this, that if your head be
filled with all these romantic schemes and ideas, and you encourage
yourself in cherishing them, by-and-by you will be so led away by the
vagaries of your own imagination, that you will be discontented with
the humble lot which, alas! I have but the means of offering you.'

'Oh! you have no need to entertain such a fear. Am I not happy in the
thought that the time may come when we shall share each other's
destiny? or have I ever regretted that my fate is to be united to
yours? What care I for wealth, or for all those fictions which it
pleases the world to call good fortune? It is your affection alone
which can make me rich; without that, I should value nothing.'

Who could withstand such words from the beautiful mouth of a charming
young girl? Ludvig has already in his own mind owned he was wrong, and
now he hastens to beg a thousand pardons. He presses her to his heart,
and is about to assure her of his entire confidence in her, when he
suddenly perceives the costly shawl that is lying, half folded, on the
table, and the words die away upon his lips. Suspicion has darted
across his mind. 'Where could that expensive shawl have come from?' he
asks himself. 'She could not afford to buy it. Does she receive
presents from anyone but me? Can she be faithless--false?' His
easily-aroused jealousy speedily got the better of him, and her guilt
was no longer to be doubted.

Lisette had not in the slightest degree observed this sudden change;
she permitted her head to rest affectionately on his shoulder--but he
quickly disengaged himself, and pushed her coldly from him.

'What is the matter, Ludvig?' she asked, in much surprise. 'Are you out
of humour again? What is wrong now?'

'Oh! nothing, nothing! at least, nothing of consequence enough for you
to care about.'

'What can you mean? Am I not privileged to share your sorrows and
annoyances, whether they are great or small? You know you are sure of
my sympathy; why, then, should you conceal anything from me? But you
have no longer any confidence in me; you love me no longer as you used
to do, or you would not treat me thus.'

'These reproaches come well from your lips, indeed, Miss Lisette.
Certainly you have much to complain of.'

Lisette became angry, for she knew that she was innocent of all evil.
Had she not, a few minutes before, vowed not to go so often to the
window, when the handsome hussar officer passed? And had she not
recently, in fancy, discarded all her suitors, determining to admit and
to listen only to Ludvig? And now to be treated so by him! Was her
fidelity to be thus rewarded? 'Fie, Ludvig!' she exclaimed, with some
vehemence. 'You are too tyrannical; you have often been hasty,
irritable, nay, unkind to me; but I have borne it all patiently, for I
knew your unreasonable jealousy; but you are too sharp with me--too
cruelly sharp--I have not deserved this from you, and I will not put up
with it.'

'Well said! You speak out, at any rate. You won't "_put up with it_,"
Lisette? Of course you have no need to put up with _me_ any longer.
There are plenty, I know, who will flatter you, and make a fool of you:
but you will not find one who loves you as sincerely as I do.'

'And why not, pray? Perhaps I may though.'

'What do you say, Lisette? Ah! now I see I have been mistaken in you.
Farewell! You shall never behold me more. I will not stand in the way
of your good fortune. My presence shall never again irritate you for a
moment. Farewell!'

He rushed from the room, and Lisette had already the handle of the door
in her hand, intending to run after him and call him back; but she
stopped a moment to reflect. 'No!' she exclaimed to herself, 'I will
not afford him such a triumph. Let him go. Is he not clearly in the
wrong; and must I invariably give in? No; this time he shall wait
awhile.'

Lisette is very angry; she paces up and down her room, without so much
as casting one look down towards the street to see where he is going.
'It is quite unbearable,' she cries. 'He teazes me out of my life with
his ridiculous jealousy. It is a proof of his love, he says.... Ah,
dear! I am sure I would much rather dispense with such love tokens.'
Lisette throws herself into the easy-chair, and commences humming an
opera air. Then she begins to rack her brains to discover what on earth
could have caused Ludvig's sudden transition from good-humour to anger
and jealousy; but she vainly tries to find a reason for his strange
conduct. 'I will think no more about him! He does not deserve the
affection I waste upon him, nor that I should take his folly so much to
heart. Is this love? Not the slightest indulgence will he permit to me;
he cannot endure that I should be happy even in dreams! It is my only,
only comfort, and he shall _not_ deprive me of it.' So saying, she lets
herself fall back in her lounging-chair: at that moment she feels a
kind of perverse satisfaction in doing what Ludvig disapproved of.

The force of habit is strong, and she soon fails into her day-dreams
again. She fancies she has dismissed all her admirers, and now stands
alone in the world. She invests herself with astonishing talents; no
longer wastes her energies in making bonnets and taking in sewing. She
has had first-rate masters for every accomplishment under heaven,
and every possible branch of education, from moral philosophy down
to--hair-dressing. She dances like Vestris--sings like Catalani--and
plays like Moschelles. With youth, beauty, and shining talents, she is
received into the highest society, and the mystery which hangs over her
early days but adds a piquancy to the charm of her numerous
fascinations: for the great world, so monotonous in itself, loves the
excitement of curiosity. She soon becomes the cynosure of fashion,
adored by all the gentlemen--envied by all the ladies. Still she is not
satisfied with mere drawing-room admiration. She will go upon the
stage. She comes out in an opera of Scribe, composed by Auber, and
arranged by Heiberg. The theatre rings with applause; bouquets are
showered at her feet; the bright stars of Copenhagen--Madame H----, and
Mademoiselle W----, have, at length, found a rival, and to this rival a
large salary is offered by the manager of the theatre. She has scarcely
finished reading his highly complimentary letter, when another is
brought to her. In haste she opens it, and, casting her eyes on the
signature, she sees, 'Sigismund Frederick, Count of R.' She starts with
surprise; the young, the rich, the distinguished count, assuring her
that he cannot live without her, offers her his heart, his fortune, and
his hand! But, just then, amidst the glow of her gratified vanity and
ambition, a small voice whispers the name of--_Ludvig_. He has been
rough and rude to her; he left her in anger; he deserves no remembrance
from her; yet--her heart yearns towards him--she feels that she can
forgive and forget; that she can repay good for evil, and can sacrifice
everything for him she loves.

Poor Lisette passes into a state of great excitement between the
phantasms of her imagination and the real feelings of her soul; she
actually rises to answer the visionary letter, and she writes as
follows:--


'NOBLE COUNT,--I should be very ungrateful if I did not highly value
the honour which you have conferred upon me, in condescending to make
me the offer which I had not the slightest claim to expect. I will not
repay your goodness by any want of candour, and am, therefore, obliged
to confess to you that _that_ heart for which you ask is no longer
free; and that love with which you would honour me I am unable to
return as it deserves. From my earliest youth I have been attached to a
poor artist; he was my first love, and will be my last. I will venture
to indulge the hope that you will receive this open admission as a
proof of my sincere regard and high esteem for you, which forbid me to
accept the happy fortune that destiny, doubtless, reserves for one more
worthy of it than myself.'


Lisette was mightily pleased with this billet, which she considered a
_chef-d'[oe]uvre_ of the romantico-literary style. She had conned it
over several times, and was about to fold and seal it, when the
striking of a neighbouring clock awoke her to the realities of life,
reminded her that she had some work to finish, and at once demolished
all her _castles in the air_.

The horn inkstand is put away, the letter is left lying forgotten
amidst the shreds of silk; and the scissors and the needles are once
more in full activity. In the meantime Ludvig has returned, and stands
by Lisette's side, in a repentant mood. He has come back to try to
obtain some explanation about the unfortunate shawl, and to throw
himself at her feet, and beg her forgiveness that he had again offended
her by his suspicions. But Lisette is angry, and she will scarcely take
the least notice of him. She does not, however, hold out long, her
naturally kind heart soon becomes softened, she sets his mind at ease
by enlightening him on the affair of the shawl; but, very properly,
takes him well to task. Ludvig is in the seventh heaven. He blames
himself severely, calls Lisette by all the tender names that language
can suggest; he swears never more to torment her by his suspicions and
jealousy, and seizes her hands to kiss them, in ratification of his
vow, but, at that moment, he espies some stains of ink on her delicate
fingers. 'You have been writing! To whom were you writing?' he abruptly
asks, in a hoarse voice, while his countenance gradually darkens.
Lisette colours, and looks perplexed. She is unwilling to confess that
she has again been building castles in the air, knowing, as she does,
that he has an objection to them; she stammers, and is at a loss for an
answer.

Her embarrassment adds fuel to the flames; the demon of jealousy is
again at work in Ludvig's mind, he utters not a syllable, but darting
at her a glance that, if looks could kill, would have annihilated her
on the spot, he seizes his hat and is about to leave her. Lisette is in
the greatest consternation. She tries to detain him. 'Ludvig--dear
Ludvig!--I have--can you forgive ...?'

'What have you done? What am I called on to forgive? you false,
deceitful one!' he cries, passionately interrupting her, while he
endeavours to break away from her.

'Oh, do not be so violent, Ludvig! I have been amusing myself with my
dreams again. I have again been building castles in the air. Forgive me
this once more! _There_ is what I have been writing.'

She hands him the letter, and, as he reads it, his stormy brow clears,
and his features relax. 'From my earliest youth I have been attached to
a poor artist, he was my first love, and will be my last.' These words,
which he reads, and re-reads, several times, quickly appease his wrath.
'And this is what you were writing!' he exclaims, in a tone of joy. Oh!
I am so happy! Now I cast suspicion to the winds; from this time,
henceforth, I bid adieu to all jealousy.' In the delight of the moment
he communicates to Lisette what had before been hovering on his lips,
the unexpected good fortune which had fallen to his share. An uncle,
whom he had never seen, had bequeathed him a little fortune, which was
large enough to place them in easy circumstances. Lisette is in
raptures, and, mingling their joy, they lay plans together for their
future life. It is not Lisette alone who now _builds castles in the
air_, for Ludvig joins her in this pleasing occupation with all his
might; and yon humble garret becomes, at that moment, a heaven of love
and happiness.




                          TWICE SACRIFICED.[1]

                    FROM THE DANISH OF CARIT ETLAR.

                               *   *   *


                                   I.

                          THE DREAMS OF YOUTH.

About three miles from Viborg lies the celebrated Hald. The palace upon
the high hill, the lake slumbering beneath the ruins of the old
baronial castle upon the island, the fresh luxuriant forest, make in
combination a charming and romantic picture, which, placed as it were
in a frame of dark-brown heath-clad hills, forms a strong contrast to
the monotonous, melancholy-looking plain, in the centre of which it
appears like a beautiful flower in the dreary desert, suddenly and
unexpectedly seen, and therefore the more highly appreciated.

One afternoon, in the spring of the year 1705, three persons were
riding through the wood not far from Viborg. One was a young lady, by
her side rode a gentleman who did not look much older than herself, and
at some distance behind them a servant in a rich livery, embroidered
according to the fashion of the time.

The young lady was very beautiful; the mild, calm, expression of her
countenance, the sweet, trusting glances from her large dark-blue eyes,
disclosed one of those soft, feminine natures for which life should be
all quiet and sunshine, because they bend and break beneath its storms.

The gentleman who rode by her side, as near as the horses could
approach each other, wore the uniform of an officer. His features were
expressive of courage and talent, and all that freedom from care which
is the happiest endowment of youth and inexperience.

The young lady was Jeanne Ryse, a daughter of the Baroness Rysensteen,
in the district of Rive. The gentleman was her cousin, Captain Kruse.
They were both returning from a visit to Major-General Gregers Daa, who
two years before had purchased Hald, and built the handsome house upon
the hill.

There was evidently a deeper feeling between Jeanne and the captain
than merely cousinly regard; this was betrayed both by their very
confidential conversation, by Jeanne's smile, and by the endearing
glances that seemed to meet and answer each other. They loved each
other; and they were laying plans for the future, as that afternoon
they rode together through the wood. It was not of the present moment
they were thinking--no, none but children and old people, the two at
the extreme points of life--take pleasure in the present moment. Around
them everything reposed in a deep and serene tranquillity; the clear,
transparent air, the sun's rays gleaming through the foliage of the
trees, the perfume of the flowers, the blackbird's flute-like song, all
tended to increase the sense of happiness which pervaded both their
hearts, that fresh young love that causes all the blossoms of the soul
to expand.

'This evening,' said Jeanne, 'I will tell all to my mother; it appears
to me that it would be wrong to conceal our wishes longer.'

'Oh, let us wait,' said he. 'The confession will not augment our
happiness.'

'But it will indeed!' replied Jeanne. 'My mother has hitherto always
been my confidante in everything; it will distress her when she finds
that I am concealing our attachment from her. Do not be afraid,
dearest. She is so good, she has never thought of anything but my
happiness, and she will undoubtedly give her consent to our engagement.
I know perfectly well that my mother will refuse me nothing,' she added
with a gay smile.

Kruse made no reply; they rode on for some time in silence side by
side, while the same subject engrossed the minds of both, but there was
a difference in the way they thought of it. He was thinking, as it is
natural for men to do, only of his own happiness; Jeanne, on the
contrary, of that which she hoped to be able to bestow upon him.

'What if your mother should disapprove of our marriage?' exclaimed
Kruse, at length, after they had left the wood, and were riding towards
Viborg, which was to be seen at a little distance.

'But she will not disapprove,' replied Jeanne, decisively. 'I know her
too well. Still, happen what may, my friend,' she said, as she
stretched out to him a small, well-shaped hand, 'we love each other,
and we will never cease to do so. Is not this knowledge enough to
induce you to overcome every obstacle?'

Kruse's answer was the same as has been given in similar cases from
the time of the Deluge. Both forgot at that moment how long it is
to--never!

On the same evening, about two hours later, Jeanne sat alone with the
Baroness in her private apartment, and confided to her the whole story
of the attachment--indeed, the engagement between herself and Kruse.
The elder lady listened patiently and attentively to the tale; her face
wore its usual bland smile, her voice had its accustomed sweet and
affectionate tone.

'I have long suspected these feelings on your cousin's side, my dear
child,' she said quietly, 'but I did not suppose that you would admit
having returned them without first making some communication to me.'

'Oh, my own dearest mother!' cried Jeanne, in the most caressing
manner, and in a beseeching tone, 'you must forgive me!'

'There is nothing to forgive,' replied the Baroness. 'What has happened
has happened, and it appears to me there is nothing more to be said on
the subject. I have known Kruse since he was a child; he is of a very
amiable disposition and noble character, most gentlemanly and chivalric
in all his actions. I also truly believe that he loves you, my darling
Jeanne; who could do otherwise?'

And the mother leaned over the kneeling daughter, who had placed her
hands upon her lap, and kissed her fair brow.

'But Kruse, notwithstanding all these excellent qualities, can never be
your husband.'

Jeanne uttered a faint shriek.

'Oh, mother, mother! What do you say?' she cried, in the greatest
consternation.

'Listen to what I have got to say,' continued the Baroness, 'and listen
calmly. Kruse is poor; he has nothing except his pay as an officer,
which is scarcely enough to meet the daily expenses of a gentleman.
You, my dear child, are not rich either, as after my death your
brother will inherit the property. It is only, therefore, by marriage
that your future comfort can be secured. You have, naturally, never
thought of all these circumstances. At your age the heart is swayed by
happier interests; it is not until later that the prosaic part of life
forces itself upon us, and awakens us from our dreams. But I--your
mother--have well considered all this. While you have engaged yourself
to your cousin, I have fixed upon another for you--another who, with
the same chivalric character, unites better prospects for your future
life. Yes, weep on, my darling girl! I understand your tears, for I
have felt as you do, for I have loved as you do. When I was about your
age I was much attached to a young nobleman, who was as poor as Kruse.
My parents chose another for me, and I acknowledge now how fortunate it
was that they were not influenced by my wishes. I judge by this--that
the woman whom he afterwards married has led a very unhappy life.'

Jeanne's face expressed the deepest grief while her mother was
speaking; she wept, she wrung her hands, and at length she exclaimed:

'Oh, my dear mother! If you have considered what is best for me, have
you not remembered that the fate for which you destine me will render
me utterly miserable? It will be my death!'

'No, it will not, Jeanne! That is merely an idea peculiar to your age;
people don't die so easily. Time is an excellent doctor for such
wounds.'

'Who, then, have you chosen for me?'

'Major-General Gregers Daa, of Hald. He was with me to-day when you
were out riding with your cousin; he asked for your hand, and obtained
my consent to your marrying him.'

Major-General Gregers Daa was a tall, thin man, with a pallid face and
very grave expression of countenance. His hair was beginning to turn
grey, the numerous wrinkles on his expansive brow-were perhaps as much
the consequence of deep thought as of advanced age, for both of these
despots impose their marks in the same mode.

Gregers had held an important post, and had won many laurels in the
last war. At the cessation of hostilities which followed the peace of
Travendal, he returned to Jutland, purchased Hald, and had the palace
rebuilt. When these two events were completed, he had nothing before
him but a quiet, monotonous life, without interest to himself, and
without affording happiness to any one. The landed proprietors who were
his neighbours found no pleasure in his society, for he was cold and
reserved in manners. The poor lauded his charity and his munificent
donations; but these, in accordance with the nature of the donor, were
dictated more by a sense of duty than by any positive satisfaction he
had in relieving distress. No one sought his friendship; indeed, it was
rather avoided. In the lonely situation in which he was placed, he was
poor--for even fortune becomes a burden in utter solitude. The present
time offered nothing, the future seemed to promise nothing, and the
past was the repository of no cherished recollections for him.

When Gregers returned from the war, and had ceased to fight foreign
foes, he found at home a still more obstinate foe to battle with, and
that was _ennui_. A sister, much younger than himself, who had resided
with him, and taken charge of his house, had died a few years before
the date of the commencement of this story. He regretted her loss very
much, and day by day he missed more and more the comforts a lady's
taste and society had spread around him. It was about this time that he
first met Jeanne Ryse, and the sight of her awakened emotions in his
mind which he had never before known. He wished to have her in his lost
sister's place; he wished to be her confidential friend, her
counsellor, her companion, and, yielding to these growing wishes, he
determined on asking from the Baroness the hand of her daughter. He
had, however, not the most remote idea of the wretchedness with which
his proposals were to blast Jeanne's hitherto tranquil and happy
existence.

He was wealthy; he was the last--the only survivor of his race. Both of
these considerations had also some weight in Gregers's resolution, and
had not less influence on that of the Baroness Ryse. But expediency and
good intentions sometimes merge into wrong, especially when they forget
to take into account the passions and the heart. This fault was
committed both by Gregers and the Baroness.

Eight days after her conversation with Jeanne, the Baroness Ryse's
carriage was seen going towards the Hald, with running footmen before
the horses, a coachman, and another servant, with powdered perukes; in
short, with all that show and affectation of state which might lead the
beholder to forget the Dutch plebeian Henrik Ryse, to whom the family
owed their patent of nobility. The Baroness herself was elegantly
dressed; she was one of those old beauties on whose exterior the hand
of taste must replace what time has stolen away.

Gregers Daa received the lady at the foot of the outside stairs in a
garb which plainly showed he had not expected her visit at that moment.
He led her with a bewildered air into his study, where, before her
arrival, he had been occupied. Everything in this room bore witness to
an old bachelor's uncomfortable home. An ancient-looking hound was
stretched on the sofa, and gazed in evident astonishment at the
intruder without vacating his place. The dust lay thick on the sills of
the window, on the chairs, tables, and bookcases; the air was redolent
of tobacco-smoke; books, plants, and weapons were lying in dire
confusion about the room.

The Baroness's ironical smile, and the somewhat sneering manner in
which she glanced round at the various articles in the study, seemed to
open Gregers's eyes to its untidy condition. He stammered an apology,
and opened a door leading to a large room close by, but the lady
declined entering it.

'Let us stay here,' she exclaimed. 'The one room is as good as the
other for what we have to talk about.'

She removed a bundle of papers from a high-backed easy-chair, placed
herself in it, and motioned to Gregers to sit down also.

The sun was shining brightly through the window, the soft breeze was
swaying the branches of a large elm-tree, with their fresh light-green
leaves, backwards and forwards outside, the sparrows were chirping
under the roof; farther off was heard the song of the larks as they
soared over old Bugge's Hald,[2] the ruins of which were to be seen
from the window, and were glittering in the sun.

Presently the lady spoke.

'I come to you, general, on the same errand, relative to which you
lately called on me, and I bring you my entire acceptance of the
proposal you did me the honour to make respecting a marriage between
you and my daughter.

Gregers Daa's tall figure drew itself up in military style; he bowed,
and said:

'You have, then, communicated my wishes to your daughter, dear madam?'

'I did so on the very same day that you called on us.'

'And she has no objection to pass her future life with an old man such
as I am?'

'On the contrary,' replied the Baroness, quietly, and without the
slightest hesitation, 'she has many objections to it.'

Gregers looked thunderstruck; he fancied he had not heard aright.

'My dear general!' said the Baroness, with an insinuating smile,
'the principal duty you and I owe to each other is sincerity, and I
shall, therefore, venture to speak candidly to you. My daughter likes
another--stay, do not interrupt me--I mean that she feels a great
kindness for, and much interest in, a poor relation, who, so to speak,
has grown up with her, and who has been the only one, until now, who
could realize the visions every young girl's fancy is prone to create.
But, good Heavens! what does that signify? At her age one loves the
whole world, or rather, we really love only our own selves in every
object which pleases our inclination. I have impressed on my daughter
the necessity of giving up her foolish dreams, and of forsaking the
world in which she has hitherto lived, to enter into another by your
side.

'And was she willing to obey you?' asked Gregers, anxiously.

The Baroness's cheerful smile partially chased away his fears:

'Willing!' she exclaimed. 'Do you really think, my dear general, that I
would wish to see you united to a lady who could not prove, by her
obedience to her parent, that she would be able to obey her husband?'

'But as she already loves another, a younger man than I am, who,
doubtless, is more able than I to comprehend and to share her
sympathies, how can I expect her to love me?'

'Love you!' exclaimed the Baroness, in evident surprise. 'No--at least
not at the present moment; she cannot be expected to do so, since she
has, as yet, hardly the honour of knowing you. In regard to the future,
it will altogether rest with yourself to call forth this love. Your
superior character, and the mildness of manners I have remarked in you,
will indubitably lead the dear child to the goal you desire. I say
lead, not mould, because I know that a husband may easily lead his
wife, but not easily gain his wishes by coercion. From my experience of
the feelings of my own sex, I can affirm that, in most cases, gentlemen
may obtain as much affection as they can desire; but they understand
less how to awaken this affection than to retain it when once bestowed.
It is an acknowledged fact, that though the man begins by showing the
woman the first attention, it generally ends in her showing him the
last.'

Thus commenced a conversation, during the course of which the Baroness
succeeded in removing all the general's scruples. They afterwards
proceeded to discuss the matter in question under another point of
view--a view which appeared to the lady of very much more consequence
than anything wherein feelings were concerned. The marriage settlements
were skilfully introduced by the Baroness, who evinced as much
practical sense in this second portion of the conversation as in the
first; while Gregers Daa, on his side, showed a degree of high-minded
liberality which quite surpassed her most exaggerated expectation.

And thus was this marriage determined on, this bargain concluded, in
which was bartered away a young girl's future happiness, to secure for
her some insignificant worldly advantages. The sacrifice was
accomplished with festive pomp, with flowers, smiles, and songs on one
side, with smothered sighs and suppressed tears on the other. The same
wedding-bells that rang to announce Gregers Daa's happiness rang
Jeanne's freedom of soul and happiness into the grave.

The first few weeks after the wedding were spent in society, visiting,
and all the round of amusements which it was more the fashion to offer
to newly-married people at that period than in our days. Gregers
objected to this dissipation in vain, the Baroness insisted on it, and
the complaisant son-in-law allowed her to take her own way. The
Baroness Ryse hoped, by these means, to procure her daughter some
diversion, which might lead her to _forget_: she had herself never felt
any other than these small sorrows that vanish amidst wax-lights and
noise in a ball-room; she could not, therefore, conceive that Jeanne
might, indeed, be stupified by all the entertainments provided for her,
but that solitude is the only comfort in deep sorrow, and the great
physician for suffering.

Betwixt the mother and daughter, these such opposite characters, the
principal difference was simply this--that the Baroness thought only of
marriage, and Jeanne of love.

As to the general, he found, to his great surprise, that all those
feelings, so new to him, which had begun to be so softening and so
pleasant, had suddenly changed their nature. That love, which had wiled
his heart out of its accustomed torpor, which had come like a sunbeam
on a late day in autumn, unexpectedly, and all of a sudden, had been as
hastily enjoyed as if its loss were feared. He tried in vain to acquire
the affection he coveted; but how could he think that an old man's
measured and bashful love could be able to chase away the clouds of
lassitude and grief which rested on Jeanne's beautiful but pale brow,
or dislodge the remembrance of what she had lost by what she had won?
When at last, after long and fruitless struggles, he perceived the
impossibility of attaining the desired object, which seemed always to
draw back from him like the obscure and misty images on a wide heath,
he shut himself up in his own study--but not with his former peace of
mind; and he bore the marks of his internal battles in his hollow
sunken cheeks and whitened hair. From this time forward Gregers endured
his sorrows in silence, as Jeanne did hers: the only difference between
them was--the cause of the unhappiness of each.

Thus passed some years: Gregers Daa felt that no blessing had attended
his marriage. He was childless. There lay a little embalmed corpse in
his family vault in the cathedral of Viborg, with an inscription full
of grief on the lid of the coffin--that was his only child; it had died
soon after its birth.

The only person who never appeared to remark the cold and comfortless
terms on which Gregers and Jeanne lived was the Baroness. She resided
for some months every summer in her son-in-law's house at Hald, drove
about in his carriage, received visits from all her acquaintances; in
short, she seemed to be the real mistress of the mansion, exactly as on
every alteration and improvement at Rysensteen she showed herself to
have unlimited command over the general's money.

War at length broke out again, after the short and enforced peace
Denmark had been obliged to put up with. King Frederick IV. had
secretly entered into an alliance with Poland and Saxony against
Sweden. Reventlow was fighting in Scania; shortly after was heard, for
the first time, that one of the most ancient and most honoured names
among the Danish nobility was coupled with a lost battle--a name from
which heroism and victory, until then, had appeared to be inseparable.
Joergen Ranzau was defeated by Steenbock on the outside of the gates of
Helsingborg, and the scene of war after that was removed into Germany.
Gregers Daa was ordered to join the army. One evening in the month of
November this intelligence reached Hald.


                                  II.

                             THE FAREWELL.

Gregers Daa received the letter when he was sitting in the same room as
Jeanne. His pale cheeks flushed as he read it; Jeanne remarked his
emotion. She sat working near the fireplace, and at a little distance
from her was a third person, a guest that evening--this person was
Captain Kruse.

After Jeanne's marriage he had often visited her at Hald, Gregers
himself encouraged him to come, when he perceived that she seemed
pleased to see him. He had not then the most remote idea of the
engagement which had formerly existed between them.

'That letter seems to interest you,' said Jeanne, turning towards the
general.

'Yes--certainly!' replied Gregers. 'I am called away to-morrow.'

'Called away!' exclaimed at the same moment Jeanne and Kruse.

There was something in the tone of the captain's exclamation which
seemed to displease the general; he knitted his brow, while he
answered,

'I ought to have said that _we_ are called away. I have just received
an order for our regiment to join the army in Holstein immediately.'

Jeanne uttered no exclamation. During the last two or three years she
had acquired complete command over her feelings; her countenance
remained calm, and did not betray the slightest sign of agitation.

Gregers relapsed into his former silence; he had returned to the place
where he had before been sitting, by a table in a corner of the room,
at a little distance from Jeanne, because, he said, the lights on her
table hurt his eyes; from that place his look seemed to be fastened
steadily upon the two others.

During the uncomfortable silence which now reigned in the drawing-room,
were distinctly heard the wailing of the stormy wind, and the screech
of the owls amidst the elm-trees on the outside of the windows.

Shortly after Gregers arose, took a candle, and left the room. Those
who remained behind heard his steps becoming fainter and fainter as he
traversed the long corridor which led to his study. When they were
alone Jeanne let her work fall, and bending over the table covered her
eyes with her hand. On raising her head again in a little time, she
uttered a low cry, for Kruse was lying at her feet! She made a motion
of her hand as if to bid him go, but the captain seized that soft white
hand and pressed it to his lips, while he cast an indescribably
beseeching look up at her.

'You have heard it,' he whispered; 'we must go--we shall part, for
ever, perhaps--I must say a few words to you first. Meet me down
yonder--only this once, this once--for the first and the last time!'

'No, no!' cried Jeanne, vehemently: 'I have already refused this. Oh,
go!--it would be wrong!'

'Oh, I pray you,' he continued, in a still more touching and trembling
voice, 'do not refuse my petition! Are you afraid of me, Jeanne, though
in all these long years I have shown you how safe you are near me? Or
are you afraid that your glance will fall on yonder wood, where, one
afternoon, you promised to love me, where the sun shone, and the birds
sang, while God received those vows which have since been so cruelly
broken?'

Jeanne burst into tears. 'But go--only go, unhappy one! Do you not
hear? There is some one coming--it is my husband.'

'Let him come, he is not my worst enemy at this moment.'

Jeanne cast on him a sorrowful and reproachful look, but at the same
time held out her hand to him. Kruse sprang up.

'Then you have some pity for all that I have suffered,' he said; 'and
you will not let me go without one kind word at parting?'

She bowed her head almost imperceptibly, and yet it was sufficient for
him; his eyes shone, his lips trembled, in his deep emotion.

When Gregers returned to the room, they were both sitting quietly and
in perfect silence.

A few minutes afterwards, Kruse took leave, and rode away. Within an
hour from that time, a youthful figure stole softly out of one of the
side-doors which led from the apartments of the lady of the house down
to the garden. She was wrapped in a large shawl, and moved slowly, and,
as if unwillingly, onwards. Kruse hastened to meet her as she entered
the garden. Jeanne received him more coldly than she need have done
after having consented to the interview. But he knew her so well, he
had expected nothing else.

'You desired me yesterday,' he began, in a low and unsteady voice, 'not
to come up often to Hald, and were vexed at me this evening because I
venture to disobey your injunction. God is my witness, Jeanne, that it
was my intention to have been guided by your commands.'

'Why, then, did you come this evening?' she asked.

'Because I knew before the general did that we were to be ordered on
immediate service, and I could not resist seeing you once more ere our
departure.'

'Would to God we had never met each other!' she whispered in a low sad
voice. 'It would have been better for us both.'

'Oh, I entreat you,' he said, with that irresistible tenderness which
had always found its way to Jeanne's heart, 'do not say that. I am
going far away now, and your wish will be fulfilled; but why should you
give me so sad a souvenir to take with me? It is probable, Jeanne, that
I shall never return--indeed, it is almost certain, for on what
account, or for whom need I seek to save my life?--but if I _do_
return, should I be fated to live, will you then be less merciful than
God, and deny me permission to visit you as hitherto? If you will only
grant me leave to see you again, I shall never misuse that kindness by
a word or a look of which you might disapprove; no sigh, no complaint
shall betray to you what I suffer.'

'Oh Heavens!' whispered Jeanne, 'do _I_ not suffer too myself, and do
you not perceive that your presence here only prolongs a struggle under
which it is certain that we shall both sink? What can you wish to know
that you do not already know? What can you see here except that I am
Gregers Daa's wife?'

'Yes, it is true--too true!' he replied, scarcely above his breath.
'Farewell! It is best that we should never meet again.'

'Farewell!' replied Jeanne, in the same heartbroken tone. 'But you will
not thrust yourself needlessly in the way of danger. Do you hear?--you
will not do that? Oh, you must not--you dare not!'

'I am weary of battling with my fate!'

'And I, too!' exclaimed Jeanne, bursting into tears.

There was a confession as well as a depth of sorrow in these words; he
raised his head, grasped her hand, and carried it to his lips.

'Farewell!' he said--'farewell! God be with you, Jeanne!'

She left her hand in his, and whispered, 'Farewell, until we meet
again!'

'I may come, then!' he exclaimed joyfully.

'Since you threaten to throw your life away. But go now--leave me. Let
me beg this of you.'

Kruse knelt before her, whilst he kissed her hand and said:

'Put up a prayer for me, then I shall, perhaps, come back, and God may
have compassion upon us both.'

He sprang up and left her; a minute or two after, the clatter of his
horse's hoofs was heard upon the other side of the garden fence.

Jeanne stood and listened.

At that moment Jeanne felt her hand seized, and the following words
were uttered in a low, sad, scarcely audible tone:

'Put up also a prayer for me, Jeanne!'

She started back, and uttered a piercing shriek. A man stood before
her, in whom she recognized Gregers Daa, whose countenance in the
bluish moonlight looked even paler than usual, and whose smile was
sweet, placid, and resigned as it had ever been.

Jeanne thought herself lost; she fell at his feet, and stretched out
her clasped hands towards him, while she exclaimed:

'Oh, forgive me! Do not condemn me. I am not so guilty as you must
think--if you only understood me--if you only knew all--'

'Hush, my dear child!' whispered Gregers, in a voice that was full of
grief, but mild and consoling. 'Do not weep so bitterly; I know all,
and it is you who do not understand me. You have never understood me
aright. Let us go in now.'

He assisted the pale, trembling young woman up to her apartment, and
then retired to his own study.

The next morning, Gregers, attended by his servant, had started on his
journey before Jeanne was awake.


                                  III.

                              THE BATTLE.

One dark December evening, about a month after the general's departure
from home, the Danish army had encamped in the vicinity of Gadebusk. In
spite of the darkness and the rough weather, there seemed to be an
unusual stir and activity in the camp that evening, which betokened
that something of importance was about to happen.

Shortly before it had become dark, a reconnoitring expedition which had
been sent out returned with the intelligence that General Steenbock,
the commander-in-chief of the Swedish army, had approached until within
three miles of the Danish camp, and that, according to all appearances,
he was preparing to attack the Danes at dawn of day. Messengers were
sent in various directions. A few of these were to summon the general
officers to a council of war, others to take orders to the different
portions of the infantry who lay in cantonments in the nearest
villages.

King Frederick IV. had arrived at the camp two days previously from
Oldeslobe. He had taken up his quarters at the little country town of
Wakenstadt, whither the officers who had been commanded to assist at
the council of war that evening repaired.

There was a striking contrast between the appearance of these
gentlemen, who, on account of the presence of the king, wore their
embroidered and dashing uniforms, and the low, dirty, peasants'
parlour, where the meeting was to be held.

A peat fire was smoking and blazing in the open chimney; its lurid
glare fell on the plastered clay walls, to which time and damp had
imparted a greenish hue. Two small windows, whose panes of glass the
storm raging without caused to shake in their leaden frames, had no
curtains. The floor was of clay, the furniture consisted of a long
bench and three straw chairs, which were arranged around a deal table
that stood in the middle of the room, covered with maps and drawings,
and the apartment was illuminated by two or three tallow candles. The
moment, however, was too critical for any of those present to waste a
thought upon the chattels around them.

The discussions in this council of war were long and stormy.
Immediately after the king had communicated the intelligence brought by
the scouts, there arose a difference of opinion between him and
Reventlow, the commander-in-chief. The count thought that it would be
unwise to accept battle at the place where the army then was, because
the infantry either could not be assembled before the following
morning, or, at any rate, they would be fatigued after their forced
march, which it would be necessary to undertake very early to arrive in
time.

To this was to be added that the Saxon auxiliaries, thirty-two
squadrons of cavalry, happened that evening to be at eighteen miles'
distance from the rest of the army.

The king did not see the force of the argument; he entirely differed
from the count. Full of confidence in the continuance of the good luck
which had placed in his power the most important of the German
provinces of Sweden, he declared the position of the army to be
excellent, covered as it was by hills, woods, and morasses. He hoped
that the forthcoming battle would crown all his previous victories.

The shrewd courtier only adhered to his opinion until he saw that the
king was determined not to give up his own. Thereupon he pretended to
have been reasoned over to his majesty's views. He bowed smilingly, and
exclaimed:

'I also agree that we should remain here. If we conquer, to your
majesty will belong the whole glory of the victory. The whole glory,
but above all the whole responsibility,' he added, in a whisper to his
neighbour, as he took his place again on the wooden bench at the table.

Reventlow's yielding to the king's wishes was a sign to all his party
to act in the same spirit. One alone still contended that it would be
wrong to accept battle under their circumstances--one alone, and he was
Major-General Gregers Daa. He stood in that circle somewhat paler and
more suffering than usual, cold, stiff, and stern as ever. He would not
swerve from his opinion, gave reason after reason, and did not seem to
remark that his coadjutors had by degrees changed their ground and had
become his adversaries.

'But, by the Lord, Major-General Daa!' exclaimed the king, angrily, and
evidently provoked at the general's cold, calm, but determined
opposition, 'you must undoubtedly have stronger reasons for contending
with us all than those you please to name? From the time that you
joined the army last you have been prevented by illness from taking any
part in the earlier actions, and now that you appear to be well again,
you are the only one who maintains that we ought to retreat. ARE YOU
AFRAID OF BEING KILLED?'

A general silence followed this insulting question. All present looked
by turns at the king and at the general. Gregers's face became deadly
pale, his eyes flashed, and his lips trembled as if from cold, while he
rose and replied:

'I shall answer your majesty's question to-morrow. I beg to say that I
now quite agree with all the rest.' With these words he bowed and left
the room.

The king saw the terrible effect his insult had produced, and he called
to Gregers to come back, but the latter seemed not to hear him. He
hastened out, closing the door after him.

When Gregers had gone a little way beyond the village, where the camp
commenced, he stopped for a few moments, as if in earnest thought; he
cast a glance of deep distress up towards the heavens, and pressed his
hand upon his breast. He then walked quickly back to the camp.

Here all was movement and noise. The sutlers had a rich harvest that
evening. Crowds of soldiers lay around the watch-fires, chattering
together, or playing at throwing dice on the top of the drums. They
sang, they drank, or prepared themselves for the coming dangers by
relating the wonderful heroic exploits that had been performed during
those that were past. The report of the enemy's approach had already
reached every one. Gregers continued his walk until he had reached one
of the farthest-off tents. Here he came to a stand, listened for a
moment, and then entered it.

Captain Kruse was sitting at a table, which stood near his camp-bed; he
was supporting his head with both his hands, and was so intently gazing
on an open letter, so absorbed in its contents, that he did not observe
the general's entrance until the latter was standing by the table. He
then quickly concealed the letter, and rose.

'Do I interrupt you?' asked Gregers.

'No,' replied Kruse, evidently much confused.

'You have received a letter?'

'No!'

'It appeared to me, though, that you were reading one when I came in.'

'The letter I was reading is six years old,' said Kruse.

'Indeed! And at such a length of time after its date does it retain
sufficient interest to carry it with you to your tent and read it on
such an evening as _this?_'

'It is the memento of a loss--of a death; and you know, general, that
the heart does not value its memories by their age, but by the
estimation in which we hold those to whom they are traceable.'

'No,' said the general, 'I am not aware of any such feeling, for _I_
have no souvenirs, no cherished remembrances.'

Kruse looked up in amazement at the bitter and almost despairing
meaning which lay in these words. Gregers continued:

'I came to ask you to visit me this evening. There is a subject on
which I wish to have some conversation with you. Have you time to
spare?'

'Yes, general.'

'Very well, come then to me in my tent, near the forest of firs, within
an hour--not later, pray observe.'

'I shall be punctual,' said Kruse.

Gregers took leave, but, before doing so, he cast a glance towards the
table, where Kruse had concealed the letter.

The captain remained behind, musing: he could not fathom the cause of
this visit. Latterly, Gregers seemed to have avoided his society.
During the foregoing conversation, it struck him that there was
something harsh and unfriendly in the expression of his countenance,
which betokened a dark and hostile mood.

An hour later Kruse entered the general's tent. He found him sitting at
a table, on which lay two pistols and a sealed letter. Gregers beckoned
to him to come forward, and, pointing to a straw chair a little way
from the table, requested him to be seated.

'Have you heard the news?' he began abruptly. 'We are to fight
to-morrow.'

'Yes,' replied Kruse. 'So much the better!'

'I also would have thought the same at your age. I would, most likely,
have thought the same now, if I, like you, were single, and had not
bound another to my fate.'

'You allude to the amiable lady yonder, at Hald?'

'Yes; and perhaps you are surprised that I should be thinking of her
just this evening?' asked Gregers sharply.

'No--certainly!' replied Kruse, somewhat astounded at the question.
'What is there to surprise me in your doing so?'

'You are not speaking the truth, captain. Among all living creatures,
you are the only one who could dare to conceive a doubt on this
subject. You,' he continued, in a hollow and moaning tone of voice,
as if the words he were uttering could with difficulty pass his
lips--'you, who love her, and whom--she loves in return.'

Kruse was speechless for a moment, while Gregers was making visible and
violent efforts to regain his composure.

'Now I understand him,' he thought; 'he has found everything out, and
intends to murder me.'

This thought had scarcely entered his mind when it took the shape of a
conviction. In the deep silence now reigning in the tent, he heard the
general's suppressed groans as he drew his breath heavily, and saw the
arm by which he supported himself as he leaned it on the table,
tremble.

'What answer have you to give me?' inquired the general.

Kruse raised his head:

'It is true what you say, general. I do love her.'

The admission did not make the slightest alteration in the expression
of the general's countenance, as Kruse had expected it would have done.

'How long ago did your love for her commence?' he asked.

'I have loved Jeanne Ryse since my childhood. She was the first, the
only one I ever loved--the only one I ever will love. And now, general!
After this confession, I wait to hear what further you have to say to
me. I see that you have prepared for what was to happen,' he added,
glancing towards the pistols which lay on the table. 'I have been long
expecting it, and, when you came into my tent, I anticipated that what
sooner or later must end thus was close at hand.'

Gregers remained silent for a few seconds, and then said:

'You are mistaken, captain! I was not thinking of killing you when I
asked you to come here this evening. If such had been my intention, it
would have been carried out long ago. For three years, Kruse, I have
known that you loved her, but I saw, at the same time, how little guilt
there was in this secret love.' He held out his hand to Kruse. 'Poor
fellow!' he continued, 'how could you help that you loved her? You, who
were young, and whom God had destined for her. The error was, that no
one gave me any idea of this until it was too late. I was a witness to
the grief you both evinced; I heard the last words, the last sighs with
which you parted from each other! I know it all. What you, on the
contrary, do not know is--that I also loved Jeanne.'

'You!' cried Kruse.

'Yes; you are surprised at that, are you not?' continued Gregers, with
a melancholy smile. 'An old man, who had no other right to that girl's
love than what chance and authority bestowed. But I loved her,
nevertheless, with an affection that in strength and devotion quite
equalled your own. She was the only one, the last who bound me to life;
my heart grew young again under the influence of this love, which, in
spite of a husband's claims, preserved a lover's first timidity.'

'You loved her!' cried Kruse, as if he must have the words repeated, in
order that he might take in the possibility of their truth. 'But Jeanne
never suspected this.'

'Nay, do not think that I could betray my feelings when I so soon
perceived that she was not able to return them! From the garden below
have I, like you, often and often gazed up at her windows, until her
shadow and her light disappeared; I have felt myself intoxicated at
inhaling the perfume she scattered around her; in short, I have been
more easily contented than you, for you told her that you loved her,
while I hardly dared to confess so much to myself. Nor will she ever
know it until I have ceased to live.'

Gregers stopped speaking for a few minutes, while he fixed his gaze on
the empty space before him within the tent Kruse could not find words
to answer him, he felt so much moved by what he had just heard. A
little after, Gregers continued:

'To-morrow we go to battle, or rather accept it, since the enemy offers
it to us. It is possible that I shall not outlive the day; it is,
indeed, almost certain.'

'Certain!' exclaimed Kruse.

'Yes, my friend!' replied Gregers quietly. 'As you said lately, one has
one's presentiments in this world, let us suppose that mine will be
fulfilled. In case this should happen, I have written a letter, which I
now give into your keeping; take care of it, for it contains my last
will. My first intention was that you should have remained for a time
ignorant of its contents, but I have thought better of it. When I am
dead, go back to Hald, its doors will open to you, not as heretofore,
to receive your sighs and complaints--no, you will enter Hald as its
master, Jacob Kruse! I give Jeanne to you, and when I have done that I
have given you all, for my property shall belong to you both, since I
am a childless man and the last of my race. Raise your head, my son!
Why do you bend over the table in this manner? She shall be yours, as a
reward for her fidelity and your sufferings! You must love each other.
I bequeath her to you, and it is my wish and my prayer that you will
make up for all the sorrow I have caused her.'

Gregers placed his hand on the young officer's drooping head. Kruse
sank to the ground, and knelt before him! As Gregers raised him, he
flung his arms round his neck and burst into tears. There was something
very strange in this scene between the husband and the lover!

'Oh my God!' cried Kruse, 'I see it all; you will let yourself be
killed.'

'No, certainly not that, my friend!' replied the general. 'But I shall
be killed, that is all. I believe, as I told you, in presentiments, and
I owe you both this reparation--you and her. Go, now! Go and take the
letter with you. I wish to be alone a little time.'

So saying, the general opened the tent, and motioned to Kruse to leave
it.

The next day, about mid-day, the battle near Gadebusk commenced. Twice
during the morning Kruse had gone to Gregers's tent, but the general
had declined receiving him either time, upon the plea of having much
business to attend to. The drums and the trumpets shortly after called
the soldiers to muster in their ranks, and the captain was obliged to
hurry to his duty.

When Gregers Daa rode past Reventlow, to the head of the division he
commanded, he stopped his horse, and turning to the commander-in-chief,
said in a low tone, so as not to be overheard by those near,

'General! I have a request to make to you.'

'To me!' cried Reventlow, much surprised.

'Yes!' continued Gregers; 'and I beseech of you, for the sake of that
friendship of which you have given me so many proofs, to grant it.'

'It is already granted, my dear general, if even only on this account,
that within another hour I may not be in a condition to accede to
anyone's wishes.'

'With the third national regiment, on the left wing of the army, there
is one Captain Kruse in command of a company. I particularly wish that
his life may be saved, if possible. Will you, therefore, kindly place
him accordingly?'

'Colonel Eifeler,' cried Reventlow, beckoning to one of the nearest
officers, 'be so good as to order a portion of the third national
regiment, under Captain Kruse, to serve as cover for the height, on
which his majesty has determined to take the command.'

The colonel touched his cap, put spurs to his horse, and galloped off.
Gregers Daa thanked Reventlow with a long and warm pressure of the
hand, and then went on to join his own men.

The Danish army was drawn up on a hill, behind a morass; its left wing
was protected by a river, its right by a large and thick forest of
firs. Two hours before the commencement of the action the Saxon cavalry
had arrived, and had united with the Danish.

The Swedes commenced the battle with a brisk cannonade, and stormed the
hill under their watchword, '_Mit Gott and Jesu Huelfe!_' Shortly after
all was enveloped in smoke, which the wind drove over against the
enemy. The fire of musketry mingled with the louder booming of the
cannon; the signal trumpets sounded; the drums rolled, and men were
falling in the agonies of death.

An old chronicle says that the battle, 'with great effusion of blood,
lasted until five o'clock. As no one on either side would give any
quarter, there were fewer prisoners made; officers fought each other as
in a duel, and such were the individual combats, that the Danish and
Swedish officers were generally found dead, lying close to each other
on the field of slaughter.'

The same chronicle tells us that the Swedes stormed the hill three
times. The last time they were so fortunate as to be able to take up
their position at the foot of the hill, without the Danes having the
power to hinder them. Two attempts had been made in vain. The Danes
were beaten back, the Saxon cavalry gave way, and fled in disorder;
Steenbock followed up his good fortune, and sent troops to pursue them.
The Danes, too, were beginning to give way, for the enemy's cannon,
loaded with grape, and discharged from a short distance, was making
terrible havoc among them.

At that moment a squadron of Danish horse, led by a tall, thin officer,
came dashing down the hill, and for the third time made an attempt to
drive back the enemy. The spirited horsemen dropped on all sides, but
others, who had escaped unharmed, continued their onset, and fell upon
their foes, their brave leader charging at their head. The cannons were
silent, while musket and pistol shots flew hotly around. Shouts of
triumph--groans from the wounded horses--prayers--the moans of the
dying--and wild cries of encouragement, issued from that confused
multitude, immersed in dust and smoke, amidst which were to be seen
sabres flashing and sinking, and in the hottest of the fight the tall
officer, who seemed invulnerable himself though he dealt destruction
around.

From a height at a little distance King Frederick had witnessed the
whole. He had seen the two unsuccessful attempts to drive the enemy
back, and the dragoons who had galloped down the hill to make the third
effort. Gregers Daa's name was in the mouth of everyone around. It was
he who was speeding on to fulfil his promise.

This furious attack took the Swedes by surprise, and they began at
length to draw back. It was in vain that Steenbock sent them
reinforcements; before these reached the battlefield he beheld his
troops, as if panic-struck, take wildly to flight, and heard the noise
made by the dragoons as they spiked the Swedish cannon.

In the midst of the field, among heaps of the wounded and dying on both
sides of him, lay their commander, the heroic Gregers, struck by a
pistol-ball, while he was trying to wrest the colours from a Swedish
officer.

This episode--the gallant conduct of the dragoons--had given the Danes
time to recover themselves, and the battle was resumed with fury at
another place. Some of the dragoons jumped from their horses, and bore
their wounded general away from the field. Gregers was carried to the
village, and into the very same room in which, the evening before, he
had been so humbled and insulted.

King Frederick soon after entered the chamber, went up to the bed, and
leaning over him, took his hand, while he exclaimed:

'How this disaster goes to my heart, my dear general! I have sent for
my own surgeon; he will be here presently, and he will do all that he
can to preserve to our fatherland a life so invaluable as yours.'

'You are mistaken, my liege,' replied Gregers. 'The surgeon will be of
no use, and I am only fulfilling my destiny. Had your majesty been
unequal, yesterday evening when you put upon me the humiliation of
doubting my courage, I would have killed you; _that_ being impossible,
there was nothing for it but to let myself be killed. The ball is in my
breast. It will realize my wish.'

The king uttered in a low voice some words full of admiration of a
heroism that sought death on account of a hasty and inconsiderate
expression from his lips.

When Gregers had finished speaking to the king, he turned his head away
from him. His eyes met those of Kruse, who was kneeling on the other
side of the bed. A sweet and happy smile stole over the pale
countenance of the dying man, as he held out his hand to the captain.

'You see that my presentiments were correct,' he whispered, in a weak
and failing voice. 'Now she will be happy, and you also; now you may
love each other freely--for ever. And when you are happiest, sometimes
spare a thought to me--an old man, who was ignorant that it was he who
hindered your happiness--who went away when he discovered it. Farewell,
my son. Be kind to her, whom we both love!'

Gregers drew a deep sigh, clasped his feeble hands, and his spirit fled
to other worlds!'

                               *   *   *

A month later, two persons were sitting in one of the drawing-rooms at
Hald; the one was Jeanne, the other Captain Kruse, who the same day had
arrived with the general's body from Holstein. Gregers Daa had been
buried in his family vault in the cathedral at Viborg. Jeanne had read
the letter he had addressed to her in his tent the evening before the
battle. Kruse related to her, word for word, what had passed the same
evening between them. Jeanne wept bitterly while he spoke, and when he
had finished there was a long and unbroken silence in the room. A
little after, Jeanne held out her hand to him, and said,

'Leave me, now, my friend. I wish to be alone.'

There was something of decision and earnestness in the tone in which
she spoke that alarmed the captain.' He held her hand in his while he
asked:

'And when may I come back?'

'Never! Never come back!' replied Jeanne, with the utmost composure,
'for I no longer love you!'

Kruse stood petrified. Then he whispered in accents which betrayed the
deepest despair:

'And your vows, and your assurance that if you did not belong to _him_,
no living creature should separate us?'

'I have not forgotten all that,' she replied; 'but I now belong to him
more than ever I did. Go, Jacob Kruse, I beseech of you. It is not the
living which separates us, but the dead!'

Having thus spoken she left the room.

What strange contradictions there are in a woman's heart! Jeanne kept
her word, and remained until her death a lonely and sorrowing widow.

The following year Kruse fell at the siege of Toenning.




                             HERR SINCLAIR.

                              BY E. STORM.


      Herr Sinclair o'er the briny wave
        His course to Norway bent;
      'Midst Guldbrand's rocks he found his grave;
        There, his last breath was spent.

      Sinclair pass'd o'er the billows blue
        For Swedish gold to fight;
      He came, alas! he little knew
        Norwegian dust to bite.

      Bright beams that night the pale moon flung--
        The vessel gently roll'd--
      A mermaid from the ocean sprung
        And Sinclair's fate foretold.

      'Turn back, turn back, thou Scottish chief!
        Hold'st thou thy life so cheap?
      Turn back, or give my words belief,
        Thou'lt ne'er repass this deep!'

      'Light is thy song, malicious elf!
        Thy theme is always ill!
      Could I but reach thy hated self
        That voice should soon be still!'

      He sail'd one day--he sail'd for three--
        With all his vassal train;
      On the fourth morn--see--Norway--see!
        Breaks on the azure main.

      By Romsdal's coast he steers to land,
        On hostile views intent;
      The fourteen hundred of his band
        Were all on evil bent.

      With lawless might, where'er they go
        They slaughter and they burn;
      They laugh to scorn the widow's woe:
        The old man's pray'r they spurn.

      The infant in its mother's arms,
        While smiling there--they kill.
      But rumours strange, and wild alarms
        Soon all the country fill.

      The bonfires blazed--the tidings flew--
        And far and wide they spread
      The valley's sons that signal knew;
        From foes _they_ never fled.

      'We must ourselves the country save;
        Our soldiers fight elsewhere.
      And cursed be the dastard knave
        Who now his blood would spare!'

      From Vaage, Lessoe, and from Lom,
        With axes sharp and strong;
      In one great mass the peasants come--
        To meet the Scots they throng.

      There runs a path by Lide's side,
        Which some the Kringell call;
      And near it Lauge's waters glide:
        In them the foe shall fall.

      Now weapons, long disused, are spread
        Again that bloody day.
      The merman lifts his shaggy head
        And waits his destined prey.

      Brave Sinclair, pierced with many a ball,
        Sinks groaning on the field.
      The Scots behold their leader fall,
        And rank on rank they yield.

      'On peasants! on--ye Normand men!
        Strike down beneath your feet!'
      For home and peace the Scots wish'd then;
        But there was no retreat.

      With corpses was the Kringell fill'd;
        The ravens were regaled.
      The youthful blood which there was spill'd
        The Scottish girls bewail'd.

      No living soul went home again
        Their countrymen to tell
      The hope to conquer those how vain,
        'Midst Norway's hills who dwell.

      They raised a column on that spot,
        To bid their foes beware;
      And evil be that Normand's lot
        Who coldly passes there!




                            THE AGED RABBI.

                             A Jewish Tale.

                           BY B. S. INGEMANN.

                               *   *   *


                                   I.

'Is thy day of persecution to return, lost, unhappy Israel?' exclaimed
the old rabbi, Philip Moses, sadly shaking his venerable grey head, as
one evening in the autumn of 1819 stones were thrown in through the
windows of the house in which he resided, whilst the rabble of Hamburg
shouted in the street in derision the first words of the Jew's lament
for Jerusalem.

'Yes! ye are right,' he continued mournfully; 'Jerusalem is demolished
and laid waste. Ye could not stone us against Jehovah's will! But His
wrath is sore kindled against us. His patience was great, but His
people have forgotten Him in the midst of their banishment; they have
forsaken the Law and the Prophets amidst the dwellings of strangers;
they have mingled their blood with the blood of the unbeliever; and lo!
therefore God's people are thrust forth from the earth, and blotted out
from among the living.'

'Oh, grandfather, grandfather!' cried his weeping grandchildren,
clinging to him in their terror, 'protect us from the fearful
Christians!'

'If ye be still the children of Israel,' answered the old man calmly,
'fold your hands and bow your knees, turn your faces towards the
east--towards the ruins of God's holy city--and pray to Jehovah, the
God of your fathers! While thus engaged in prayer, what if these stones
crush your heads and dash out your brains? Praise Jacob's God with me,
and die in the name of the Lord God of Sabaoth! Then shall His cherubim
bear ye in peace to our father Abraham's bosom!'

'Is that the only comfort you can bestow, simple old man?' said his son
Samuel, the father of the children. He was the richest jeweller in
Hamburg, and now saw his valuable shop exposed to be ransacked and
plundered by the furious mob. 'Can you give us no better advice than to
pray? _I_ know something better. We will all let ourselves be baptized
to-morrow.'

'Would you renounce the faith of your fathers on account of your
anxiety about your jewellery, my son?' said the old man, casting a
contemptuous glance on the wealthy, trembling Israelite, who, overcome
with fear, was rushing from keeping-place to keeping-place, gathering
together and packing up his most valuable articles.

'Truly it is indifferent to me whether they call me Jew or Christian,'
replied Samuel, 'so I can save my goods and my life. When the question
is, whether I shall be a rich man to-morrow or a beggar--whether I
shall walk the streets, and go to the Exchange in peace, or if I am to
be pelted in open day by the very children, and risk my health, my
limbs, my life itself--when my jewels, my furniture, my wife, my
children, and my windows are in question--I should be a great ass if I
hesitated to let a handful of cold water be thrown upon me. It is only
a stupid ceremony; but I daresay it is just as good as our own
crotchets. Now-a-days that is the best creed which gives security and
advantages in trade and commerce.'

'Miserable being!' cried old Philip Moses, drawing himself up to his
full length, 'accursed be the spirit that speaks by your mouth! It is
that pestilential spirit which has wrought evil among God's people, and
caused them to become a byword to the nations of the earth, and an
abomination to the Lord of Heaven! Accursed be those goods and that
life for which you would barter the faith of your forefathers, and mock
even the altar of the strangers, to which you would fly in your abject
cowardice! Accursed be the security and the advantages for which you
would betray Jehovah! Accursed be the trade and the commerce that have
enticed God's people to become the slaves of Mammon, and frantic
worshippers of the golden calf!'

'You talk wildly, old man!' replied Samuel. 'You do not know how to
accommodate yourself to the times. You are aged, and cling to old
notions; but the days of your prophets are gone by.'

'Their words shall stand to the last of days,' said the old man,
raising his head proudly; 'and be it my care to proclaim them among ye,
even if the earth should burn around me, and sink beneath my feet! Is
it not enough that we are a stricken and dispersed race, cast forth
into the wide world, and condemned to live despised in the land of the
stranger? Shall we add humiliation to humiliation, and despicably
constrain ourselves to laud and call those just who scorn us and
trample us in the dust?'

The jeweller's handsome saloon was full of fugitive Israelites, who
sought refuge and protection at the abode of the wealthy Samuel; whilst
the police and the watchmen _pretended_ to be endeavouring to quiet and
disperse the mob outside.

The assembled Jews loudly deplored their misfortunes, and some of them
gazed with astonishment on the aged Philip Moses, who stood there
firmly and fearlessly, like a prophet among them, and poured forth
words of wisdom and instruction to his trembling fellow-believers.

Two or three of the old rabbis, with long beards and black silk
_talars_, or robes, alone listened attentively and with calm
seriousness to him, the most ancient of their community. But the young
beardless Israelites uttered cries of lamentation, bewailing the
conduct of the people of Hamburg, bewailing their broken windows, and
all the damage that would accrue to their trades or business in
consequence of this new persecution.

'Ah! if my mother had not been so over-faithful to my father,' said a
conceited young Jew, 'I might have gone with comfort to the theatre,
and seen that pretty Ma'amselle Wrede, without being recognized as a
Jew, and abused accordingly; and running the risk of getting my head
broken to boot.'

'Oh! that we had never been circumcised!' cried another; 'our lives are
actually not safe in the streets.'

'Would that we were all baptized!' groaned a third. 'Ay, with some
philter that would turn our dark hair to red, and remove the too
apparent marks with which Jehovah has signalized us and cast us out
among our foes.'

'Oh!--woe--woe!' shrieked the women and children--'whither shall we fly
in our great distress and misery? Ah! were it but morning, and this
dreadful night were past!'

'Leave off your lamentations, ye foolish and untoward ones!' cried
Philip Moses. 'The Lord has struck ye with imbecility, and with
blindness, and with corruption of heart. He has scattered ye abroad
among all the tribes of the earth, because of your perversity; he has
given thee a timorous heart, oh Israel! so that the sole of thy foot
cannot find rest, and thou feelest that thy life is in jeopardy, and
goest about groaning night and day; and in the morning thou sayest,
Would that it were evening! and in the evening, Would that it were
morning! because of the terror of thy heart, and the visions that are
before thine eyes. But hearken what the Lord declares unto you by the
mouth of His servants from the tabernacle in your foreign synagogue. If
your affliction and your humiliation be greater than your
transgressions, shake the dust from your feet, and go forth from the
place where ye are treated with ignominy and oppression. Leave the
iniquitous Mammon in the hands of the evildoers, and take only with you
that to which there cleaves no curse in the sight of Jehovah! Come! I
will lead ye from city to city, and from land to land, until we find
some spot on earth where Jehovah may veil our disgrace and grant us
freedom among the children of mankind, or else, like our fathers of
old, among the wild beasts of the wilderness!'

'What are you dreaming of, old man?' exclaimed his rich kinsmen, in
dissatisfied chorus. 'Should we leave our hard-won gains, and go forth
like beggars into the world, with old sacks on our shoulders? Where
shall we find a more commercial town than this? And in what part of the
world would we not be exposed to annoyances and persecutions? No path
leads back to the promised land, and were we to be guided by your
dreams, we should neither be able to feed our wives and our little
ones, nor to gather golden pieces and silver ducats.'

'If ye believed in Jehovah,' replied Philip Moses, 'ye would also
believe that there is a way to the promised land; but that thought is
too grand for your contracted souls. The flesh-pots of Egypt are dearer
to you than the manna from heaven in the wilderness; and if the Lord
God were to call up Moses among you, ye would stone him as your fathers
stoned the prophets.'

'What avails all this long discourse, poor, foolish old man?' said his
son, the rich jeweller, interrupting him. 'Sit down there in your
comfortable arm-chair, and amuse yourself with the children, Moses,
while the rest of us consult together what is best to be done. He is
going into his dotage,' added he, turning to the other Jews, 'and
sometimes he is not quite in his right senses, he has quarrelled with
all his family, and I keep him here, out of charity, in my house, as
you see; but for all that I have to put up with many hard words, and
much abuse from him.'

Then there commenced a mumbling in the room, and a buzzing sound as in
a bee-hive, everyone giving his opinion as to the best way of quieting
the people of Hamburg, and making up matters with them. Some proposed
that a deputation should be sent to the Senate to demand the protection
of the military for their houses.

'It would be of no use,' said others. 'These mean, abominable members
of the Hanseatic League are our worst enemies; these stupid, paltry,
petty dealers, who envy our cleverness in business, and covet our
profits--it is just they themselves who set the populace against us.'

'Then let us remove to Altona,' cried some. 'Those Danish blockheads
will at least have sense enough to be willing to receive us with all
our riches; and they will be glad to have an opportunity of causing a
loss to the impudent Hamburgers, in return for their "_Schukelmeier_"
_cry_.'[3]

'But when the worst part of the storm is over, we will repent having
gone,' argued others; 'for there is not so much business done, or so
much money to be made there, as here. It is better for us to put up
with rudeness and with temporary annoyances, than to run the risk of
seriously injuring our business, and lessening our gains.'

'If the worst happens, we can but let ourselves be baptized,' said
Samuel, 'and then we can no more be called Jews than the Hamburgers
themselves.'

'What good would that do?' exclaimed a shabby-looking Jew, with a long
beard. 'It is not on account of our religion that they persecute us; it
is only our wealth and the luxuries we can afford, that excite their
envious dislike. Our handsome houses are our misfortune, and our
splendid equipages; our beautiful villas on the Elbe and the Alster,
and all the braggadocio of our young fops. Go about like me, with a
matted beard and tattered garments. Live well in the privacy of your
own houses, but let not your abundance be seen by anyone. You will then
find that no one will envy you, or persecute you. Let the children in
the street point at us, and abuse us. Is it not for being what it
should be our pride to be called? If they even treated us as if we were
lepers, they could not prevent us from being God's chosen people. We
are blessed in our affairs, and in our wedlock; we multiply, and fill
all lands, and devour the marrow thereof; we are _really_ the lords of
the people, though we do not blush to seem their slaves.'

This advice was rejected by the richer and more modern Israelites, who
had no inclination to array themselves in sackcloth and ashes, and to
relinquish the ostentatious display of that wealth which, in the midst
of so many humiliations, and with so many equivocal acts, and little
tricks in trade, they had amassed.

'No, no! I know a much better plan,' said one of the richest men
present, who had originally been a sort of pedlar, and sold tapes and
ribbons. 'We will take it by turns to give turtle-feasts; we will
invite all the young men, the sons of the merchants, to our tables; our
wives and our daughters must show all manner of kindness and
complaisance to them, and not keep them at such a cold distance as they
do now; let them lay aside their reserve, and try to please them. It is
better, far better, even to marry among the Christians, than to have
them as enemies, now-a-days.'

On hearing these words, old Philip Moses arose; he could no longer
endure to listen to his people humbling themselves, as he thought, so
basely. He tore his clothes, and anathematized the tongue that spoke
last. He then tried, with all the eloquence of which he was master, to
touch the hearts and rouse the spirits of those who were the best among
the assembly, by setting forth to them the misery and degradation which
their own selfishness and cupidity had brought upon them. He
characterized their present persecution as a just punishment from
Jehovah for their degeneracy, and their being so absorbed in the
pursuit of money. He condemned their indifference to the faith and the
customs of their forefathers; their neglect of the Sabbath, and of its
holy rites; their shaving off their beards, and their being ashamed to
be known to be what they were. He inveighed against their connection
with Christians, and more especially their marriages with them, by
which two of his own sons had disgraced him. And he denounced their
excessive keenness in the pursuit of gold, as likely to be ruinous to
them, as being certain to have an injurious effect on their settling
happily in any and every country in the world.

But this was too much for his fellow Jews to harken to in silence. They
all attacked him vehemently, calling him a crazy old traitor, who only
wished their destruction. Loudly, however, as swelled their chorus of
abuse, still more loudly arose the voice of the old man, as he, in the
words of the prophet Jeremiah, reproved them: 'O Israel! thine own
wickedness shall correct thee, and thy backslidings shall reprove thee.
I had planted thee a noble vine, wholly a right seed; how then art thou
turned into the degenerate plant of a strange vine unto me? For though
thou wash thee with nitre, and take thee much soap, yet thine iniquity
is marked before me, saith the Lord God. Your sons have withholden good
things from me. For among my people are found wicked men; they lay wait
as he that setteth snares; they set a trap, they catch men. As a cage
is full of birds, so are their houses full of deceit, therefore they
are become great and waxen rich. They are waxen fat--they shine; yea,
they overpass the deeds of the wicked. They judge not the cause of the
fatherless, yet they prosper. Shall I not visit for these things? saith
the Lord. Shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this? Go ye
upon her walls and destroy; but make not a full end: take away her
battlements, for they are not the Lord's!'

Scarcely had he uttered these last words than a shower of stones,
hurled against the closed window-shutters, demolished them, and dashed
in, while this new attack was followed by shouts of triumph and
derisive laughter from the streets.

'Away with him--away with the old prophet!' cried several of the Jews.
'His imprecations are bringing fresh evil and persecution upon us.'

'This is not a time to be preaching all that old twaddle to us about
our sins,' said his son, the rich Samuel. 'I will not listen to another
word; and if you expect to remain longer in my house, you must keep
your tongue to yourself, I can tell you. It would be more to the
purpose if you went to your room, and shaved off that beard of yours,
that you might look like other men. We must howl with the wolves we are
among, and if the mob were to catch a glimpse of your long beard, which
is just like that of an old he-goat, and your masquerade garb, they
would pull the house down about our ears.'

'Oh, grandfather, grandfather!' exclaimed the youngest of his
grandchildren, starting away from him, 'how your eyes are blazing! You
are not going to hurt my father?'

'For _your_ sakes, I will not curse him,' said the old man, in a low,
tremulous voice; 'but accursed be the spirit which influences him, and
my unfortunate, perverted people! I shall shake the dust from my feet
at the threshold of your door, my son, and never more shall you behold
my countenance in this world; but, in your last moments, you will
remember _this_ hour. I will wander defenceless among our enemies; I
will bare this grey head to their insults, stand amidst their showers
of stones, and peradventure be torn asunder by their violent hands,
before my own child shall pluck out the beard from my aged cheeks, or
turn me out of his house as a beggar.'

'Stay!--are you mad?' cried Samuel; 'you will not pass alive through
that mob outside. Hold him, some one!' he exclaimed to those around.
'He is deranged, as you see, and is going into his dotage. I should be
sorry if anything were to happen to him, or he were to meet with any
injury.'

But old Philip Moses went away, like Lot, from the doomed Sodom, and
never once looked back. No one attempted to detain him, for his
denunciations, and his terrible look, had frightened them all. With his
snow-white locks uncovered, and in his torn dark silk _talar_, alone,
and without his staff, he went forth, and shook the dust from his feet
as he stepped from the door.

When the Hamburg populace perceived him, a group of children began to
abuse him, but no one took up the cry, and not a hand was lifted
against the silent, venerable-looking old man.

'Let him go in peace!' said one to the other; 'it is old Philip Moses.
He is a good man; it would be a sin to hurt _him_, or to scoff at him.'

'But if we had his son Samuel in our clutches,' said others, 'he should
not get off so easily; he is the greatest bloodsucker among them all!'


                                  II.

It was late at night--the tumult in the streets had ceased. No more
carriages rolled along from the theatre, or from parties at the houses
of the rich Hamburg merchants. The promenade on the 'Jungfernstieg' had
been over long before, and the pavilions were locked up. Lights
glimmered faintly from the upper windows of the large hotels, and only
here and there a solitary reveller was to be seen, humming an air, as
he was wending his way homewards from the 'Salon d'Apollon,' or was
stopped by some straggling night-wanderer of the female sex. The moon
was shining calmly on the Alster, and the watchman had just called the
hour by St. Michael's clock; but two strange-looking figures still
walked up and down the 'Jungfernstieg,' and seemed to have no thought
of home, though the sharp wind scattered the leaves of the trees around
them, and the flitting clouds often obscured the moon on that cold
September night. A dark-haired young girl walked, shivering with cold,
alongside of an old Jew, and seemed to be speaking words of comfort to
him, in a low, sweet voice; and that Jew was the aged Philip Moses!

'You are freezing, my child,' said the old man, as he threw the
skirt of his torn talar around her shoulders. 'Let me take you back to
the house of your mother's brother; but _I_ will not cross his
threshold again. I made that vow the day he was seduced into wedding
the artful Christian girl. On this day has my third son closed his
door against me, and I have no more daughters on this earth. But yes, I
have _you_ still--you, the daughter of my dear and excellent Rachel!
Come, let me take you home. It is hard enough upon you to be an
orphan--fatherless and motherless--and a servant to your Christian
aunt; you shall not become houseless for my sake. Poor Benjamina!' he
exclaimed, as a bright beam from the moon, that was unclouded for a
minute, enabled him to see her lovely youthful face distinctly, and to
observe how tears were gathering in her long dark eyelashes. 'Poor
Benjamina! you are indeed kind to care so much for your rough old
grandfather, and not to be afraid to come and wander about with him, in
our day of persecution, when he was thrust out alone among our foes!'

'Ah, dear, good grandfather!' replied Benjamina, 'how could my uncle
Samuel behave so ill to you! But all my uncles are not so bad as he is.
I am tolerably comfortable at uncle Daniel's every other week, and they
are kind to me now at uncle Isaac's, since I have grown stronger, and
am able to assist my aunt in the kitchen. Do go with me to one of them.
Their wives and new connections do not hate us as the other Christians
do; and you must go somewhere. Since uncle Samuel has become so rich,
he disdains all his poorer relations, and will not associate with them.
Why did you choose to live with him, rather than with either of your
other sons? I am sure neither of them could have found it in his heart
to have treated you as Samuel has done to-day. You never took a vow not
to enter Isaac's house, therefore do go with me to it. I shall reside
there with you, and attend upon you: and the pretty children will
become fond of you. They can learn from you the history of Joseph and
his brethren, and hear about little Benjamin, my namesake. You can
teach them as you taught me at my poor mother's, when I was a little
girl. Come, dear grandfather, come!--before day dawn, and our
persecutors awake. In these times of tribulation we must cherish each
other--we unfortunate and persecuted fugitives.'

'It is five years since I have entered my son Isaac's house,' said the
old man, slowly. 'How many children has he now?'

'Ah, you do not know that, dear grandfather, and yet he is your own
son! His fifth boy is an infant in its cradle.'

'Is his Christian wife kind to him? and does she not turn his feeble
spirit from Jehovah, and the faith and the customs of our forefathers?
I have not seen him lately at the synagogue, but he never misses going
to the Exchange.'

'Only come with me to him, grandfather, and you will see that he is
better than Samuel, though he may not go to the synagogue, and only
puts the shop-door on the latch on Saturday, instead of shutting it up.
You will like his nice little boys, though my aunt rather spoils the
eldest. They have all light hair and pretty blue eyes, like their
mother. Many Christians visit the house; and the good Mr. Veit, who is
a painter, sometimes teaches me to draw when I am there. You do not
hate _all_ Christians, do you, grandfather, because some of them treat
us cruelly? You do not condemn them all so much as these--our
uncharitable persecutors?'

'No, my child,' replied the old man. 'I admit the general philanthropy
of the Christians, which they believe they learned from their wise but
unfortunate prophet; though, in their present conduct towards us, they
give no proof of it. Yet far be it from me to blame them for this. Our
law tells us to make our own hearts clean before we judge others; that
so we may find forgiveness in the day of atonement. But stay not out
here longer, so late, my daughter; your good name may be made the prey
of the tongue of the backbiter and the slanderer, although it is only
in a work of mercy and of love in which you are engaged, and for which
the Lord God of Sabaoth will bless you in future days. Leave me to
wander out into the solitary paths! The Lord can send to me--even to
me--a raven in the desert, if he think fit. My tent is now the great
Temple of the Lord, where the sun and the moon are lights in the high
altar, and the four corners of the earth are the pillars of the
tabernacle. Hark! from thence shall it seem to me that His mighty
cherubs are singing praises to His name, when the wild storms of nature
are playing around my head. Let me go, my child, and weep not because I
am a lonely wanderer! I would rather roam, houseless, through the
world, than seek a refuge under the roof where I am an unwelcome
intruder. I would rather be stoned by the Christians than be disdained
as a pauper by my own kindred--my own children--and perhaps hear that I
am so, when the infirmities of age compel me to listen in silence.'

'Well, then, so be it, dear grandfather, and I will remain with you.
The Christians may stone me in your arms if they will.'

The old man was silent for a time, and he appeared to be fighting a
hard battle in his heart.

'Come then, my child,' said he at length, seizing Benjamina by the
hand, 'for your sake will I endure disgrace, and ask shelter from a
son, who cared more for a strange woman than for his father's
blessing.'

They then proceeded in silence to the 'Hopfenmarkt,' and rang at the
clothier Isaac's door.

'Is that any of our people?' whispered an anxious voice from a window.
Philip Moses answered in Hebrew, and a little while after the outer
door was opened.

Isaac received his deserted old father, who had thus taken refuge with
him, with sincere pleasure; yet this pleasure was damped by the
perplexed and uneasy feelings which came over him when he thought of
the daily reproaches which he foresaw he would have to encounter, and
the many disturbances in his domestic life which he feared the
unbending rabbi would occasion. But their common grievances and danger
drew their hearts together. Though Isaac's house was, at present,
exempt from all damage (since, through his marriage with a Christian,
and his frequent intercourse with Christians, he seemed almost
separated from his own people), he lived still in constant terror, on
account of the inimical disposition evinced towards the Jews, which had
now actually broken out in open persecution of them; and he sought in
vain to conceal from those with whom he associated the interest he
secretly took in the fate of his unhappy nation.

He was extremely indignant when he heard how his rich brother, Samuel,
had behaved to the old man: and he begged his father to forget all the
past, and make himself at home in his house. But he resolved, at the
same time, not to permit his domestic peace to be disturbed, or the
habits of his daily life to be disarranged, by the old man's
prejudices--such at least as could not be borne with easily, and might
not give cause of complaint. 'He must accommodate himself, as my guest,
to the ways of the house,' thought he to himself. 'He will be
accustomed to them in time, and there would be no use in beginning as
we could not go on.'

'Your brother Samuel has not honoured his father, and he cannot succeed
in worldly matters,' said Philip Moses, as he seemed endeavouring to
read in the countenance of his son what was passing in his mind. 'But
may the Almighty give him, and all our people, grace to repent, and let
not His angry countenance be turned upon us to our ruin! _My_ days will
not be many,' he added, earnestly; 'but had it not been for my
faithfully attached Benjamina's sake, I would rather have gone forth to
wander over the wide world than have exposed your heart, my son, to a
trial which, I fear, is beyond your strength.'

Isaac's wife was quite out of humour when Benjamina went to her bedroom
to tell her what had taken place.

'It will never answer,' said she, 'to have that old instigator of
strife here in our house. He hates me already, because I am not one of
your nation. It was on my account that he has never hitherto chosen to
put his foot within our doors.'

'No, my grandfather does not hate the Christians,' replied Benjamina,
cheerfully. 'If he lives here, he will bring good luck and a blessing
to the house. Dearest aunt, may I not get the little blue chamber ready
for him? I did not dare to go near him when he was with my uncle
Samuel, and yet he was so kind to me when I was a child.'

'Well, I suppose I can't help his staying, for the present at least,'
replied the aunt, peevishly, 'so you can put the blue chamber in decent
order for him, Benjamina. But if you make too much fuss about him, or
give me any additional trouble with this new pest, I will send you back
to Daniel. You may stay for the present; but keep him as much as
possible away from the children and the rest of us. We shall have quite
annoyance enough with him at the dinner-table.'

'Poor, poor grandfather!' sighed Benjamina, as weeping silently she
left her unkind aunt, who had often before spoken harshly to her, but
had never wounded her feelings so deeply as now.

Isaac had afterwards an unpleasant matrimonial scene, and a sharp
battle of words with his wife, in reference to the old man, to whom he
could not deny an asylum in his house, however many scruples he himself
had as to keeping him.


                                  III.

The next day was Saturday. Philip Moses kept the sabbath in his own
room, and prayed for his unhappy people; but he often started, and a
look of pain seemed to contract his features when he overheard his son
talking loudly to his customers in the shop, and rattling the money in
the till; while his wife, in the other apartments, was engaged in
various household duties, in all of which Benjamina was obliged to
assist her. He frequently heard her aunt scolding her, and she had
scarcely been able to snatch more than a minute to carry her
grandfather's breakfast to him, and affectionately to bid him good
morning. On that short visit he perceived that she had been weeping;
but he would not deprive her of the comfort of fancying she had
concealed her tears from him, by letting her know that he had observed
them.

Philip Moses was lying with his old head literally bowed into the dust,
and was engaged in prayer, when Benjamina returned and called him to
dinner. His daughter-in-law had slightly hoped he would be able to put
up with such accommodation as their house afforded, but she was neither
able nor willing to conceal her ill-humour; and the old man sat
silently at table without tasting any of the dishes placed on it, for
these consisted of the very things that the Mosaic law particularly
forbade. His son did not seem to notice all this; but poor Benjamina
did, and fasted also, though she was very hungry. The tumult of the
preceding night was talked of, and it was told that there had not been
one window left unbroken in Samuel's residence, nor in many of the
handsomest houses belonging to the Jews; also, that a couple of Jew
old-clothesmen, who were perambulating the streets, had been very
ill-used by the mob.

'Why do the rich make so much useless display?' said Isaac, 'and why do
the poor seek, by their needless oddity, to draw public observation
upon themselves?'

'Have you become a Christian, my son?' demanded the old man; 'or
perhaps this is not the Sabbath-day?'

'I adhere to the doctrines of my forefathers,' replied his son, 'in
what I consider to be of consequence, and in what is applicable to the
age in which we live, and to the ideas of what is holy and unholy that
my reason and my senses can acknowledge. I wish my father would do the
same, and not be scandalized at what is really quite innocent.'

'My father-in-law must try to put up with our fare,' said the mistress
of the house, handing him, with thoughtless indifference, a plate of
roast pork. 'Our house is quite in disorder to-day,' she added, by way
of apology, when he silently handed her back the plate, 'and I really
did not bethink me of our guest; but I shall have something else
another time, when I am accustomed to remember what he will not eat.'

A gloomy silence then followed at table, and Isaac cast a reproachful
look at his wife, which she did not omit to notice. The old man made a
movement as if he were about to rise, but at that moment his eye fell
on Benjamina; he remained silent and reseated himself. What Benjamina
read, however, in her grandfather's countenance, drew unbidden tears to
her beautiful eyes--tears which she quickly brushed away, while in her
embarrassment she, unwittingly, broke up her bread into small crumbs on
the tablecloth. For this act of extravagance she received a sharp
reprimand from her aunt, with a rude reminder that these were not times
to waste bread, and that 'those who had nothing of their own should
think themselves lucky to get anything to put in their mouths.'

'Wife!' whispered Isaac, to his better half, as they rose from table,
'that was not according to our agreement.'

When old Philip Moses was alone with his son afterwards, he looked long
and earnestly at him, and then said, in a dejected tone of voice:

'My son, speak out the truth freely--the grey-haired, antiquated Jew is
an unbidden guest; you are ashamed to close your doors against him, but
not to give him wormwood in his cup of welcome; and my poor Benjamina
is looked on as a mendicant here, to whom you have not many crumbs of
bread to spare.'

'How so--my father?' stammered Isaac. 'If my wife--forgive her!--I
myself remarked a degree of thoughtlessness in her, which pained me.'

'Isaac--Isaac!' exclaimed the old man, 'why does your voice tremble,
and why do your eyes avoid mine? But I will still call you my son, and
will tarry awhile to see if you can free yourself. Your heart is not
bad, Isaac; but, alas! it has been with you, as with the sons of
Israel, who, captivated by the daughters of a strange people, forgot
father and mother, and that Lord who brought them out of Egypt--they
never beheld the promised land.'

'Let not my marriage offend you so much, my dear father,' said Isaac,
gathering courage to speak out, 'and be not shocked at my way of
living. Remember, I came into the world half a century later than you
did. Opinions alter with time and with circumstances, and I have
learned to see much in our religion, and our position as regards the
rest of the world, in a very different light to what you do. I should
indeed be blind, if I did not perceive that our people are the most
remarkable on the face of the earth, and the least subject to change,
even in their ruin, and their dispersion among all the nations in the
world. But I do not think that we are, therefore, called upon eternally
to separate ourselves from all other living beings. Inwardly we may,
indeed, feel our distinction from them; and let this secret knowledge
strengthen us to support our humiliations, and teach us to rise
superior to our oppressors and persecutors, even when we are condemned
to crawl in the dust before them; _inwardly_ we may despise them, but
_outwardly_ we must amalgamate with the great masses of mankind, who
will otherwise crush us in our stubbornness.'

'If I understand you aright, my son, you mean that we may continue to
be Israelites, while we accept Christian customs and fashions; and that
our race might be preserved, notwithstanding that we put an end to it
ourselves by mingling our blood with that of the stranger.'

'As a people and as a nation we are already lost,' replied his son;
'and with the destruction of the temple at Jerusalem has the outward
structure of our religion fallen to the ground. Do you not believe that
if our great lawgiver had lived in these times, and in this land, he
would not have prescribed very different rules for our conduct?'

'Would he have changed the commandments to fear and serve the God of
Sabaoth, and to honour father and mother?' asked the old man.

Some persons came in at that moment, and the conversation was broken
off.

In the evening Isaac was not at home, but some of his wife's relations
came to visit her, along with a couple of foppish young men, who looked
in from a party in the neighbourhood. No one seemed to notice old
Philip Moses; he sat quietly in a remote corner of the room, and
listened to the jokes, with which some of the gentlemen entertained the
company about the rising against the Jews, at which they laughed very
heartily; also telling, with great glee, that they were to be attacked
again. Amongst the visitors was a handsome young man, with long fair
hair falling over his white collar. He was the young painter Veit, who
had lately returned from Rome, and who still wore the peculiar costume
adopted there by artists. The two fops seemed inclined to turn his
dress into ridicule, for they were afraid that he intended introducing
the fashion into Hamburg; but he took no notice of them. He was the son
of the physician who attended Isaac's family, and who resided on the
'Hopfenmarkt.' His attraction to the house was Benjamina's beautiful
face, which was very interesting to him as an artist. He had hitherto
taken no share in the general conversation, but had been standing apart
in a window with Benjamina, talking to her about her reverend-looking
grandfather, whom he had saluted with the respect which his age and
patriarchal appearance demanded.

He now remarked the tenour of the conversation that was going on, and
turned quickly from Benjamina to try to stop it, by introducing some
other subject. But the thoughtless and unfeeling young men soon resumed
their ridicule of the Jews, and indulged in witticisms at the expense
of their sufferings during the riot, without at all being checked by
the remembrance of whose house they were in, or who was present. At
length Veit thought it necessary to remind them where they were; and he
did this in so pointed and stinging a manner, that, ashamed and
enraged, they immediately took their departure, but not until they had
whispered him that he would find them the next morning near the
Obelisk. No one overheard the challenge, but Veit vowed to himself that
he would chastise them severely, and that _that_ meeting should be a
blacker hour to them than any which had occurred during the tumult they
had considered so amusing. But _their_ exit did not put an end to
strife. Some elderly wholesale dealers thought fit to take up the
defence of their friends who had just gone, and seemed at least not to
disapprove of the chastisement inflicted on the privileged Hebrew
usurers for their long-practised extortions.

Veit again became the champion of the Jews, and descanted with warmth
on the hateful, unchristian spirit which could impel Christians so
shamefully to break the peace, and maltreat a fugitive, defenceless
race, to whom the state had promised its protection.

4 We complain that they hate us and defraud us,' said he. 'Do we show
love to them when we stone them? Do we not betray them, when we
infringe our own laws in order to break faith with them, and withdraw
the security on which we told them they might rely, when they settled
among us? If we were to show more justice and Christian feeling, we
might induce them to like us; but hatred, scorn, and persecution, never
yet won either proselytes or friends.'

Benjamina rewarded the defender of her people with a grateful smile,
and old Philip Moses rose and stepped quietly, but with dignity, forth
from his corner.

'It is just and right that we should be humbled before the Lord!' said
he. 'But unjust and wicked are our fellow-creatures who seek our
humiliation. Accept an old man's thanks,' he added, as he turned
towards the young painter, 'that thou dost not echo the cry of the
persecutor, and cast stones at us in the time wherein we are exposed to
the contumely and the reproach of the scorner, but that thou hast a
word of kindness for the Lord's oppressed and humbled people in the
hour of their desolation.'

'Who is that strange old man? He speaks as if he were a Bible,' said
the startled visitors one to another.

Isaac's eldest child, a boy of about five years of age, and his
mother's darling and absolute image, had all day been peeping at the
old man, as if he were some extraordinary spectacle.

'Are not you a Jewish priest?' said he, pertly, as he approached him
more closely. 'Why, what a nasty, ugly, long beard you have! Don't come
near the windows, or they will be broken for us, mother says.'

'He is your grandfather,' whispered Benjamina to the child; 'you must
love him, and behave well to him, Carl!'

'Nonsense!' cried the child, laughing outright--'a Jew with a long
beard, who won't eat pork, _my_ grandfather! No, no. See if I don't
tell him all the funny things that all the boys say--'

Benjamina cried, and placed her hand over the child's mouth, to prevent
the old man from hearing what he was saying; but the unfortunate
grandfather had not lost a word that he had uttered. He lifted his hand
to crush the serpent that thus hissed in his ear, but at that moment he
observed Benjamina's tearful eyes; his arm fell by his side, and he
stood pale and silent, with his flashing eyes fixed on the floor.

Just then Isaac came in, and almost started as he beheld the
embarrassed countenances around. Not one of the strangers, except the
painter, seemed to feel any pity for the old man, but some were
hastening away, while others were evidently preparing to follow.

'What is the matter,' asked Isaac, glancing first at the excited old
man, and then, with some suspicion, at his wife. 'Has anyone been
annoying my old father?'

'How can I help that poor child's chattering?' replied his wife. 'But
come, my boy,' she added, taking the urchin tenderly by the hand, and
leading him out of the room--'come; hereafter none of us must dare to
open our mouths in our own house.'

The painter, reddening with anger, stood near Benjamina and Philip
Moses, whose hand he shook kindly; but the old man stood as a statue of
stone, with his eyes fixed on the floor. Suddenly he seemed to awaken
as if from a dream, raised his head, and looked all around. When he saw
Isaac standing before him, the tears started to his eyes, and coursed
each other down his pale cheeks into his long white beard.

'Farewell, my son!' he exclaimed, laying his hand on Isaac's head. 'The
hand of the L

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