 | THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM.
FROM THE GERMAN. The book of my lady |  |
THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Albert Holstein was a student in one of the German
universities, the name of which is quite unnecessary to
the narration. He was at the time of which we speak
just entering his eighteenth year, and had been until
his sixteenth, under the guardianship and care of a good
and misjudging mother. His father had fallen in a
domestic feud with some rival baron, and the son, the
only heir and promise of his princely name and dominions,
but for a mind and temper naturally excellent,
would have been utterly ruined by her various and
misconceived indulgences. After the usual preparation,
he was admitted, as said above, into a leading university;
where he soon had occasion to test for himself the
propriety of that course of education to which he had
been so imprudently subjected. It is not our object,
however, to dwell upon, or seek to analyse, the impressions
of his mind, under the new changes in his condition;
affecting, as they must have done, the whole
structure of his early habits, and pruning and converting,
as it were, the dead branches of excess into a new
and fresh capacity of life. He was saved from ruin in
spite of education—nature having been able, a case
not very common, to contend with and counteract all
It was on a pleasant evening in the month of June,
that a family party was assembled, as usual, in the gardens
of D'Arlemont. In this family, Albert had become
almost an inmate, and his presence on the occasion
was looked for earnestly by all the company, but by
none more anxiously than the fair Anastasia D'Arlemont,
the only daughter of the high family of that
name, and the heiress of all its extensive possessions.
This young lady, while holding an almost unlimited
sway in the bosom of the young student, acknowledged
in his fine and graceful person, his accomplished mind
and manners, and that general vivacity of habit which
is the greatest charm of society, a corresponding influence.
They had, for themselves, just begun to ascertain
the nature of those sentiments which had so
frequently brought them together; and their eyes were
opened to the strength of the attachment, which, in
time, was to become so fatal or blissful to them both.
A few evenings previous, an opportunity offering for a
mutual understanding, in the unconscious delight of the
moment, the state of their hearts had been revealed,
and it may be supposed, therefore, that the anxieties of
Anastasia deepened, as he, who had hitherto been all
punctuality, now delayed his appearance long after the
accustomed hour. She waited, and looked anxiously
and earnestly, and yet he came not. She had turned,
all vainly, her dark and dewy eyes along the flowery
pathway through which he had been wont to enter;
and, wondering at a delay so unusual, her soul was
given up to a dread variety of those mysterious forebodings,
in the fancy of a German maiden. What made
her situation the more painful, and her feelings the
more acute, was the doubt whether her sire, one of the
noblest and most bigoted among the knighthood of the
country, would sanction a closer tie than that of friendship
between a daughter who could choose from among
the highest, and one who, though noble, had never
quartered his arms in a broader field than the small
baronial privilege of his scant paternal acres. The
doubt was not without its reason. The youth had lain
open his soul to the sire of his sweetheart, and the rejection
of his suit was coupled with words of contumely
and reproach. Nor, if the subsequent events may be
taken in evidence, did he rest here. The strong arm
frequently in that country, and those times, carried out
and continued the feud and force of the stern word;
and public opinion did not hesitate to ascribe to the
indignant sire the future misery and final fate of the
hapless daughter. It was while gazing with desponding
hope, and with penetrating but unsuccessful vision,
along the garden grove, for the well known and beloved
form of her lover, that she heard a sudden shriek as of
one in agony—then a deep and hollow groan, and the
fall of some heavy body. Lights were brought, and,
in a state of mind bordering on insanity, the young and
unhappy Anastasia beheld the scarcely less young and
beautiful form of her lover, bleeding before her. The
stiletto yet remained in his breast—it had penetrated
deeply, and he gave no signs of life. Her father, entering
at the time and witnessing her emotion, had her
borne with stern rebuke to her chamber. At that
malignity of his countenance, and made their inferences
accordingly. Albert Holstein was borne away to his
lodgings, where, after a few days, according to the
popular voice, he breathed his last. Enquiry, in a little
time, passed over without discovering the assassin;
and, if suspicion did rest any where, the mark was
quite too high for the arm of public justice.
A few months had elapsed after the occurrence of
this event, and, if grief in the bosom of Anastasia for
the loss of her lover had lost some of its violence, it
did not, however, forego any of its tenacity in its hold
upon her heart. Lingering one evening, long after the
family had all retired, at her lattice—indulging in that
mournful contemplation of past images, which had now
become the all absorbing passion of her spirit—her ear
discerned beneath her window the faint tones of music,
such as she had been accustomed to hear, at those seasons,
when, in this manner, her lover had indicated his
affections. The notes were the same; and words such
as he alone had employed, came, arousing in her bosom
a feeling of superstitious dread—a sudden and indescribable
awe, such as she had never before entertained.
The influence became insupportable at length, and she
sought, for the time, a safe retreat in the chamber of
her attendant. Here she remained until her mind had
become somewhat accustomed to the thoughts and associations
thus forced upon it, when she returned to
her own room, and the sounds were heard no more for
that night. A few evenings after, at the same hour,
the music was repeated—the same sweet and mysterious
air fell upon her senses with an increased, and, if,
the expression, a warmer melancholy. She was no
longer terrified, as at first, and yielding herself, without
a struggle, to the irresistible impulse, she gently undid
the lattice, and looked out in the direction of the music.
Nor did she look in vain. Retreating among the trees
of the garden, she discovered a form so nearly resembling
that of her departed lover, that she involuntarily
uttered his name. A sigh was the only response which
the figure gave—but so mournfully sad, that it seemed
to rebuke her for the indifference of her grief, and her
sorrows burst forth anew. The form had utterly disappeared,
and though for hours she looked and lingered,
it returned no more that evening. Night after
night, for a week succeeding, as the hour of midnight
drew near, did she look forth and listen from her lattice.
She heard the winds softly rustling among the
branches—the fall of the dead leaf—she saw the shadows,
with a quiet beauty, waving in the moonlight, but
her visiter returned not. At length, when she began
to conclude that the spirit was offended, and would not
come again, or that her ever restless and excited imagination
had deluded her into the belief of the actual
presence of one for ever in her mind's eye, she heard
again that faint, sad murmuring of song, gentle as the
flutterings of an ascending spirit, softly floating on the
breeze, and penetrating her lattice. It grew at last
more distinct, more full and clear, and with such a
tone of true nature to her senses, that she lost all guidance
of her reason, and called deliriously upon the
name of her lover. Had her voice so much power—
had the deity spoken from her lips? Her lover stood
and full of exhilarance and life, as in the gladdest hour
of their earliest communion! She was faint—she
trembled, with a love and awe necessarily arising from
the belief that she was at that moment in the presence
of the dead. His eyes, though clear and intelligent as
ever, were sad, and wore a solemn expression—they
looked all the divinity of woe—and a mingled love and
worship, which she could not restrain, filled and inspired
her heart. How gentle were all his tones—how
soothing his speech—how true and tender its expression!
With what a voice did he assure her of his existence—of
his continued love, while even at the verge of
dissolution, and in a deep extremity, from the fatal termination
of which he was only saved by the marvellous
skill of their family physician. He now informed her
of his unsuccessful suit to her father—of his cruel language,
and unqualified rejection of his prayers. He
was now in danger; and the most perfect secrecy was
necessary to shield him from the hand of that power,
which, in striking once, had certainly shown no indisposition,
if such were necessary, to strike again. Long
did they linger in that silent garden, with no watchers
but the stars; and no hope but in that true love which
they seemed to smile upon and sanction. Night after
night were his visits, without interruption, repeated;
and the joy of the young lovers increased with the impatience
with which they watched—to them—the slow
progress of day to night again; never regretting the
sleepless hours of their sacrifice, since the altar was
so wooing and attractive, and while the worship was so
pure and hallowed.
In the mean while, a nobleman of high birth and gallant
achievement, made his appearance as a professed
suitor of Anastasia, at the castle of D'Arlemont. He
was remotely connected with the family, its equal in all
hereditary and honourable respects; and desirous of
renewing a former intimacy, and increasing its ties.
Count Wallenburg was well known, and ranked highly
among the German chivalry. Honourable, high-minded,
generous and brave, there were but few qualities
essential to what, in that age, was esteemed perfection,
which this gentleman did not possess. Shall we wonder
that, admiring the beautiful Anastasia, he should
find no difficulty on the part of her family? As for the
wishes of the lady herself, that was a concern about
which barons, at that period, gave themselves no trouble,
and, perhaps, no enquiry. They dressed the lamb
gaudily up for the sacrifice; and to make more solemn
the cruelty, sacrificed it upon the altar. His addresses
were paid, and, with a ready compliance, accepted by
her father. The anguish of the young girl was excruciating
on being instructed to prepare for the nuptials,
almost the first intimation which she had of the arrangement;
but, assured by her lover, whom she saw nightly,
that she should become the bride of none other than
himself, she offered no fruitless objection, and, to all
eyes, seemed passively resigned to her fate.
The evening appointed for the bridal at length arrived.
The chapel of the castle was illuminated; the
company had assembled, and every thing was gay confusion
and good-humoured clamour. There were aunts
and uncles, and cousins and friends—the whole world of
various and friendly elements, which such an occasion
long procession of like connections, came the bridegroom,
with as much impatience for the ceremony as
could well comport with his high dignity and German
phlegm. But where was she—the young bride? Why
lingered she—why came she not, in glittering robes,
heading in gladness the rose-garlanded procession of
capricious and laughing damsels? The castle was in
commotion, and a strange anxiety was over every countenance.
The bridal chamber was empty—the fair
Anastasia was not to be found! The castle was searched
from turret tops to donjon, but they found her not.
The groups dispersed over the gardens and grounds
about, with but little success. At length they penetrated
the forests. As they advanced the sky suddenly
became overcast and dark—vivid flashes of
lightning added to, while illuminating and making
perceptible the gloom. A storm of frightful energy
passed over the wood, prostrating every thing before it,
and subsiding with equal suddenness. The sky became
instantly clear, and the morn shone forth in purity, unconscious
of a cloud. The firmament had not a speck.
The bewildered groups proceeded in their search. A
soft and gentle strain of melody seemed to embody itself
with the winds. They followed the sounds into a
dark and gloomy enclosure of high over-arching trees,
thickly fenced in with knotted vines and brushwood.
The thunderbolt had been there, and it was scorched
and blackened. They advanced—the music still leading
them onward—until, in a small recess, they found
indubitable tokens of the maiden, in the half-burned
remnants of her hat and shawl. They now beheld her
had triumphed in the garb of the earthly lover, and the
unhappy maiden had been the victim of a deceit which
had led her to dishonour and destruction!
Such is the tradition; but, about this time, the castle
of Holstein became inhabited. Albert, said the popular
voice, was restored to life and his habitation; and, in
time, there was a bright maiden singing merrily in its
walls, in whom, those who knew, found a strange likeness
to the beautiful Anastasia D'Arlemont.
| THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM.
FROM THE GERMAN. The book of my lady | |