Chapter XXIII: Section XII (4)

We journeyed on higher and higher, until we came to the fork of the road. Here nearly all were inclined to bear away to the left, around the mountain, fully satisfied that we were high enough. I explained that the young German had been very precise in his directions to keep to the right, and all yielded to him, rather to banter fortune than from persuasion that we were going the right road. On we toiled, and the road at last came to an abrupt termination upon the very summit. A high-road bore off to the right, that we could trace a mile or two over the hills, and only a tangled path led toward the west. Leaving the company to await the result, I proceeded to explore the path, and soon came in view of the town lying in the plain below. I stood enchanted with the scene. A gently sloping country receded several miles to the Rhine; meandering all the way through fields and forests, the legend-consecrated Neckar glistened in the morning sun, and beyond, the vine-clad hills of France, the country of the Moselle, crowned the horizon. Far away to the south could be traced the winding Rhine almost to its native mountains, and to the north it was lost among the hills of the Odenwald, as it widened and straightened onward toward the plains of Holland. I hailed the party as it came up, all were amazed at the magnificent landscape, and each avowed he was well repaid for the toilsome journey. A few steps farther brought us to a rugged stair of broken stones, and some ten or twelve feet below, on a small natural terrace, was an over-grown _bower_.

“O, the bower! the bower!” exclaimed every one. There it was; and as we reached it, a full view of the dismantled towers and crumbled walls of the castle opened below us, almost beneath our feet. The German was right. He thought we wished to _see_ the castle, not to go to it, and we had gained the finest view of the finest ruin in the North of Europe. It is not my intention that my pen shall wander among those most interesting testimonies of grandeur passed away. Suffice it to say, we returned home well sated with pleasure, to recruit our humanity by a very late breakfast at twelve o’clock. We had walked fasting from six.

From that day the bower became one of my favorite haunts during the few weeks of my stay in Heidelberg. One day, with a view to further exploration of the heights to the eastward of the bower, a region I had often tried to get a view of from the Castle Mount, I set out on horseback, and after reaching the summit, took the road that we had seen over the hills on our first visit to the castle. For two or three miles it was nothing but steep hills and narrow valleys. Not a sound was heard save the twittering of birds and the tumbling of waters; not a particle of verdure was to be seen but the dark, distant forests, and near, the quivering foliage of the vine as it climbed up, up to the very pinnacles of the terraced heights. Beyond, the country spread out into fields and meadows and grass and waving grain. Farm-houses and villages were clustered about. Vineyards lingered upon the knolls, and scarce ventured a distance down the sunny slopes. After a long day’s ride I was approaching the bower by another road: the sun was about setting; I was tired and thirsty; when I was tempted to dismount by a little streamlet that fell into and ran down the road-side. An orchard extended from a small cottage to the road, and the gate was only upon the other side of the way. I led my horse over, and after hitching him to the gate-post, was about reaching a harvest-apple that hung near me, when my attention was drawn by a small group in front of the cottage door. An old gray-haired man was sitting upon a bench watching a young child that was rolling on the grass, when my appearance put an end to his occupation. He looked at me with no expression of pleasure, evidently not relishing so unceremonious an attempt upon his orchard. I resigned my thieving intention, and covered the manœuvre by an advance straight up to the door. A young woman arose and picked up the child, and then resumed her seat upon the grass-plat.

“Good evening, my friend,” said I, for his silence was awkward—“I am very tired and warm with a long ride, and was tempted by that cool spring and your shady trees to dismount and take a moment’s rest. I am glad to take my rest in such good company.”

“You are welcome,” said he. “I perceive you are a stranger; an Englishman I suppose?”

“No, I am not an Englishman; I am come from a land much farther off than England, and have seen a great many Germans in my country. I am an American.”

“What’s that he says, Mary?” cried a voice from within the house. “Tell him Roderick is not at home; tell him he wont be at home till to-morrow.”

“Hush! do, mother! The gentleman has not come for Roderick.”

“O, yes he has. He knows Roderick has got money and wants to spend it. You know—”

“Do hush, mother! It’s a stranger, and what’s more, it’s an American.”

“What does he say about Karl? Ask him when Karl is coming back.”

The tears started to the young woman’s eyes; and as I saw her press her babe to her bosom, I knew who Karl was. She seemed to struggle with the question that rose to her lips:

“You said, sir, that you have seen many Germans in America: did you ever see anybody there from Heidelberg? Did you ever see Karl Wagner there?”

I told her, I never saw Karl Wagner there, and asked her if Karl might be her husband; which fact I knew, however, before I asked. She answered, that he was; that he was living at a place called Buffalo, and had lately sent her money to take her to another place called New York, where she would meet him. Her father was anxious that she should go, but her mother, who was now doating, would resent the very mention of it, and was always expecting Karl to _come home_. Her brother Roderick, she said, had been unfortunate, and was bent on going with her; but of this, her mother knew nothing. They were afraid to tell her, her reason was so weak that they feared she would sink into utter imbecility.

The sun was set, and night was drawing on. I arose to resume my journey, for I was anxious to reach the foot of the mount before dark; but the old man offered me a plate of the harvest-apples that had tempted me, and pressed me to take some supper with them. If I would only be so kind—they wished to ask me so many questions about America. I am not sure that I should have accepted their invitation had not my eye, as I arose, fallen upon a picture hanging against the opposite wall of the little room. A second glance showed the marked and benevolent features of the old man, looking out from the canvas.

“Ha—ha!” said he, “that is a fine picture. Step in the door, and you will see more of them.”

I did so, and to my surprise, beheld four others hanging wherever space enough could be found to contain them. One was the portrait of the old woman whom I now saw for the first time; another of Mary, and the remaining two were, a young man apparently thirty years of age, and a boy of sixteen. The old man followed me with his eyes.

“Ha—ha!” said he. “I see you admire them. Poor Roderick! There are few who can beat him in his art—but you would not think so to see him now. These are the last he ever made. He paid his last tribute to those he loved best.”

The old man spoke in a very sorrowful tone. I began to feel a deep interest in Roderick, whatever his misfortunes might be.

“Is not Roderick your son?” I asked, supposing that I must have made a mistake.

“Yes—that one I suppose you don’t know; that’s Karl Wagner, that’s Mary’s husband—a good son he is. And that’s Tommy, that’s our Tommy—sturdy Tommy, as they call him. That’s the last one Roderick ever made.” And the old man brushed his eyes with his shriveled hands as he spoke.

“Where does Roderick live?” I asked. “Is he married?”

“Hush—here!”

“Why is it, that a young man of such talent gives up a glorious art, when it opens a field to him to enable him to rise above his condition, to gain wealth, honor, fame?”

“Hush!”

“Go, ask Count Reisach!” cried the old woman, starting up. She was in a frenzy. Her eyes glared, her bent form trembled from head to foot, her hands were clenched, but hung dangling at her side, and she seemed to make superhuman efforts to raise them. They were paralyzed. Tears coursed each other down her cheeks as she cried—“Go ask Count Reisach! Go find him! Go ask poor Father Klaus! Go down and ask Almighty God why he let—oh!” she cried, sinking on her knees—her voice choked; sobs, spasms convulsed her frame; still her face was raised, it seemed to me in prayer, but her hands clasped not, they seemed to weigh her to the earth, as they hung lifeless beside her.

“Mein Got! O, mein Got!” cried the old man, as he took her in his arms. “O, my poor frau—would to God thy poor spark of reason would go out, that I might see this heavy burden off thy soul!”

He raised her tenderly as a child, repelling my assistance, and when he had placed her in her arm-chair, left her to Mary’s care, and came to resume his seat upon the bench, outside the door.

“She never grieved so for herself, and she has had her own troubles too. But she knows not all yet—O, mein Got! mein Got! who will tell her—for he must, he must, he must!”

He closed his eyes—as it were—to shut out so near a view of misery. A loud voice was heard approaching in the road, and as it became more distinct, I started as I recognized the words—

“Ho for the deep where the sea-bird sings!
Ho for the bowers where his merry voice rings,
Ho for the billows, the billows, the billows!”

Here the gate flew open, and my acquaintance of castle memory stalked up the path, followed by a sturdy lad.

“Father, it’s all arranged,” he bawled. “It’s all arranged. I’ve made up my mind. There are three in Heidelberg—”

“Ho for the billows where the storm-king dwells!”

“Stop, Roderick. You know your mother. See, too, here is a stranger.” He paused, saluted me as though he had never seen me before, and turned to the youth who followed him.

“Where are the cattle, Tommy? That’s right—you must be smart, you know; remember what’s on your shoulders!”

Tommy said he knew, and was going to be smart. Mary appeared at the door and invited us to supper. The mother was gone, and the old man seemed relieved when he missed her, for he looked around the room, and the cloud left his brow, ere he asked a blessing on his humble table. After supper he lighted his pipe; Tommy took his hat and disappeared, and Roderick touched my arm as he moved toward the door. His boisterous humor was gone, and he calmly and mannerly asked me to be seated.

“She is worse to-night,” he said. “They have sent Tommy for _him_.” After a moment, he continued; “I recognized you at first, and for my rudeness I must plead the state of mind I was in. The truth is, I have this day arranged my departure for America, to take my sister to her husband; and the relief from the burden of suspense I had long been in made me quite forgetful of myself.”

“I do not know,” said I, “that you are doing best in taking this course. You are an artist, and I must bear witness to the promise of success you make in your art; but, as I begin to feel a deep interest in yourself, your family, and—I think I may say with truth—in your sorrows, for some strange misfortune seems to brood over this house, I feel at liberty to remonstrate with you for abandoning what seems to me your duty to yourself, and your father’s family. I could not give you hope of better success where you purpose going than you would probably meet with here. The best of our own artists reside in Europe, for we have no models at home. Have you always lived here with your parents?”

“Until within the last few weeks I spent most of my time in the town; my occupation kept me very much from home. Of late, I have done nothing but assist my father here.”

“It seems to me that you might assist him more with your brush than with your ox-goad.”

“If I could use it perhaps I might; but I can paint no more here. I am going, and Tommy and I have trimmed his vines and sown his crops, and when Tommy shall be able to take care of the vines himself, I shall be gone.”

“That is where I cannot excuse you. You are not suffering from poverty; you are not driven to emigrate; and it is in leaving your infirm parents when they are bowed down by affliction that I think you do not do your duty by them. They both seem proud of you, and still—you appear to love them as you ought.”

“The affliction is mine! You were at the bower?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I could go there with you, and tell you a tale of sorrow that you would never forget. You cannot judge. I know that my father and my poor, fond mother grieve—it is for me; but what is their grief to mine? It is but the reflection of mine; it is like the cold, borrowed light of the moon—mine, the scorching sun. I am plunged from heaven into hell! This spot is to me, now, of all the world, like the deepest abyss of infernal misery; and, but for Father Klaus, our good old priest, this shadow of hell had, ere this, been bartered for the reality. He has kept alive a spark of reason in me, that I hope may yet guide me through the world. Here he is—I see they have sent Tommy for him. She always forgets her own sorrow, when she sees him.”

“Well Roderick, my son,” said the old priest, as he paused at the door, “I fear you have been imprudent again. These outbursts of yours will bring the poor old mother to the grave. You have heard something since, and it has set you beside yourself, poor boy.”

“No, Father, I have heard nothing since I told you Count Reisach was in Cologne; that is three weeks ago, and from that time I have sought no news but for your sake. The only news I have to tell you is, that my departure for America is determined upon; I have made up my mind to go.”

“That’s right; that’s right!”

“You will tell her?”

“Leave it to me. God will surely temper the wind; but not to-night, not to-night!” And he sighed as he entered the house and left us alone again.

The moon was just rising, and as I pressed the poor fellow’s hand (_poor fellow_, I knew he was a _poor fellow_. I pitied him sincerely, but I knew not why), he returned the pressure warmly, and asked permission to visit me the following day. I appointed an hour, and galloped over the hilly road toward home. As I approached the end of the path that led off to the bower, I could not help turning my eyes thither, my mind was full of Roderick, and I could not disconnect the idea of him from the idea of the bower. Had I known his story then as I do now, I could have sighed with the sighing trees, that shook and sighed all night on the gloomy Castle Mount.

I knew that I had a treat in store for Miss Thornton. I knew what fresh interest I would awaken, when I should tell her that the rough peasant was an accomplished artist. That evening and the next morning, it was a subject she always recurred to when we were alone, she would talk of nothing else, and frequently sought opportunities of conversing apart.

The next day, Roderick appeared at the appointed hour, but his garb was changed. He wore no longer the coarse clothes of a peasant, and I could not but observe that his altered exterior harmonized much better with his bearing, and his intellectual features. Several of the party who had made with me the morning excursion to the Castle Mount were still at Heidelberg, and as we frequently met on our rounds upon the promenade, _she_ was the only one, of all, who recognized my companion. His object seemed to be to learn, as far as my judgment extended, the probable prospects that awaited him in the United States, in the prosecution of his art. He dwelt upon the subject calmly, and was perfectly self-possessed until we approached Miss T., when he stopped, and regarded her with the same fixed gaze that I had remarked upon our first interview. From that moment he was a changed person. A strange uneasiness seemed to take possession of him. His face was pale, and at last he turned abruptly down the avenue. I followed him, and cast one look back at her, ere I started. She and her companion had paused; he was speaking to unheeding ears, for her gaze was fixed on us, her face was pale, and wore the expression of sudden alarm. He led me hastily along the avenue; I followed, I scarce knew why: but he could have led me anywhere. After a while—

“I cannot tell you,” said he, “until we reach the bower.”

And we began to ascend the mountain. At last, we pushed aside the briars that blockaded the little, descending path that led to the bower. The magnificent ruins appeared spread out below us, and I half forgot the sorrows of my eccentric friend in lively feelings of pleasure. After a pause, which I was unwilling to interrupt (for I saw in his countenance, in his whole bearing, evidence of a severe interior struggle), he said—

“When I am able to reflect, I know that I am imposing on your generosity in some way, but I scarce know how. It is only your goodness which has prompted you to undergo all this fatigue and trouble; and now I feel bound, I wish to open my heart to you, but it seems as though all I can tell you cannot compensate you. At any rate, it will be a relief to me, and hereafter it may help the vividness of your recollections of Heidelberg. I thought I should never tell this story, or speak this name again; but that lady recalled, in so many ways, so lively an image of my lost Ella, that I _must_ unburden my heart of its excess. She was the niece of Father Klaus. Her parents died when she was very young, and the good old man took her into his own charge. No parent could have loved her more, or watched over her with more tender solicitude than he did. As she grew up, he taught her many things which, but for him, would have been entirely beyond her reach; but she repaid him, for an apter scholar never learned, and never had man a child who loved him more. She grew to be very beautiful, and was talked of for her beauty all the country round; but I had won her heart when it was a child’s, and as we grew up my only fear in life was for that, and all my efforts were only for _that_. Father Klaus knew how matters stood nearly as soon as we, and was contented. When we grew up, he ratified and blessed our betrothal, and turned his attention to my own prospects. Through his influence with the old Count Reisach, I was enabled to enter the academy of Heidelberg, and, thanks to the count’s generosity and patronage, I had laid up nearly enough to gain Father Klaus’s consent to our marriage. The day was fixed; but nearly a year distant, and the good old man was to perform the ceremony himself. Often, and often, as I returned home from town have I turned down this path, and here was Ella waiting for me, to sit a while, and then stroll home together. Here we built this very bower, when we were children, with our own hands. She chose the place. Here we would sit and watch the setting sun; and I, as a proud young artist, would descant to her upon the harmony of the glowing colors, scarce brighter than her own bright eyes and glowing cheeks. Here would we come and spend hours together—she would bring her needle, and I would sketch the castle, the mountain, the town, the plain, the forest, and every object that could afford a pretext for remaining. Sometimes, when she was very busy, I would gaze, and gaze into her sweet face and forget every thing but that. Then she would look up and smile, and come and bend her head over my shoulder to see the progress of my sketching, and find the whole sheet covered over with images of herself, and Ella, Ella, Ella, scribbled in every form, and ornamented with every possible device. Then she would steal her little hand over my eyes, and say I was a ‘lazy, lazy boy.’ Perhaps, sir, you cannot know why I speak of these little things, and you may deem them trifling; but, sir, it is a true saying that life is made up of trifles. It was so that she wound about me a web that could not be unwound; all these endearing trifles cannot be reversed, one by one, and the web uncoiled. There is but one method of release, and that is, by a mighty effort to burst the whole fabric—even then, the shreds will hang about, and float in every breath of memory. Here, time after time, we repeated our vows of love and fidelity, and eagerly looked forward to the day that would crown our happiness.

“In the meantime Count Reisach died, and his son, a youth of some twenty years, succeeded to the estates. He was known ere that time, through all the land, for his boldness, courtliness and generosity, courted and sought by all the nobility and gentry—for he was handsome and rich. Moreover, he was a connoisseur in almost all the fine arts. I was often employed by him in copying his paintings for presents to his friends. Once he induced me to part with a portrait of Ella, which I was very proud of, and which he had seen at Father Klaus’s. I often saw him there. One evening last April, as I was returning from town, I turned down the path, for I knew I should meet Ella here. I was startled by a shriek. I cried, Ella! Ella! In a moment I was here upon the spot, and she rushed into my arms, weeping and frightened. To all my questions as to what had alarmed her, she only sobbed. I seated her, and examined all about the bower; I thought of serpents, and searched under rocks, peered over the bushy precipice, but could discover nothing. We could not sit and enjoy that evening—she was agitated, and I led her home. She did not go often to the bower after that. One evening, it might be a fortnight after, upon appointment, I came here again to meet her, and I found her weeping. As before, I took her home. Another time, she was not weeping, but seemed silent, thoughtful, depressed. We went home again. I was puzzled, pained; I knew not what to think or do, and she revealed nothing to all my entreaties. She would not go to the bower any more. At times she wore a deadly paleness for days, and again she would glow with a flush, as though a fresh impulse were given to her life. She was evidently declining. All the neighbors watched and pitied “poor Ella;” they pitied Father Klaus, but none knew the extent of the agony I nursed in secret. When I would beg her to walk with me to the bower that her and my childish hands had built, and where we always were so happy, she would turn pale and tremble—I dared not speak to her of the bower any more. Frequently I would detect her eye resting upon me as if in pain, as though _she_ pitied _me_; a starting tear would glisten in her eye for a moment, and she would turn away; immediately she would be as composed as before. I was pained, shocked; and a presentiment of some awful calamity seized me. One evening I was detained in town later than usual. I had been for several days employed in restoring a painting for Count Reisach, and the next day would see it finished. ‘It is not finished yet,’ he whispered. The count had hurried me to work early and late. It was a relief to be so busily employed. As I wended my way up the mountain, I thought of Ella all the way—I must go to her that evening, tired as I was. When I came to the end of the path, I could not resist a moment’s visit to the bower; for since pleasure there seemed to be henceforth forbidden fruit to me, I longed for a moment even of its pain. It was growing dark, and as I brushed past yonder bush, I thought I saw something move, just where you sit. I stopped, and distinctly saw the cloaked figure of a man disappear down that precipice. I rushed forward, for thoughts of some dark crime crowded upon me, and I nearly fell upon the prostrate form of a woman at my feet. I knelt, and raised the head upon my knees; it was bare, and the dark locks uncoiled upon the ground.”

Here he paused. I never before or since beheld such a mute picture of agony. He lowered his head upon his hands, and the big drops fell fast upon the ground. He tried not to restrain them. At length he raised his eyes inquiringly, and I feared not to say,

“_It was Ella._”

He nodded. After a few minutes, which I indulged him in without a question or remark, he continued—

“I bounded, as if stung by a serpent, and I hurried to Father Klaus. I told him, I know not what. Then I hurried home; and for days, they told me, I raved. When I recovered I learned that they were gone.”

“Who?”

“Count Reisach. No traces of them could be found until within three weeks, when we learned that they had been in Cologne.”

“Were they—” I could not finish; he gave me an inquiring look, and I thought his severe part was going to be acted again. I had not the heart to _think_ of it more.

“From that time my poor mother has been a paralytic, and now we fear her reason is almost gone. Father Klaus is an older man, but his feelings are all for others; he is constantly with _her_. Now, do you wonder that I hate this spot, and all that I can see from here? Here have I known my happiest and bitterest moments. From this day I see you no more!” exclaimed he, starting to his feet, and gazing on the work of his hands: “Here I bid _an eternal_, an eternal farewell to you and—” He took his pencil and wrote (he would not speak it)—I looked—“Ella Corbyn.”

“Her father was an Englishman,” he said.

I pressed his hand—“Adieu!”

“Adieu!”

“To meet again?”

“To meet again,” said I; and we parted. As he disappeared over the brow of the hill, I could hear the poor fellow trying to lighten his crushed heart with his boisterous sea-song. The next morning Mr. Thornton and his daughter left for England.

A few weeks after that I was in Paris. Months rolled by; September was come, and Roderick’s story had nearly slipped from my mind. One fine evening I was sauntering along the Champs Elysées, where one is sure to see at that time, all the notables that may be luxuriating in the French capital; when I recognized in a gay equipage the beautiful features of Miss Thornton. She was paler than when I had seen her last, but still very beautiful. I watched her some moments, to catch her eye; and when she did look toward me, I took the liberty of saluting her. She flushed, and turned her head aside, but did not acknowledge the salutation.

“So much for my impudence,” said I; and I saluted no one else that evening.

A day or two after, I was dining with some friends at Vantini’s. Opposite us at the table d’hôte, were two vacant chairs.

“We are unfortunate to-day,” said my friend, “for I was anxious you should see a very pretty English girl who sits opposite. Clara,” said he, turning to his wife, “what is the name of our little beauty across the table? I never can think of it, for I can’t help calling her Miss Mary.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. F., “I wish you to know them—so agreeable; and going on a tour through the United States. They are a Mr. and Miss Thornton—father and daughter; and as you are going soon, I do wish you could go together.”

“So, so!” thought I; “here is a little bit of adventure if they only come in.” And I consoled myself with the thought that I could not come out of it worst. Soon a couple of servants ushered a lady and gentleman along the hall, and Mr. and Miss Thornton appeared before me, she glowing with health and beauty. They both greeted me warmly, which somewhat astonished my friends as well as myself. I was taken aback, but I had been not a little nettled, and was determined not to be outdone, so said as little as I could.

“Why!” said Mrs. F., “you are old friends, then! All my anxiety was thrown away!”

“I supposed we were,” said I, “until last Tuesday evening.”

“Last Tuesday evening!” exclaimed Miss T. “Why, what happened? You puzzle me.”

“Merely that I took the liberty of recognizing _an old friend_, and was _cut_—that’s all.”

“You puzzle me still more. Where were you at the time?”

“Below the place d’étoile.”

“Are you sure it was on Tuesday?”

“Perfectly sure.”

She burst into a laugh, and her father smiled.

“It must have been the longest cut I ever gave in my life. I only wish I _could_ cut that far off—I know some who should suffer”—and she laughed again. “It’s the first time I ever heard of a sane gentleman, standing in the Champs Elysées, to take off his hat to a lady in Brussels.”

The laugh was decidedly against me, and we were soon on the best of terms.

That night a new train of thoughts engaged me. Poor Roderick’s story returned, and the memory of his grief with all its thrilling intensity. _Had I seen Ella?_ It must be. That pale, thoughtful, _hiding_ countenance could be only hers. Poor Roderick! I feel for you deeply! I wonder if your sorrow feels any alleviation in your new country! I fear not.

The next day I made sufficient inquiry to certify me that I had seen Count Reisach, and with him, Ella. I saw them once again, it was for a moment, and she seemed paler still; as I gazed, again she turned her face away. Poor Ella! how she shrank from the eyes of men! There was a deep remorse preying upon that wasting beauty; a secret sorrow and shame blighting every bud of pleasure and of hope. How bitter will thy end soon be, poor trusting, fragile daughter of Eve!

I saw them no more. I walked every day with Miss Thornton to show her the lady that she so closely resembled; but we did not see them. They were probably seeking new scenes to beguile her short life of its fleeting days.

A few weeks after, we were in Havre, awaiting the sailing of the first packet ship for New York. We had determined to “go together,” as Mrs. F. had desired, and our rooms were taken in the Zurich, one of the fleetest of the line. At that time, a line of French government steamships was plying between Havre and New York; and one, which was advertised to sail on the day we arrived, was to be detained some ten days, to undergo a repairing of machinery. Havre is the great port of emigration for the French, German, and Swiss emigrants; and the French steamships, offering low fares and speedy passage, generally sailed with their between-decks well filled with emigrant passengers. On this occasion, some two hundred poor creatures had engaged passage upon the detained vessel, and few had the means to await in Havre her postponed day of departure; consequently there was a rush upon the office of the sailing packets. We went aboard about 3 o’clock, P. M. The lower deck was crowded with steerage-passengers; and a single glance sufficed to show that they were three-fourths Germans. I could not help wondering how many of the two hundred poor emigrants below me, I might have seen before, as I journeyed through their country a few months ago. Many a one, I thought, I might have seen before his cottage door, or through the window of his work-shop, ere poverty had _at last_ decreed, that he _must_ go to the land beyond the seas, far from his fatherland.

The ship was moving from the dock. The crowds upon the piers cheered us on. The stars and stripes sprung into the breeze. O, how my heart bounded to feel again the protection of my country’s flag! The first time, for years, did the feeling of _home_ thrill through my bosom: and tears of patriotic love and pride rushed to my eyes. _I_ was going _home_;—there _they_ stood in melancholy groups, gazing their last on land contiguous to their own, upon the receding shores of the old world. The tri-colors in the distance soon faded into one indefinable hue. The green hills of Normandy came forth once again; but “twilight gray soon in her sable livery all things clad;” and we were away, away upon the sea. After tea, we all came upon deck. The last loom of the land was fading away; and my thoughts and feelings, memory and fancy, were busy with home before, and the friends and associations I was leaving behind—perhaps forever. I was overflowing with expectation and regret. Miss T. stood beside me, kindly hearkening to my outpouring feelings. The emigrants were all below, save a few scattered ones, and a larger group gathered about the fore-mast. They were leaving country, home, kindred, all, to seek a refuge in a foreign land: I was leaving friends that I had made in many lands; countries and scenes made dear to me by long and intimate association; returning to a home wherein death had made sad changes during my long sojourn: she was going on a trip of pleasure, and present enjoyment was her occupation. Suddenly I heard an exclamation—“Oh!” and I thought she was taken ill. I looked, and she was pointing to the group around the mast; I saw and recognized a face I could never forget. We continued to gaze in astonishment. The few women who were there were all in tears; one, whose head was bowed upon her knees, sobbed violently. The men were drinking farewell to Fatherland, and many an absent friend and fair, was pledged by name. Then there was a cry for “a song!” “a song!”—“Let’s have a song from Roderick!” Immediately there pealed out those boisterous but musical tones that I had heard before, far away from there. My heart thrilled as I listened. Every voice hushed. Even the sailor, as he trod the deck, paused to listen to that fine, deep voice, as it rang through the ship.

THE EMIGRANT’S SONG.

Ho for the deep where the sea-bird sings!
Ho for the bowers where his merry voice rings!
Ho for the billows where the storm-king dwells!
Ho for the winding of the merry-maids’ shells!
Ho for the storm where the lightning’s flash!
Ho for the fury of the merry waves’ dash!
The spray and the roar and the thunder’s crash!
Ho for the breeze that shall cling to the mast!
Ho for the day when the storms shall be past!
Then hail to the home that the outcast sighs for!
Hail to the liberty the patriot dies for!
Hail to the great who will ne’er cast scorn to us!
Hail to the land where the free shall be born to us!
But alas for the friends that we leave far away!
And alas for the tears when there breaks another day!
Alas for the wo that shall bow the hoary heads!
And alas for the home where another step treads!
Alas for the murmuring hill-side rills!
And alas for the shadow on the ever-green hills!
Alas for the weeping of the purple-crowned vine!
And alas for the glory of the golden-rimmed wine!
Farewell to the land where our forefather’s sleep!
And we’ll hie to our rest on the wide-spread deep.
Farewell to the vine, to the home, and the tears!
And we’ll dream of the land where the good ship steers!

As the last sound died away upon the water, the singer caught sight of me, and the fair girl beside me, and disappeared from the deck. The listeners, as they dispersed to their several meditations, took up the words of the song; each one whatever best suited his feelings at the time. It was strange to read the various echoes as they rebounded spontaneously from the hearts of the emigrants. When the air of the song was forgotten the words were not, and each sang or mumbled them to music of his own—sometimes wild and pretty, sometimes discordant enough. One would long for

“The deep where the sea-bird sings,”

and I knew he had not many regrets for what he left behind. Another, a drunken wretch, yelled

“For the fury of the merry waves’ dash,
The spray and the roar and the thunder’s crash.”

An old man, as he stole away, uttered a plaintive moan

“For the home that the outcast sighs for;”

and I thought I could read in his furrowed face traces of a life of penury and suffering. He was going with a lightened heart, transplanted in his decaying age. But by far the greater part dwelt upon the memory of their forsaken homes and kindred; their thoughts were gazing afar upon “the shadow on the ever-green hills.” Ere long they had nearly all disappeared, gone to their crowded chamber to be rocked asleep. Only a few women remained beneath the suspended lantern, seated by the mast. The one I had noticed weeping, had not raised her head during all this time. When she did raise it, she looked up to heaven and her face shone with religious fervor. The tears still flowed as she breathed her heart-felt prayer. I could see every movement of her lips, and I alone perhaps, of all who saw, could tell the source of every tear that flowed. I felt awed, unconscious of myself. My whole being seemed merged in the intensity of hers. A supplication sprang unbidden to my lips for the paralytic mother, for the gray-haired father, in their utter, utter loneliness; for it was Mary with her baby on her bosom. She spoke calmly, slowly, solemnly.

“THE WOMAN’S PRAYER.

Let us bow, lowly now, ere we seek forgetfulness
In the blest balm of rest, of trial-worn spirit’s fretfulness,
Let us call, first of all, pity on our parents’ age,
For they’re chastened, for they’re hastened on their ending
pilgrimage.
O be mild to them, child to them, gentle son of Bethlehem!
Never suffer that their rougher path bring sooner death to them!
O remember that December passes cheerlessly away—
Let their sorrow, on the morrow, mind thee of its Christmas day!
And leave us not, grieve us not, Father of the wandering!
Care for us, spare for us, now while time is squandering!
We are going, far, unknowing, strangers into stranger land—
But with thee only we’re not lonely, resting in thy hollow hand!”

This was the woman’s prayer—and I devoutly responded “Amen,” as I wiped my eyes and went below. I thought of the poor old man, the helpless mother, Tommy, the bower, all, and I became unconsciously an actor in the scene before me, as I prayed—

“O remember that December passes cheerlessly away!
Let their sorrow, on the morrow, mind thee of its Christmas day!”

The next day Roderick did not appear upon the deck; in truth there were very few who did. After indulging him a few days, which I charged to account of sea-sickness, and still not seeing him, I found my way into the steerage, and found the poor fellow more sick in mind than in body. He had spent the greater part of his money in trying to drown his grief; and now that he thought he had nearly succeeded, he looked none the better for the success. That face, he said, so like _hers_, he could not escape from now; he must remain near it for days, weeks. He could almost curse the ill-favored steamship, whose delay had not only doomed him to the crowded steerage of the packet, but to weeks of torture he could not escape from. He would not appear at all upon deck, and the air of the between-decks was almost poisonous. In a few days he was confined to his berth with a burning fever. I had confided to Miss Thornton every thing, except the history of Ella, which I disguised in such a way as not to diminish her sympathies for the invalid. One day, to my great astonishment, she had, with her father, gone to minister to him, and spoke with gladness of the better condition she had left him in. He talked to her very tenderly of Ella. They went, she and her kind father, to visit him every day. I saw how the fire was consuming him, and endeavored to interpose. I told Mr. Thornton every thing, all; but they did not see his condition as I did. Whenever I would go, strange! he would always beg me not to let them delay coming; but he was so exhausted with fever, that I attributed this wonderful change, rather to imbecility or delirium, than to a change of resolution. Poor Mary was always by her brother’s side: even her poor babe lay neglected for him. More than a fortnight he lay in this miserable condition; yet I was more than sorry when I felt in his pulse the returning slow beat of health, and saw his eye calm into quiet enjoyment of the congratulations which poured in upon him. I was shocked. It is true a mountain of misery was moved away, but his _reason was gone_. Miss Thornton went once again to visit him, only once: and I shall never forget her look of agony and self-reproach as she returned rather hastily to her room. I never knew what passed at that interview. Perhaps she saw for the first time, that while she deemed she was soothing his misery by her presence, she had fed it to madness. He rapidly recovered and seemed happy, for he always smiled when he asked me why the captain kept Ella locked up in the cabin and sent her tender messages—_which I dared not give_. The last I ever saw of him was in New York, when I was about to leave the ship. A young man came aboard as we hauled up to the wharf, and I knew from the portrait I had seen _in the cottage in Germany_, that it was Karl Wagner. He soon found them; and the last I saw of poor Roderick, as I went ashore, he was unfolding to the astonished Karl a scheme he had to get Ella away from the captain, whilst poor Mary hung upon her husband’s arm, her heart bursting with joy and grief.

ELLA CORBYN.

Be it remembered that Roderick, in speaking to me on the Mount of Heidelberg Castle, said—“Her father was an Englishman.” It was true. He was the younger son of a noble English house, though Ella lived until her twentieth year unconscious of the fact. She knew he was an Englishman, she knew he had been a soldier, but of his family she knew nothing. Better far had it been for her had she remained forever in ignorance of every circumstance of her ancestral distinction, or had she had some other instructor than he who craftily sowed the seeds of pride and discontent, that he might reap a glowing harvest of the charms of a lovely woman, to her soul’s utter desolation. By night and by stealth, like the Evil One, did he sow tares among the richest grain, among a perfect luxuriance of womanly virtues; by day, too, like the husbandman when the time of the harvest comes, did he pluck up weed and fruit, did he trample on pride and virtue, and cast them forth together to wither under the scorching solstice of remorse and shame. He tore away the flower and left the stem to die. Poor, poor Ella! the only jewel of both soul’s and body’s inheritance was charmed away—what wonder then that both should droop in poverty, or that, making common friendship from common desolation, these mutual foes, the only ones religion ever made, should compromise to each other the loss of both health and principle, in fatal reconciliation and despair!

The father of Ella Corbyn, an officer in the British army, was disabled in action during the Peninsular war, and after the peace of 1815, retired to the continent, where he married the beautiful Katrina Klaus, supported himself and Katrina many years on his half-pay, until about the period of Ella’s birth, when he and the half-pay departed together. His daughter, of course, had no recollection of him, and never possessed more than the one single article of his property, a miniature on ivory, of a lady, young, but by no means beautiful. She never knew who it was; her mother could not tell her when she first gave it into little Ella’s tiny hands, but supposed it was some one of Mr. Corbyn’s family, probably a sister—and so the matter rested for the while. The neighbors could tell her scarcely any thing of her father; they had seen him when he first came into the neighborhood, but his marriage with his beautiful wife, and subsequent removal to a neighboring village, followed so quickly, that they could give no account of him, nor further description than that of his personal appearance. Of the circumstances attending his death all they knew was, that two strangers stopped one afternoon at the public-house, that Mr. Corbyn spent part of the evening with them and went home early; the next morning he was shot in a duel, but the old captain who stood his friend in the affair, thought it no business of his to inquire what the difficulty was about. He left no property of any value, and his widow supported herself and Ella on her little patrimony four years longer, when she, too, died and left the child a helpless orphan. This was the time for her uncle, the priest, to come to her assistance. He took her into his care and provided for her early education by consigning her to the Sisters of Charity in Cologne. Here she remained five years; and when her good uncle, deeming that he could, with better justice to his finances, superintend her further progress at home, took her back, she displayed so much ability and judgment that she soon reigned, a little queen, over his modest household.

Ella was in truth a lovely child. In her earlier days, when she played alone by the road-side, before the priest’s lawn, not a stranger passed but stopped to take a second look at that bright, spiritual little face, gazing half-smilingly, half-pensively, half-hidden beneath dark ribbons of straying locks. Her complexion was exceedingly fair, not blonde; her features, not classical, were _petits_ and regular; her face sufficiently full, but playful every where—a pretty child: but from almost infancy the striking characteristic of her face was _soul_; never did it appear inanimate, never did it lack character—even in her sleep the marked corners of the softly-closed lips and little, dimpled brow, betokened self-possession; but when she smiled, a perfect sunshine of thought and feeling overspread her countenance, and she was irresistibly beautiful. As might be expected, the five years’ tuition she had enjoyed had developed the intellectuality of her beauty apace with the cultivation of her mind, and wherever and whenever a childish passion lay suppressed by growing religious principle, its disappearance gave place upon her countenance to the sublime, triumphant sentiment that crushed it. Mr. Klaus, or as he was termed by his parishioners, Father Klaus, was passably skilled in music; and under his systematic instruction Ella soon became the most accomplished vocalist in his country-choir. The old Count Reisach had, in church, frequently heard and appreciated the superior qualities of her voice, and after a few Sundays, called at the parsonage to pay his compliments in person to the young singer whom fame had already made so conspicuous. Little Ella, when summoned into the presence of the count, made her courtesy modestly but not diffidently, and he, charmed with the graces of her person and behavior, took pains immediately to win upon her confidence, so that she soon sang to him all her prettiest songs; whilst Father Klaus sat smiling by, perfectly happy in the joy of his triumph. When the old nobleman arose to depart, he stood with his hand upon the child’s glossy head, and declared he never _saw_ such a singer; then, as he turned up to his gaze that little face so beaming with beauty and intelligence, he promised by the faith of his knighthood that next Sunday should see her talent well rewarded. Next Sunday afternoon arrived a large case for Ella. How she danced to see it opened! and when it was opened, how she danced and clapped her hands around one of the prettiest harps that ever was seen! This was an era in her life. Every day would see her and her uncle before the parlor window blundering over the harp-strings, often in vain attempts to puzzle out an accompaniment. It was a new instrument to him as well as to her. Time, however, and perseverance can conquer all things, and ere two months were past, Ella might be seen every evening seated beneath a linden that shaded the cottage door, gracefully sweeping her harp in accompaniment of the wildest songs of her Fatherland; anon would she lift her melting eyes to heaven as she touched the trembling chords to the softer melody of a Virgin’s evening hymn. The old priest would be absorbed in his breviary, as he paced the graveled walk; he had long since given up the race, and the little scholar had left him immeasurably behind. It was not wonderful that Ella became the admired of all the country around even at that early age: but she bore her honors so becomingly, with so much modesty and simplicity, that—wonderful to say—there was not one among her companions who did not love her. She was so gentle and so good.