University of Virginia Library

CARL WERNER.

1. I.

“With what a sober and saintly sweetness do
these evening lights stream around us. What a
spiritual atmosphere is here! Do you not feel
it?”

My friend did not immediately answer my question,
and when he did, his reply was rather to the
mood of mind in which I had spoken, than to the
words which I had uttered. We were walking, towards
the close of day, in one of the deepest parts
of a German forest, through which the sunlight penetrated
only with imperfect and broken rays. The
vista, which was limited by the dusk, was covered
with flitting shadows, and wild aspects, that won us
farther at each succeeding moment in their pursuit.
The cathedral picturesqueness of the scene warmed

us both, and when my friend replied to me, I
felt that our fancies were the same.

“You have no faith, I believe, in popular superstitions—you
never yield yourself up to your
dreams?”

Something of a feeling of self-esteem kept me
from answering sincerely to this question. I felt,
at that instant, a guilty consciousness of a
growing respect for the legends of the wonder-loving
land in which I wandered. My answer
was evasive.

“What mean you — your question is a wide
one?”

“Elsewhere it might be, — but here — here in
Germany — it would seem specific enough. Briefly
— you have no faith in ghosts — you do not
believe in the thousand and one stories which
imagination hourly weaves for the ear and the apprehensions
of credulity.”

“To speak truly, I have not often thought of
this matter until now. The genius loci has somewhat
provoked my fancy, and triumphed over my
indifference—if indifference it be. Ghost stories,
though frequent enough, are, as frequently, subjects
of common ridicule; and the hearer, if he
does believe, finds it prudent to keep his faith secret,
if it be only to escape the laughter of his

companions. This may have been the case with
me, and from seeking to deceive my neighbors
on this head, it is not improbable that I have fully
succeeded in at last deceiving myself; and have
come to doubt sincerely. But of this I will not
be certain. I am not sure that I should not partake
of the sensibilities of any timid urchin, at the
sudden appearance of any suspicious object in any
suspicious place.”

“Ha! ha! I see you are no sceptic. You are
for the ghosts — you certainly believe in them.”

“Not so!” I replied, somewhat hastily; “I
cannot be said to believe or disbelieve. I have
no facts — no opinions — on the subject, and therefore
cannot be supposed to have arrived at any
conviction respecting it. I have scarcely given
it a thought, and my impressions are rather those
of the temperament and memory than the mind.
Warm blood makes me jump frequently to conclusions
upon which I never think; and the stories
of boyhood, in this respect, will, long after the boy
has become a man, stagger his strength with the
images produced on his imagination by a grand-dame's
narratives at that susceptible period. My
notions of the marvellous arise almost entirely
from my feelings — feelings kindled by such stories,
and, it may be, rendered vivid by a natural

tinct of superstition, which few of us seem to be
free from, and which may, perhaps, be considered
the best of arguments in defence of such a faith.”

My friend made no immediate answer — a pause
ensued in our speech, but not in our movement.
We walked on, and the shadows became more thick
around us. The scattered lights of evening grew
fainter and fewer, and I perceived that the mood
of my companion, like my own, had undergone a
corresponding change. Sad thoughts mingled
with strange thoughts in our minds, and when he
again spoke, it was evident that he felt the night.
He resumed the subject.

“I have not been willing to believe, but I feel,
and feeling brings the faith. I have reason to
suspect myself of a leaning to these superstitions,
and discover myself inclining to conviction the
more I indulge in solitude. Solitude is one of the
parents of superstition. The constant wakefulness
and warring strifes of selfish interests,
which prevail in the city and among the crowd,
drive away such thoughts, and, indeed, all
thoughts which incline to reverence; and it is
only when I get into the country — among these
solemn shades and deep recesses — that I find my
superstitions coming back to me with a thousand
other sensibilities. It is then that my memory

goes over the old grounds of my childhood; and
that the fancies of an early romance become invigorated
within me:—it is then that I give credence
to the unaccountable story that we sometimes hear
from the lips of more credulous or more experienced
companions. Their earnestness and faith
strengthen and awaken ours — the fancy grows
into form, and the form, at length, from frequent
contemplation, becomes almost sensible to the
touch. We continue to contemplate until we believe;
and there is not a faculty or sense that we
have, which does not at last become satisfied,
along with our fancies, of the rich reality which
the latter have but dreamed.”

“I am not so sure that they dream only,” was
my serious reply. “Why, if the doctrine of the
soul's immortality be true why should it not return
to the spot which kindred affections have
made holy — why may it not do a service to the
living? — prevent a wrong? — reveal a secret, or
by some ministry, which could not have been performed
so well by any but itself, do that which
may help the surviving to some withheld rights,
to some suppressed truth — or to some unlooked
for means of safety from tyranny and injustice?”

“True — that might have been an argument at
one period in the history of the world; but the

world has grown wiser, if not better, in later days!
— a thousand modes are now in our possession for
discovering the truth, to one at that time when
spirits were allowed to return to earth. The days
of miracle are gone by. The `spirits from the
vasty deep' do not come to us, however loudly we
may call for them.”

“Who shall say that?” was my reply. “Who
shall answer for the necessity. It may occur now
as it has occurred before, nor is it an argument
against the belief, that man has grown wise enough
to find out the truth for himself, after judicial forms,
without the need of any such revisitings of the
moon. If wisdom has grown mighty to find out the
truth, crime has also grown proportionably cunning
to conceal it; and virtue suffers the injustice, and
vice escapes, even now, from a just punishment,
quite too frequently, when it were to be desired that
some honest ghost could be evoked from the
grave, to set the erring judgment of man aright.
Coleridge considers it a conclusive argument
against the notion, that the ghost of a man's
breeches should appear with him. This may be
a good joke, but it is a poor argument. If it be
once admitted, that for wise and beneficial purposes
the just Providence shall permit the departed
spirit to return to the earth, where it once abode,

it will be necessary that it should put on that garb
and appearance which shall make it more readily
known by those whom it seeks; since its purpose,
in its return to earth, might only be effected by its
appearance in proper person. I can conceive of
no difficulty in this; since it must be obvious that
as the appearance of the spectre is the work of
God, himself, with Him the toil is equally easy
of giving the spirit its guise of flesh and fashion,
and of preparing the mind of the spectator so that
his eye shall behold the object, whether it appear
in reality or not.”

“The subject is one,” said my friend, “which
invariably forces itself upon me when I am in solitude.
We are now in a place singularly accommodated
to thoughts and things of this nature.
There is a venerable gloom and gravity about
these old trees. You see that none of them are
young, yet the grounds have neither been cleared
nor grubbed, to my recollection, for many years.
The aged branches have stretched out innumerable
arms, and bend, with their accumulated weight
of years upon them, even to the ground. They
have the air of a group of sainted Druids, such as
the Romans annihilated. Black and frowning,
yonder mountain overhangs the wood, protecting,
yet threatening. It has the look of a blasted

thing, and it must be a haunted one. The ruins
which you behold at a little distance to the left,
admirably consort with the rest of the picture. A
gray mist seems to hang over and to hallow them,
until even the beautiful knoll of green which rises
in front of them seems offensively garish from the
exceeding depth of its contrast. Those are the
ruins of an ancient monastery, which the superstitious
fancies of the neighborhood have long since
peopled with a fraternity of immaterials, sufficiently
numerous and wild to consecrate to their
peculiar purposes a situation of the kind. They
are not often intruded upon, except by myself;
and as I have a story to tell which properly belongs
to them, it will not be out of place if I tell it
to you there. Some of the old monuments will
give us a pleasant seat, and among the dead only,
as we then shall be, we shall be in no danger of
suffering interruption or disturbance from the idle
footstep of the obtrusive living.”

2. II.

“We are in Germany,” continued my companion;—“of
course I do not tell you this with any
other object, than simply to remind you, that you

are in a land, of all others, one of the most renowned
for its superstitions, its wild fancies, its
marvellous imaginations. The minds of its people
have become spiritualized by the popular faith; and
thought takes the shape of poetry at its birth, and
fancy is busy every where. Their rivers and their
rocks, their green knolls and sinking valleys, their
dense forests, wild wastes, and deserted ruins, like
these around us, are all haunted and venerable.
The dell and dingle have their different spirits, the
wood and rivulet theirs; and the gentle-hearted
peasants who inhabit them are, in some instances,
almost as rigldly tenacious of the privileges of the
genius loci, as they are of their own rights and religion.
A tale of diablerie will not, therefore, seem
out of place, in a region so abundantly supplied
with this material; and the story which I am
about to relate to you, though differing materially
from those which we are accustomed to hear, is
yet as native to this neighborhood as any of the
rest. The parties who figure in it, were born in
the little hamlet of —, not a mile distant, and
you will hear the story from any of the villagers
to whom you may refer for confirmation of it.

“It is now about fifty years since the events
which I am about to relate to you are said to
have occurred. The village of — stood then

pretty much as it does now, except that there were
then two families in it, of which there are no descendants
or surviving relics now. The family of
Herman Ottfried was one of the most respectable
in it; nor was that of Carl Werner less so. The
former consisted only of Herman, and the fair
Matilda, his sister; while that of Carl Werner
existed in himself alone. He was an only child,
whose mother had been long since dead, and whose
father had died just before the time when my narrative
begins. Herman was about twenty-five
years of age, Carl Werner not more than twenty-one
— yet they were inseparable friends. Matilda,
the sister of Herman, was but seventeen; and it is
more than probable, that the great intimacy between
Carl and Herman, and the strong regard
which the former professed for the latter, arose
from the yet stronger feeling which he entertained
for the sister. But of this anon. Herman was a
good natured, laughing, and mischievous creature,
ready always for fun and frolic, not easily apprehensive
of danger, nor always scrupulous about
proprieties in his pranks. He had good sense
enough to keep him from any extravagant folly,
or extreme rashness; and good feeling enough to
restrain him from any excess which might inflict
pain upon the deserving and the good. He was
of graceful person, manly and strong, brave, generous,
and well-principled. The favorite of the
village, he was yet wanting in one of those traits of
character in which all beside him were abundantly
provided — he had no more faith in a ghost than
he had in a sermon; and though not deficient in
proper veneration, he had but slight regard for
either.

“In this respect, as in several others, he differed
greatly from his more youthful friend and companion,
Carl Werner. Carl was superstitious to the
last degree; his memory was perfectly crowded
with legends the most extravagant, and he had a
feverish and perpetual desire, continually, to increase
his collection. He was, in very truth, a
dreamer — one of those gifted men, who see strange
sights and hear uncommon sounds, which are denied
to the vulgar faculty; and his senses were
accordingly employed always in scenting out and
searching after the supernatural. But let me not
be understood to say that Carl was a simpleton.
Far from it. He was, in reality, as I have phrased
it already, a highly gifted man. He was a poet
— a man of quick and daring imagination — one
whose verses were full of fire, and acknowledged
to be of more than ordinary merit, — but he was
rather too much of a mystic. Deeply impregnated

with the traditionary lore of `The Teuton,' and
irritably alive to all its exciting influences, the fancy
which was in him, the active and subtle spirit
of his thoughts, gathered from all objects and associations
food and stimulant for its own continued
exercise. His very existence, so deeply had
he drank of the witch beverage and been led away
into the haunted forests of his fancy, had become
rather metaphysical than real. His life was passed
in dreams; and even his love for Matilda, so
far from humanizing his mind and binding it to
earth, seemed to have the effect of elevating it the
more, and of making it hourly more and more spiritual;
until, at length, he appeared to regard the
maiden rather as a creation of his thought — a
dream of heaven — than an object for the contemplation
and the enjoyment of his senses. His life
was thus diseased by his imagination, while yet in
the green, in the blossom, and the bud.

3. III.

“Between Herman and his sister, the soul and
person of Carl Werner were pretty evenly divided.
When not with one, he was with the other;
and when not separately with either, he was sure

to be with both. Though the tastes and tempers
of the two young men seemed greatly to differ to
the common eye, their sympathies ran strangely
together. Their sports and studies, though not
alike, seemed nevertheless to bring them together
always. Their habits were equally wandering,
and while the poetry of Carl made him musing,
meditative, and abstracted in his habits, it led him
the more to delight in those practical tendencies
in the mind of his companion, which suggested a
character directly the reverse. Herman, too, was
pleased with the fellowship of a thinking being,
and one who could furnish names and definitions
for all his own occasional and half-digested imaginings
and thoughts. They had neither of them
much system in their pursuits, and far less in their
studies. Books they read, not by selection, but as
they happened to fall into their hands; or, rather,
Carl would read them, and describe their character
and unfold their contents to his companion, who,
in his own experience, could most generally remember
adventures to correspond with and match
those which Carl related to him. In this manner
they became mutual dependants, and hence, some
of the secret of their intimacy. They would follow
— each — without much, or at best with a
momentary opposition — the moods and promptings
of the other — the momentary impulse being
the sufficient governor, — and to that they most
generally left the direction of studies and amusements
alike. The feeling which prompted the
one, if not exactly like that which filled the bosom
of the other, was seldom offensive to it: and we
need not wonder, thus situated and circumstanced,
if they grew together, to the almost complete exclusion
of all the village beside — the fair and gentle
Matilda alone being excepted.

4. IV.

“Let not my preliminaries fatigue you. I cannot
get on so well without them. My narrative
has a comprehensive ground-work, and I must
bring the several more striking features of the locality,
in due order, and, not precipitately, before
your eye. Having prepared you, I will now proceed:—

“Living, as they did, in the neighboring village,
and possessed of tastes equally wandering, and, in
the case of Carl, so mingled with romance, it will
not be thought surprising if they spent a great
deal of their leisure time among these old ruins.
They were ruins then, and no obtrusive utilitarian

has presumed, as you may see, to take from their
gray loveliness by making them more useful. The
charm of the spot is the same now as then — if
possible, indeed, the beauty of the ruins is even
greater, for the walls have suffered from subsequent
tempests, and desolation has made more
complete her broken temple. Time is the ally of
romance, and decay takes nothing from her honors!
The source and secret of their beauty have
been steadily increasing; and the domain, loved
by the German youth of whom we speak, is, perhaps,
scarcely less attractive now to us. Touched,
as these dismembered and massive fragments
at this moment are, by the mellow hues of the
fleeting and flickering sunlight, they are, in my
eyes, immeasurably beautiful; and seem to me
as they did to Carl Werner, a fitting abode for
the sleepless and sad spirit — doomed to its midnight
vigil of a thousand years.

“The imagination of Carl Werner had peopled
these ruins with a countless host of inmates, with
wild traditions, with the most pitiable and strange
narratives. It was the theatre where his invention
became most active, and where he continually exercised
it, as much for his own, as for the pleasure
which it gave to Matilda and Herman. He had
explored the many cells which abound among the

ruins — he had groped through the ancient chambers,
until he had, from conjectures frequently exercised,
come to the belief that he could actually
assign the various uses to which they were put:
— and, in some cases, through the aid of local
tradition and domestic history, he even ventured
so far as to say who were their occupants. Though
superstitious to the last degree, and most wilfully
credulous, Carl Werner had no idle fears. The
abbey was his favorite resort even at midnight,
and with Herman, who was something of a daredevil,
along with him, a ramble through the old
chambers at night, when the rising moon began to
peep through the cracks and fissures, was a favorite
mode with Carl Werner of passing those pleasant
hours. It is true, that, at such times, Matilda
never ventured along with the two; but the warm
and spirited fancy of Carl enabled him to embody
for her ears, when they met, the sweet, strange
thoughts of his mind, which, at such periods,
formed the topic of conversation between him and
his companion. These were themes upon which
Carl never failed to be eloquent, and Matilda always
loved to hear. At other times, the three
would wander while the day lasted, in a sort of
mental and dreamy unconsciousness, among the
broken walls, turning thoughtlessly over the marble
stones, laboring now and then to decipher the
inscriptions, and toiling through the ancient
grounds and over the green grave knolls about
the edifice; until, as the sun began to wane, Matilda,
with a growing and beautiful timidity — always
becoming in a young and lovely woman —
would hurry them homeward, leaving the unfinished
story of Carl to find its conclusion at the
evening fireside, which generally brought them
all together like one family. They were soon to
become one, it may as well be said, for, seizing a
favorable moment, the gentle and fond Carl had
whispered to the maiden that he loved her, and she
did not hesitate long to promise that she would be
his. The time was designated for the nuptials, and
the two were quite as happy as mutual love, and
so pleasant a hope, could possibly make them.

5. V.

“One afternoon, a few weeks prior to the time
appointed for the marriage, Carl and Matilda went
forth upon their usual rambles. Herman went not
with them. He had gone away from the village
on some alleged business, though, it is more than
probable, that he had simply excused himself, with

a delicate sense of propriety, from adding to a
party which under existing circumstances could do
very well without him. The fond Carl had more
than once been indebted in this manner to the kind
consideration of his friend. Thus, left to themselves,
the lovers wandered off in the usual direction,
and were soon embosomed in the haunted
shades of the ancient abbey. They seated themselves
among the monuments, and discoursed of
the old time stories; and, with each remembered
legend, the timid Matilda, with a most natural
fear, would creep closer to her lover, and the fond
Carl, with a most natural protection, at length encircled
her waist with his arms; and the ghosts of
ancient years were forgotten by the happy pair, in
the delicious realities of their present situation.

“But a sudden step, as of one approaching, disturbed
their dream of felicity. It was Herman.
He came, with an air of impatient pleasure and
slow regret, mingled up in his manner. As he
drew nigh, he handed a letter to Carl, and bade
him read it.

“It is from my uncle, old Ulrich Ottfried of
Amsterdam, and he writes for me to come to him
immediately. The place he promised me is at
length vacant, and I must lose no time to secure
it—I must leave you.'

“`Leave us, dear brother!' exclaimed Matilda.

“`Leave us, Herman!' said Carl.

“`Ay, leave you!' replied the brother, `leave
you, to be sure. Would you have me sit here,
purring like a tame cat all my life, when there I
have a chance to be somebody, and see the great
city.'

“`And will you leave us, Herman?' said the
girl reproachfully, and the tears stood in her eyes.

“`Pshaw, 'Tilda! no tears now, I beg you.
They're not true—they're not natural. You
know you won't miss me, and there's no reason
why you should. You have Carl there, and he'll
be more to you than ever I can be. He suits you
better; and I know him too well to be afraid to
leave you to his hands.'

“`Dear Herman!' said Carl, but you will not
go soon—you will stay to the wedding.'

“`I can't—the letter, you see, urges my instant
departure; and I'm too anxious to get the
place to risk the loss of it by any idle delay. It's
true, I'm sorry to part with you; but, as I said, I
leave you both in good hands. You love 'Tilda,
and she loves you, and I believe you will be quite
as happy with each other, as if I looked on myself,
and saw all your happiness.'

“The hand of Carl pressed that of Matilda, and

her's returned the pressure, at these words. Carl
then demanded of Herman when he proposed to
set forth. His prompt answer surprised and pained
his hearers.

“`To-morrow!' said he, `at early dawn, I
travel.'

“`To-morrow!' exclaimed Matilda, `dear brother,
you cannot mean it!'

“`So soon, Herman!' said Carl.

“`Ay, to-morrow—so soon!' was the reply.
`It's hard. I find it harder than I thought, to
leave you—you, dear 'Tilda—for you have been
a dear, sweet sister to me always; and you Carl,
who have been a brother after my heart's wish: I
find it very hard to leave you, but I can't help
it; nor, indeed, if I could, would I. The place
is every thing to me, and I can make my fortune
in it. My uncle, if I please him, promises to take
me with him into business. Read the letter, Carl
—see how fairly the good old fellow speaks. He
is a good old fellow—he always loved me. I was
his favorite, 'Tilda—he never thought much of
you. But, never you mind—there's no good
fortune that comes to Herman that you shall not
share—both of you. So, it matters not much
which of us the old man loved—it's the same

thing; but go I must, and, as I've told you already,
I go to-morrow.'

“This seemed a settled matter in the mind of
Herman, and it produced a melancholy feeling in
that of Carl. It seemed to impress Matilda even
more gloomily, as well it might; for Herman was
an only brother, and having neither mother nor
father, the privation, she well knew, must be severely
felt. She had no longer spirit to remain
abroad, and closely attended by the young men,
she returned, in sorrowful temper, to her cottage.

6. VI.

“You may be sure that was a gloomy evening in
the house of Matilda; and not even the well-satisfied
love of the betrothed, could make it otherwise
to either of them. Herman was quite too dear to
his sister and his friend, to suffer them, at such a
moment, to feel their own felicity as perfect, just
when they were about to be deprived of him, perhaps
for ever. The maiden felt so unhappy, that
she retired at an early hour, and the two young
men wandered forth to talk over their several projects,
and the various, and we may add, the sorrowful
thoughts, with which their approaching

separation had filled them both. They had been
so long as one—so perfectly inseparable, hitherto
—that it is not to be wondered at, if they were almost
unmanned by it. Carl, indeed, suffered far
more than Herman. The latter had the excitements
of a new world in promise before him—the
prospects of bettering his fortunes, and, besides
this, he was of a more elastic and lively temper
than his friend. He could very well bestow consolation,
where other wanderers would have needed
it. Carl had been always a dependant upon Herman,
whose excellent spirits and generous mood
had frequently neutralized the excessive morbidness
of his imagination; and when the former
thought of this, and of his weakness in many
respects, he exaggerated to his own mind the
greatness of the privation which he was about to
undergo. Herman tried his best to console him,
and in the earnestness of their mutual thoughts,
they gave no heed to their wanderings. In the
first moment of external consciousness, Carl looked
up, and the ruins of the ancient abbey were before
them. It was a fitting place for their last interview
and private conference. The silence and the
gloom of the spot accorded meetly with the sadness
in their bosoms, and they at once entered the
sanctuary. They seated themselves upon one of
the broken monuments, and sat for some moments
in a moody silence. At length, Carl spoke as follows:

“`I feel cold all over, Herman, as if a breath
from that old vault had breathed upon me. Your
contemplated journey affects me strangely. I
know not how I shall bear it. I shall not often
ramble among these ruins—I may have the disposition
to do so—I know I will—but I shall not
have the courage.'

“`Pshaw!' exclaimed the bolder Herman—
`how you talk. I know you better than you do
yourself, and venture to predict that when I am
gone you will be here oftener than ever. You love
these ruins.'

“`I do—I confess it!—they are to me sacred,
if only for their recollections,' said Carl.

“`And ghosts!' continued Herman with a gentle
laugh. `You love their ghosts, I think, even
more than their recollections.'

“`Ay, could I see them,' said the other. `But
they are shy ghosts, and—did you not hear a
breathing?'

“Carl turned and looked in the direction of the
old vault, as he spoke these words, but Herman
only laughed at him. Carl laughed too, a moment

after, when he perceived that his weakness
had been observed by his friend.

“`You have nearly roused them, Carl,' said
Herman, after his quiet chuckle had subsided.
`But for my laugh they would have been about
you. You would have conjured the reverend abbot
from that shattered vault, and a pretty story
you would have of it.'

“`Perhaps'—said Carl; `and you would have
listened to the story, Herman, without a single
interruption. Why is that? Why is it that you
can enjoy a ghost story without believing in the
ghost?'

“`Why do we enjoy a puzzle which we know
can be undone?—a mystery—when a moment's
reflection teaches us that it is no mystery? It
is because the human mind finds a pleasure in that
which is ingenious—in any thing which shows
intellectual power. A fairy tale has a spell for
all senses, not because we believe in its magic—
in its subtlety—in its strange devices and wild
conceits; but, that these subtleties, spells, and devices,
appeal to natural desires and attributes of
the mind of man. They are beautiful, and as the
appreciation of which is beautiful, forms the legitimate
object in the exercise of taste, they commend
themselves to every intellect or imagination

that possesses even common activity. You, perhaps,
are less fortunate than myself, since you believe
in the ghost; and a natural sense of apprehension,
which your faith necessarily excites in
your mind, while the story is telling, subtracts
from the perfect satisfaction with which—were
you as incredulous as myself—you would hear or
tell it. You tremble while you narrate, and your
eyes are forever looking round to see the object
which your fancy conjures up.'

“`True, but I do not cease to tell the story. I go
on—I would go on, though I beheld the ghost.'

“`I doubt you!' boldly said the other. `I believe
you might try to do so, for I know the extent
of your moral courage; but your imagination
is too powerful for your control; and this I
sometimes fear. I sometimes fear that you may
suffer greatly, when I am gone, in the conflict between
your imaginative faculty, and your good
sense. While I was with you, I had no fear; for
when you looked round for the ghost, I laid it
with a laugh. It will rise and haunt you when I
am gone.'

“`How can you speak thus, or fear this, when,
in the same breath, you deny its existence?' demanded
Carl.

“`Oh, I do not deny its existence to you,'
said Herman—`we can always have the ghost
we call for, for imagination is a god. It is the
only creator under heaven. Yours is of this sort,
and the worlds you people are sometimes too extensive
for your sway. They will rebel against
you.'

“`I fear them not!' said Carl. `It is my joy
to create, and I sometimes pray that with my
bodily eyes I may behold the dim but glorious
visions of my mind. You old abbot, sleeping in
the dust and sanctity of a thousand years,—could
he rise before me now and answer a few questions,
I should be most happy.'

“`Do not trouble yourself to call upon him—
he will not trouble himself to come.'

“`Yet, I am sure,' responded the reverent Carl,
turning an anxious look upon the vault, as if soliciting
the buried saint to give the lie to his comrade,
`yet, I am sure, that it is not because he
cannot.'

“`What other reason!' said Herman. `He
cannot, my dear Carl, and if he could, he would
not. He sees—if the dead may see aught—all
around him that he hath ever known or loved in
life; and for us, whom in life he never knew, he
hath too little sympathy, to come at our bidding.

There might be some motive for those lately dead
to reappear at the requisition of those who still have
human and earthly affections struggling with the
cares and woes of earth; and I would that it were
possible we could evoke them. I, too, should be
a summoner, Carl—I, too, should pray that my
bodily eyes might behold—not the objects of my
mind, but the creatures of my heart! I would
give worlds, if I had them, once more to behold
my dear mother.'

“`Could she know your wish, Herman, would
she not appear, think you?' demanded Carl.

“`The suggestion makes against your argument,
Carl,' replied the other—`immortal as she
is, she must know, she must hear my wish; yet
she does not appear! wherefore does she not?—
she cannot—it is written — she cannot; and it is,
perhaps, wise and well that she cannot. It might
alter my plans—it might affect my purposes—it
might disturb the existing condition of things without
making them better.'

“`Herman,—could I believe with you, I should
be unhappy; but I cannot. I feel assured that
the spirit may return, and make itself known. I
do not say visibly to the eye, but in some way or
other, to one or more of the senses. Do you remember

the story of Dame Ulrica, and the silks
that rustled in the tiring chamber?'

“`Ah, no more of that, Carl; and as you are
now getting fairly on the track of the hobgoblins,
we may as well stop our confabulation, else shall
we not go to bed to-night. Of one thing be sure,
if I can revisit you after death, I will —'

“`Will you promise me that, Herman?' demanded
the other eagerly.

“`Ay, that will I, though I shall try to do it in
such a manner as not to scare you. I shall sneak
in like a gentle ghost, and shall speak to you in
the softest language. Will you really be glad to
see me?'

“`Glad! — you will make me happy. It will
be a prayer realized. Promise me, dear Herman!
— we are about to separate, we know not with
what destiny before us. The means of communication
are few between us, and our anxiety to know
of each other will sometimes shoot far ahead of
our capacity to receive or yield intelligence.
Promise me — though heaven grant that you may
live long years after me — that should any thing
befal you, and the power be with you, you will
come to me — you will tell me of your own condition,
and guide me aright in mine; for my sake,
and for the sake of your dear sister, who will so

soon be a part of my life. Will you do this —
will you promise this, dear Herman.'

“`I will — to be sure, I will, Carl,' was the reply.

“`Seriously — solemnly?' demanded Carl.

“`Seriously — solemnly!' said the other; `but,'
he continued — `if I am to take all this trouble,
and expose myself to all risks of wind and weather
merely to oblige you, you must do me a similar
favor; for, though I do not believe in any such
power on the part of the spirit once gone from
earth, nor am I particularly curious on the subject;
yet, while agreeing to satisfy you, Carl, I may
just as well exact a similar promise from yourself.
Dead or alive, Carl, it will always give me pleasure
to see you. I have loved you as a brother,
in life — I have no fear to behold you after death.'

“`It is a pledge — a promise, Herman!' was
the ready answer; and with the utterance of the
pledge, a hollow laugh resounded from the dismembered
vault of the aged abbot.

7. VII.

They sprang at once to their feet. Herman
laughed back in return, but he remained where he

was. Carl trembled like a leaf, but he leapt over
the stone on which he had been sitting, and made
his way fearlessly towards the vault. Herman
followed him. The marble of which the vault had
been built was fractured in several places, so that
the interior was clearly visible from without. Carl
would have entered it, but Herman opposed his
doing so.

“`Why should you go in — we can see the venerable
dust where we stand,' and the eyes of the
two peered into the now silent chamber with a
scruitinizing gaze that promised to suffer nothing
to escape them.

“`Look!' said Carl; `look, Herman! dost
thou not see!' and he pointed to a corner of the
vault while speaking.

“The eyes of Herman saw nothing, however, or
he was not willing to acknowledge that they did;
but Carl was more ready to believe, and consequently
more able to see, for, even while he pointed
out the object of his sight to Herman, he watched
it as it glided away through an aperture of the
vault — a pale bluish flame — a fragment, as it
were, of light — that seemed first to crawl along
the walls of the chamber, and then suddenly to
disappear through one of its many fissures.

“`What is it that you see? I see nothing,' said
Herman.

“`A light like that of a taper — a small, creeping
light, that passed out of the corner to the
east.'

“`Some slimy worm,' said Herman, `though I
did not see it at all.'

“`Strange!' exclaimed Carl; `but you heard
the laugh, Herman?'

“`Yes,' said the other, `but whether it came
from the vault, or from the opposite wall, I will not
pretend to say. Some urchin may think to frighten
us from the other side. We will look in that quarter.'

“Carl now followed his companion, but he followed
him unwillingly. Like all true romancers, he
had got just enough of the mystery. He was unwilling
to press the matter farther, lest he should
discover that which might jeopard his prize —
which might enable him, indeed, to `point the
moral,' but which would spoil, rather than `adorn,
the tale.' This, however, was the desire of Herman.
He would have given as much to discover
that the source of the laugh was human, as Carl
would have bestowed to prevent such a discovery.
The hopes of the latter prevailed. They searched
behind the suspected walls, but found nothing;

and the benefit of the laugh was clearly with the
superstitious Carl. After this they left the ruins.
The hour was getting late, and as they had still a
great deal to say of sublunary concerns, it did not
need that they should take the haunted abbey for
this purpose. The next morning Herman took
his departure. Carl saw him a little way upon
the road; and when they were about to separate, one
of the last words of Carl was to remind him about
his promise. Herman laughed, but freely renewed
it. Was it a fancy of Carl, or did he hear the
laugh faintly repeated among the rocks behind
them, several seconds after his companion had disappeared.
It might be an echo merely, but the
circumstance troubled the mind of Carl, who could
not avoid thinking of it for weeks after.

8. VIII.

“At length the dreams of the dreamer gave way
to more urgent realities. He became a married
man; and his bosom was too much filled with the
thoughts of Matilda, and his eyes were too much
occupied with gazing upon her, to permit of the
intrusion of any busy ghost or wandering vision
upon either thought or sight. Marriage has a

wonderful tendency towards making men practical.
The tendency, indeed, is sometimes too direct and
rapid to be altogether pleasant. Not that this was
the case with Carl. Far from it. He was improved
in more respects than one in the change of his
condition. His mind needed some qualifying and
subduing influence to change its direction — to turn
it from the too constant contemplation of those
baseless fabrics which had heretofore but too much
occupied its regards; and to bring it back to human
necessities, and, through their medium, to the
just appreciation of merely human joys. It is no
less true than strange, that for the first three weeks
after marriage, Carl did not dream at all, as had
been, for as many years before, his nightly, and,
to speak truth, his daily custom. For three whole
weeks he lived a common man — had earthly notions
of things — addressed himself to earthly labors
— and did not once, in all that time, pay a
single visit to the ancient abbey. But when the
three weeks were over, he began again to dream,
and to wander. The old abbey again received
him as a constant visitor, and the presence of Matilda
with him did not greatly lessen his devotion
to the sanctity and superstitions of the spot.

“Perhaps, indeed, it was Matilda that somewhat
contributed to the superstitions of her husband.

She was a religious being — deeply impressed with
the spirit of faith and worship, even if she lacked
the divine intelligence which might have enabled
her to discriminate between the holy things of the
sanctuary, and those meretricious symbols, and
mocking shadows, which the arts of one class, and
the fears of another, have decreed for worship, and
declared no less holy than the true. The spirituelle
held a large place in her composition; and if
her imagination lacked the activity of Carl's, her
yielding weakness rendered her susceptible to the
full influence of his. This weakness increased the
activity of a faculty to which it was constantly appealing;
and though the terrible forms and fancies
to which the mind of Carl frequently gave birth
and performance, only drove the timorous wife
more earnestly to her prayerful devotions, she
did not seek to discourage him in a practice which
had so beneficial an effect. Unconsciously he
practised upon her fears, moving her to devoutness
through an unseemly influence; and with
equal unconsciousness on her part, her fears stimulated
his superstitious tendencies even to error, by
giving continual employment to an imagination
which daily became more and more morbidly active,
and consequently dangerous.

“Herman had now been gone for some months.
At first he wrote to them freely and frequently,
but after a while his letters grew fewer and less satisfactory,
and at length months went by without
bringing them any intelligence of their neglectful
brother. Matilda sometimes complained of this,
and thought unkindly of Herman; but Carl, like
a true friend, always found some excuse for his neglect,
in the pressure of business, and the accumulation
of other duties and friends.

“`Besides, he need not write, Matilda, when he
has nothing particular to say. No news is good
news commonly; and when a letter comes, Matilda,
you know you always dread to open it, for
fear of hearing evil. Herman will not forget us,
be sure.'

“`But he may be sick, Carl.'

“That was always a suggestion which silenced
her husband, and he felt doubly unhappy on such
occasions, as, in addition to the fear with which
such a suggestion seemed to inspire Matilda, there
was an unpleasant consciousness in his own mind
which dreadfully troubled him. At such times,
strive as he might, he could not help thinking upon
the promise which Herman had given him, and he
felt that, however he might regret the death of
his brother-in-law, such an event would be lessened

of much of its evil, if that promise could be kept.
Such thoughts he felt were criminal, and to do
Carl all justice, we should add, that he strove manfully
to resist them. But he could not resist them,
and they grew upon him. After a little while, he
thought of nothing else. He did not need the
gently-uttered fears of Matilda, who continually
spoke of her absent brother, to remind him of his
promise and of his mortality; and in his
dreams the image of that well known friend,
stretched out pale, and motionless, in the embrace
of death, came but too frequently to his mind, not
to lose, in time, many of its terrors.

9. IX.

“One pleasant afternoon, the two, Carl and Matilda,
rambled forth, according to their usual custom,
towards the ancient abbey. The sun was
just about setting, and he made a glorious descent.
His rays streamed through the broken walls by
which they walked, and they paused to contemplate
the picturesque effect of their scattered beams,
gliding among tombs, in which the dust that
once was life, and strength, and ambition, could
no longer feel their warmth. While they looked,

a cloud suddenly arose in the heavens, obscuring
and shutting out the bright glories which had won
their gaze, from the shattered walls which they had
made golden but a moment before. The sudden
clouding of the sky brought an instinctive gloom
to their mutual minds, and without seeming to
notice the absence of any connexion between the
phenomenon upon which they looked, and the object
in her thoughts, Matilda quickly remarked:

“`I hope, Carl, that nothing is the matter with
Herman.'

“Strange to say, the thought that something
was the matter with her brother, was even then
the busy thought in the mind of Carl. He replied
after a moment's pause —

“`Indeed, Matilda, I hope not.'

“A slight laugh rose from the ruins, and the
conscious soul of Carl was smitten within him.

“`Had he been sincere in the utterance of that
hope?' was the question which he asked himself
when he heard the laugh; but it was a question
which he dared not answer. Matilda did not seem
to have heard the sound which had touched him
so deeply; and he was sufficiently collected to
conceal his agitation from her. But while they
spoke together, though but a few moments had
elapsed, the cloud had veered round, and now

hung in the sky directly before them. Somehow,
this appearance affected Carl seriously. He
coupled the cloud with his own thoughts, and his
imagination grew busy in its contemplation. It
did not seem a common cloud to his eyes; and
its progress, from a speck in the pathway of the
sun, to a mantle, in whose pitchy bosom the dying
but glorious orb was to find his splendors utterly
subdued, was a marvel to a mind so subtle as his.
His fancies grew firm and strengthened when he
saw that Matilda observed the wonder also.

“`That is a strange looking cloud, Carl!' she
exclaimed — `see how it rolls — over and over —
onward and onward — and yet there is no wind.
It is coming towards us.'

“The flight of the cloud seemed to have increased
in velocity. It neared them rapidly, and
was evidently descending. When above them, it
seemed to open and to expand, and from its bosom
Carl felt the warm drops upon his face.

“`It rains!' he said, `let us go into the abbey.'

“`I feel none,' said Matilda.

“`Indeed! it is full on my cheek!'

“The eyes of Matilda turned from the floating
mass that had now passed over them, but when
her glance met the face of her husband, she
screamed in terror.

“`Father of heaven!' she exclaimed, `be with
us! Carl, my husband, your face is covered with
blood!'

“`Say not so!' he cried, `what can it mean?'
He wiped his face with his handkerchief, and the
stains were visible to his own eyes; and when he
looked down upon his garments, they, too,
were covered with the same sanguinary color.
The wonder was greater still, when they looked in
vain to find a drop upon the person of Matilda.
Yet her arm had been fast locked within his, and
the very hand which had sustained her's was sprinkled
plentifully with the stains.

10. X.

“They hurried home in consternation. The
thought of Matilda was upon her brother; and she
regarded the events of the evening as ominous
of his fate. But why did the blood stains fall only
upon her husband? Why were her garments untouched?
This was a mystery to her; but not to
Carl. He thought he could explain it, but he forbore
to speak. He dared not. His thoughts
and feelings were not what they should have been.
He was guilty, in his secret soul, of improper feelings,

if not of improper wishes, and he knew it.
Supper was soon served, and, like a good wife,
regardful only of her husband, Matilda urged Carl
to eat, for she beheld his abstractedness. He ate
without knowing that he did so. She, however,
could eat nothing, and as soon as the repast was
over, she retired for the night. But Carl felt that
there was no sleep for him; and a feverish mood,
for which he could not account, prompted him to
sally forth. He would have gone to his wife's
chamber — he tried to do so — for he knew what
were her apprehensions, and he wished to soothe
them — but he could not. Something impelled
his footsteps abroad — a spirit beyond his own
drove him forward; and with a desperate mind
he rapidly hastened to the abbey, as if there, and
there only, he should find a solution of the marvel
which had distressed him. His heart seemed
to grow strong in proportion as his thoughts grew
wilful; and without any of those tremors which
had ever before possessed him when he rambled,
with a purely mental and not a personal feeling,
among the ruins, he boldly plunged into their recesses.

“The night was a clear, but not a bright one.
The stars were not numerous, but they were unclouded.
The air was still, and was only now

and then apparent in a slight breathing, as it came
through some little crevices in the wall. The silence
of the place was complete — was its solitude
complete also? Carl asked of himself the question,
as he walked beneath the massive archway of the
fabric — still solid and strong, though broken and
impending; for, the masons of old, wrought, not
less to make their works live than to live themselves.
They live, like all good workmen, in
their labors. The roof, broken in many places,
let in the scattered starlight, and sufficiently,
though imperfectly, revealed to him the place.
He went forward, full of sad and truant thoughts.
He took his seat upon one end of a dilapidated
stone which had often sustained him before. His
elbows rested upon his knees, and his hands supported
his head. It was in this posture that he
mused with feelings which sometimes brought him
back to impulses and a course of reflection not
unworthy of his better nature. They reproached
him with the heartlessness of his curiosity, as if it
were not the tendency of mind always — great mind,
which overlooks the time, and lives for God, and
for the species — to disregard nice affections, and
the tender blossoms which decay.

“`Herman, Herman!' he exclaimed, `I have
been unworthy of thee. Thou hast loved me
with the love of a brother, while I have thought

of thee even as the ancient augur of the victim,
which he slaughtered for unholy wisdom! I have
prayed in my secret soul — I have prayed for thy
death — that I might have improper knowledge.'

“Again did a slight laugh come to his ears.
He looked up with a shudder. A small blue light
crawled along upon the opposite wall, like some
slimy reptile, and while Carl watched its progress
with solemn interest, the laugh was repeated
almost beside him. He started, and almost at the
same moment he felt one side of him grow chill.
A breath of ice seemed to penetrate him from the
east. He turned his eyes in that quarter, and the
spectacle that then met his gaze paralyzed every
faculty of his body. The form of Herman Ottfried
was there, sitting beside him on the other
end of the grave stone. He could not speak —
he could not move. His eyes were riveted upon
the spectre, and the glare which was sent back
from those of the unearthly visitant, was that of
hell. A scornful leer was in it — a giggling hate
— a venomous but laughing malice.

“`Her — Her — Herman!' Carl tried to speak,
but a monosyllable was all that he could utter.

“`Ha, ha, ha!' The vaulted abbey rang
with the echoes of that infernal laugh.

“`Mercy! mercy!' screamed the unhappy
Carl, as he lifted his hands and strove to close his

eyes against the dreadful presence. But the
elbows refused to bend — he could not raise them.
His knees in the mean time gave way, and he
sank senselessly upon the damp ground of the
abbey.

11. XI.

“When he unclosed his eyes, which he did
in the fullest consciousness of his situation, and
consequently in the extremest terror, he was rejoiced
to find himself alone. The grave stone, at
the foot of which he lay, was untenanted. The
abbey was silent, and though he dreaded, at every
step which he took while making his way out, to
hear the dreadful laugh, and to behold the hellish
visage, he yet suffered no farther interruption
while in the abbey. When he had left it, however,
and was about to enter the main street of the village,
he was encountered by a drunken man.

“`Hallo, friend!' exclaimed the bacchanal,
`whither so fast? Stop and hear a song — stop
and be merry.'

“And, in the voice of one satisfied with himself
and all the world, the drinker carolled with
tolerable skill, one of those famous dithyrambics
in which the German muse has frequently excelled.

The eye of the unhappy Carl was turned, half
in hope, and half in despair, upon the man. He
had heard of the soporific effects of wine — of its
ability to drown care, and produce a sweet forgetfulness
of his sorrow, and he felt inclined to the
temptation; but a sudden thought of Matilda shot
through his brain, at that lucky instant, like an
arrow. He knew not the lateness of the hour, and
was ignorant how long he had been from her.
He knew that he had swooned away, and knew
not how long he had remained in his stupor. It
might be near daylight, and what, — if such were
the case, — what must be her fears? Domestic
love came to his succor, and he rejected the overtures
of the bacchanalian, who nevertheless continued
to pursue him. He followed the unhappy
Carl to his very door, now persuading, and now
striving to provoke him by every manner of taunt
and sarcasm, to partake of the intoxicating cup
which he proffered. But the sufferer was firm,
though more than once it came to his thought that
wine was good against sorrow. He was not yet
so deficient, however, in other resources, as to fly
to this doubtful succedaneum.

12. XII.

“It was not so late as Carl had fancied it, and
his wife was still awake. He had not been away
much longer than was his wont, when he went
forth on his usual evening rambles; and though
she had suffered from his absence, yet it was not
through any apprehensions for his safety. Still
she had no complaints, and the pleasure in her
eyes when he did return, was, probably, one of the
best arguments against his wandering forth again.
She was still melancholy and apprehensive, and
when she observed the anguish, not to say the
agony, which was apparent in every feature of his
face, her apprehensions underwent a corresponding
increase.

“`What is the matter, Carl? What was troubled
you?' she demanded of him in agitated accents.

“`Nothing, nothing!' with an effort, he made
out to reply.

“`It is something — something terrible, dearest
husband — your cheeks are haggard, your
eyes are wild — you tremble all over. Tell me,
tell me, my husband, what is it that troubles you.'

“`Nothing,' he again replied — `return to your
bed,' (she had risen when she beheld his face,)
`return to your bed and heed me not. I will be
better soon.'

“He quieted, if he did not satisfy her. She
returned to the couch as he bade her; and he
prepared to follow her. But there was one duty
which he omitted that night, which, from his childhood,
he had never neglected to perform before.
He did not pray. He strove to do so, but his
mind could not be brought to address itself in supplication.
He forgot the words; and others, foreign
to his object, took their places. He gave up
the effort in despair. He could think of nothing
but the terrible laugh, and the demoniac visage
which had met him in the abbey. All the next
day he was like one whose senses wandered. His
wife strove to soothe his mood, which was fitful —
and to attract his attention, which strayed continually;
but he smiled upon her kindly, with a sickly
smile, and gave no farther acknowledgment. As
night approached he grew visibly agitated, and as
he became conscious that his efforts at concealment
were unavailing, he sought his chamber, to
hide in its dimness what he might not otherwise
conceal. But his agony seemed to increase with his
solitude. Dreadful images were about him in his

chamber, and a chuckle, like that he had heard in
the abbey, was uttered, at intervals, even over his
shoulder. He descended to the apartment in
which he had left Matilda, preferring that she
should see the agony that he could not endure
alone. But her presence gave him no consolation,
and her solicitude became an annoyance.

“`Trouble me no more!' he exclaimed, in tones
which she had never heard from his lips before,
replying to one of her fond appeals to know the
cause of his sufferings. `Trouble me no more —
it is nothing — nothing which I may tell you.'

“She turned from him in sorrow not less deep,
though less acute than his, and the tears filled
her eyes. His heart reproached him as he beheld
her action, and readily conceived her pain; but
there was a wilful impulse in his bosom, which refused
to permit of his making the usual atonement.
Sullen and sad, he glowered about the
apartment 'till night came on, and supper was announced,
when Matilda saw that his agitation was
visibly increasing. With the meek and blessing
spirit of an angel, forgetting the harsh rebuff
which he had given her, she approached him —
threw her fond arms about his neck, and implored
him to smile again upon her. He tried to do so
but the effort produced only a ghastly grin, no

less shocking to her eyes than the effort had been
irksome to his mind. He went to the supper table,
and, unobserved by him, her glance watched
him while he strove to eat. He left the table in
horror, for the face of Herman stared at him from
the plate. There was no hope of escape from the
pursuing fiend, and the unhappy Carl rushed out
of the house. Where should he go?

“`To the abbey! to the abbey! I will speak
— I will demand its meaning. I will know and
hear all. If it be Herman, in truth — my brother
and my friend —'

“`Ha! ha! ha!'

“The infernal laugh was at his elbow. He
turned in desperation to behold — not the gorgon
stare which had so terrified him in the abbey,
but a face rather good natured than otherwise —
the face of the bacchanalian who had encountered
him on the preceding night. A mischievous grin
was upon the features of the stranger, whose broad
mouth and little twinkling eyes, with the fat, hanging
cheek, and the red and pimpled nose, seemed
the very personification of fun and frolic. Not a feature
in his face appeared of demoniac origin. The
subtle malignity of the satanic attributes were entirely
wanting, and in place of them, reckless mirth,
indifferent to all matters but good cheer, was the

prevailing expression. But the laugh! That,
certainly, had been very like the laugh he had
heard in the abbey. No two sounds could have
seemed more alike to the ears of Carl. A new
thought entered his mind with this conviction.
This drunken fellow might have been the proprietor
of the former laugh, as he certainly was of
that which he had just heard. To him might be
ascribed the design to frighten himself and Herman.
When he looked into the cunning, merry,
blubber-face of the reveller, conjecture became
conviction. `It must be so!' said Carl, half aloud.

“`To be sure it must,' exclaimed the other.
`We will have a glass together now, though you
did refuse to be a good fellow last night. Come.
Here's old Dietrich hard by. I can answer for
his liquors, though I cannot for his conscience. I
believe in the one, and — damn the other. Come,
my friend, let's try him.'

“Carl was half disposed to be civil with the
stranger. The notion which had suddenly possessed
him that he and the ghost of the abbey were
one and the same person, brought a singular relief
to his mind; and he was half persuaded to forgive
him the impertinence of the fright which he had
received, in consideration of the solution of the
mystery which the conjecture brought. The

stranger pressed him, expatiating upon the sweets
of wine, and the luxury of good company.

“`Wine,' says he — `wine, Carl —'

“`How the devil does he know my name!'
thought Carl to himself, but he did not say it.

“`Damn my instinct,' said the other — `I find
it the hardest thing in the world not to know,
what, indeed, it is not necessary that I should
know.'

“`What do you mean?' said Carl.

“`Oh, nothing — I was only regretting that
my passion for wine — I had almost thought it an
instinct — should sometimes make me indifferent
to the sort of company I fall in with. Here, I've
been on the eve of eulogizing the rich Hochheimer
to you, who are a judge, doubtless, of the
noble beverage, simply because, in my intercourse
with mankind, I meet hourly with so many to
whom the eulogy is a sort of key to their tastes,
that it is now almost habitual with me to dwell
upon it. To you, however, any idle talk upon
the merits and effects of good wine would be only
an impertinence.'

“`I am no judge — I drink little,' said Carl,
to whom the seduction of appearing more than he
was, or of knowing more than he did, had always
been a very small one.

“`You belie yourself,' said the stranger — `I
know that you are a judge — I see it in your face.
Come with me — you shall give me your opinion
of the wine of Dietrich.'

“`Nay, you must excuse me,' said Carl.

“`Can't — never excuse a man from his wine,'
said the other, bluntly. `Excuse a milk-sop, of
course — but never a man.' And as he finished
a sarcasm which has led thousands of goodly young
men to their ruin, he familiarly took the arm of
Carl to lead him forward to the tavern. But Carl
was not vain of being esteemed manly in this respect.
His philosophy was that of an English
poet, whom he never read:

and he gently, but firmly refused.

“`Why, man,' said the other, `Am I then
mistaken in you. I thought you a good fellow,
who loved good company, good wine, and a good
story —'

“`Good story!' exclaimed Carl, touched in
the right place.

“`Ay, a good story — a tale of the mountains
— of the miners, and the red demons of the mines
— the gnomes and the salamanders.'

“`Have you, indeed, such stories?' inquired
Carl, now rather curious.

“`Ay, that have I, and, nearer home, of the
old abbey here. I can tell you a ghost story of
those ruins, that 'll make every hair of your head
stand on end.'

“Carl hesitated and lingered, and his companion
laughed at his hesitation. That laugh chilled
him — it reminded him of what he had been willing
to forget. It reminded him of the face of Herman
— the ghastly grin upon his lips, and the
dreadful laugh — so like to that of the stranger,
which he had then heard. He broke away from
the arm which held him.

“`Not now,' said he, `you must excuse me.
I have business to attend to.' And with these
words, amid the curses and the derision of his companion,
he hurried forward to the abbey.

13. XIII.

“A spell, whose power seemed to be irresistible,
prompted him in the direction which he took. A
will, superior to his own, yet compassing and controlling
it entirely, drove him onward to the abbey.
What proper motive had he there? None.

His duties were all elsewhere — with his wife —
in his own home. What could he gain to see
once more the dreadful spectre which had affrighted
him? An unholy curiosity stimulated the answer
to this question. Knowledge — Knowledge.
To know that which is forbidden — to win the secrets
of two worlds — was the hope of Carl, as it
has been the unwise hope of thousands. He did
not remember, while he indulged this vain desire,
that the `tree of knowledge, is not that of life;'
still less can it be said to be that of happiness.
Thought is not often happiness; and where thought
takes the wings of the imagination, and strives
ever after the ideal, it is too apt to be torture and
strife, as it must finally be death. Death, indeed
— death and time are the grand illuminators. To
wait is to be wise. Alas! for Carl — he had not
only to wait but to endure.

“`I must pluck up courage!' he mentally exclaimed.
`I demanded to see him; I must not
shrink from the encounter. Let him speak to me —
let him say he is happy — and I will ask no more.'

“What right had he to ask so much? Were
it his right, would it not be revealed? Would the
just God withhold from him a right? He did not
ask himself these questions, for Carl, like all of
his species, was but too apt to contemplate, through

the medium of a shallow vanity, the deity in his
own heart, as if the dwelling-place of fears and
feebleness, of vain caprices and false-founded passions,
could ever be the home of divinity.

“He entered the abbey walls — he trod among
the crumbling ruins, but his heart shook within
him. Again he sat upon the tomb-stone — again
did the sudden and sinuous light crawl before him
upon the walls. He felt the chill enter and curdle
the blood within his bosom, and he knew that the
spectre was sitting at his side. He dared not look
round upon him. He almost sank upon the
ground; but the resolve of his mind sustained him,
and he tried to compose himself.

“`Why should I fear?' he said in his thoughts.
`If it be Herman, he will not harm me — if it be
not Herman, what other has claim upon me!'

“As if the spectre had seen his heart, and in
this manner commented upon its fears and weakness,
the dreadful laugh which had so shocked him
before, was again repeated. The blood ran cold
in the bosom of the mortal, but his firmness had
not departed. The resolve was still in his mind,
and after a brief pause, in which he struggled successfully
with his terrors, he turned his eye boldly
to behold the spectre. The same dreadful presence
met his glance as on the preceding night. But the

novelty had passed away, and with it some of the
terrors. He felt that he could now survey it, distinctly,
resolutely, if not calmly. He did survey
it — and what a spectacle! The face was that of
his friend, that of Herman Ottfried, indeed; but,
oh! how different. It was the face of his brother
and his friend, but in place of the gentleness and
good nature that made its prevailing expression
heretofore, the features were all hell-stamped — the
skin was all hell-dyed and darkened. Carl nearly
fainted — his heart seemed to wither within him as
he gazed. But he continued to gaze. His resolve,
built upon high, but erring, moral purpose — was
not now to be shaken. Nor, indeed, could he do
otherwise than gaze. The eyes of the spectre,
like those of the fabled basilisk, rivetted his own.
The glare which shot from them, like a yellow vapor,
seemed to exercise upon him the power of a
spell. He gazed till he was infatuated; yet he
writhed all the while beneath the scornful malignity
of the spectre's glance.

“`What would you with me?' he screamed,
rather than spoke. He could easier scream than
speak; and the words were scarcely intelligible to
his own ears. He was once more answered by
that infernal laugh. He shivered as he heard it,
but it did not increase his terrors. It rather made
him indignant.

“`Who are you?' he cried, in tones more temperate,
and with a spirit even more resolved than
before. `Who are you? — what are you? I
know you not.'

“`Herman — thy friend — he for whose death
thou pray 'dst, that thou might 'st possess his
secret. Would'st thou not hear it?'

“Such was the terrifying response of the spectre
whom he had summoned.

“`Thou liest!' cried Carl, boldly. `I uttered
no such prayer.'

“`Thou did'st,' was the prompt reply, `in thy
heart thou did'st, and thy prayer is granted.
Herman Ottfried is no more — he is beside thee.'

“`I believe thee not!' was the courageous reply.
`My friend still lives; and if he did not, I
would not believe that such as thou seemest, and
art, should be his representative. He is good, and
thou —'

“`Art damned! — thou would'st say!' and the
spectre concluded his sentence — `And thou say'st
truly, Carl Werner. I am as thou say'st. Yet,
look once more upon these features, and, blasted
and blackened as they appear to thee, say if they
are not those of him who was thy friend — of him
who was Herman Ottfried.'

“`I believe thee not!' cried Carl, trembling
all over.

“`Thou shalt — thou dost believe me, Carl
Werner,' replied the spectre. `Thou know'st
that I am he. Did I not pledge myself to meet
thee — to tell thee all — to give thee intelligence
— to ease thy curiosity? I am come. I am ready.
Art thou willing — art thou prepared to hear?'

“`Not from thee — not from thee!' cried Carl,
in agony. `Away! leave me — trouble me not
with thy falsehoods. My friend is living — Herman
Ottfried, I know, still lives; and if he did not,
thou never couldst have been the spirit which filled
his frame, and gave impulse to his actions. He
had no malice such as glares from thine eyes — he
had no foul passions such as hang about thy lips.'

“`Thou reasonest like a child, Carl Werner.
Hear me and believe. The first truth is death —
the second judgment. Mortality is a state of
dreams and shows — presentments which impose
only on mortal senses. We throw off all disguises
for the first time, when we arrive at the first truth,
which we never know until death. We acquire
all truth when we reach the higher form of judgment.
In death, we know for the first time what
we are and have been — in judgment, we know
what we shall be.'

“`Then thou canst tell me nothing,' said Carl,
fearlessly — yet trembling all the while.

“`Yes — I can tell thee what I am!' exclaimed
the spectre in reply; but it needed no words to
unfold that which was but too clearly discernible in
the blasted and blasting expression of his countenance
as he thus replied. Carl saw this expression,
and the shudder that shook his frame
sufficiently apprized the spectre that it was unnecessary
for him to relate that which the quick imagination
of Carl so readily conceived. He grinned
fearfully as he witnessed the tremblings of his
mortal companion, and the malicious and hateful
expression re-aroused the courage of the youth.

“`Yet, though I cannot but see that thou art
one of the damned and blasted of heaven — one of
the thrice blasted perchance —.'

“`Thou art right!' exclaimed the spectre, while
lurid fires of a hellish agony seemed to kindle in,
and to dart forth from his eye — `thou art right; I
am indeed, one of the thrice — ay, one of the seventy
times seventy times damned of the Eternal;
and I defy him amid all his fires.'

“He paused as he spoke these words, and his
clenched hands were lifted in air, and thrust upwards,
as if he would do battle even at that moment
with the deity. Carl shuddered and shrunk
from the fearful presence; but his soul grew

strengthened within him in due proportion to the
revoltings which he felt at such foul blasphemy.

“I believe thee!' he exclaimed, and his own
clasped hands were raised in prayer while he continued
— `I believe thee; but I believe not that
thou art Herman Ottfried — it is impossible — I
believe not that he is dead.'

“`Thou shalt have confirmation to-morrow.
His blood was upon thee yesterday — his shadow
is before thee now. Dost thou not believe me —
wilt not thou hear some of the secrets which thou
didst once so desire to know. Where is thy curiosity
— where is thy thirst, Carl, after knowledge?
Has thy marriage changed thy nature, and art
thou willing to be the mere cur of the household,
and forego that noble ambition which made thee
seek after wisdom, as if it were life — as if it
were more than life to thee — as if it were happiness?
Is it happiness to thee no longer? Is thy
sense dulled for its enjoyment? Go to, Carl, I
had not thought this of thee. Go to thy wife —
get from her the needle and the net-work, and find
in her example thy fitting employment. Thou
hast not the soul for my secret — thou wouldst fear
to hear it.'

“`Fiend — foul fiend, and bitter devil!' cried
the fierce Carl, provoked by the taunting of the

spectre beside him — `I fear thee not, though I
would not have thy secret. I hold thee to be a
cheat, and thou but slanderest the noble spirit of
my friend. Have at thy throat, monster, in the
name of heaven and its blessed ministers. Have
at thy throat! and let the great God of the heavens
and the earth determine between us.'

“`Ha, ha, ha!' was the only response of the
spectre as Carl uttered these words. The replication
of the crumbling walls to the infernal laugh
was tremendous; but it did not shake the desperate
courage of Carl Werner. He sprang upon
his glowering and grinning enemy, with outstretched
arms and fingers, and he aimed to clutch
the fearful image — not a whit alarmed at the increasing
fiendishness of its aspect — by the throat;
but the object melted in his embrace, at the moment
when it seemed most secure. His arms
grasped his own body; and, stunned with confused
thoughts and defeated passion, the unhappy
Carl gazed around him in a stupor, which was
not at all diminished as he found himself alone.

14. XIV.

“To a certain extent, this stupor brought with it
a desirable insensibility. He trembled no longer.

He was almost reckless. A reaction in his mind
had taken place, and from having been one whom
every thing before, however slight, could startle,
he was now one whom nothing could affect or
move. He rushed through the abbey. He thrust
his fearless head into all its recesses — into tombs
and niches, cells, and ruinous and long untrodden
apartments, with most admirable indiscretion. He
summoned his tormentor from the places in which
he had hidden himself, and defied the presence
which he invoked. But all was silent; and, exhausted
with fatigue, and chafed with his disappointment,
Carl at length departed from the abbey
in hopeless despondency. The next day, even as
the spectre had predicted, he received the fatal intelligence
of the death of Herman. This news
was but too confirmatory of what he had seen and
felt. It gave life and body to his fears. The
grief of Matilda was great, but it would be vain
to undertake to describe that of her husband. To
her, his agony — dearly, as she well knew, he loved
her brother — seemed strange and unaccountable.
She little dreamed of the nightly revelations which
were made to his senses. With a praiseworthy
sense of propriety and a manly tenderness, he had
carefully withheld from her, though still longing
to reveal, the fearful secret which he possessed.
But how could he say to her that he had seen her
brother, or seen him as he was — a thing upon
whom the curse of God had fallen, and who had
been delivered over by his judgment to the awful
ministers of eternal wrath. He felt that he must
keep his secret, and bear with its horrible burden
as best he might. But, as evening drew nigh, the
horrors of his heart grew less and less supportable.
He felt that he must again perform his vigil.
He must again repair to the place of his trial and
his torture; and this, by a secret conviction of his
mind, he felt must be done, until he had courage
to hear, and was willing to believe, all the horrible
intelligence which the spectre might think proper
to convey. He had bound himself solemnly to
the meeting, and he could not shrink from the
terms of his pledge. Yet, where and when was it
to end? This was the dreadful question which his
soul answered in utter hopeless ness.

“`In my death. Yet it will end soon, for I
cannot stand this strife much longer.'

“Such were his thoughts and words; and their
truth would readily be believed by those who were
conscious of the sudden and singular change which
had taken place in his person. All the villagers
remarked it. He was haggard and listless — he

saw and heeded nobody — he moved through the
streets like a ghost, and Matilda — the beloved
wife of his affections — no longer filled his heart,
and commanded the devotion of his eye. She
strove to find out the secret of his sorrows, and to
soothe them. But vainly would the physician seek
to heal, while he remains ignorant of the cause of
the distemper. We must lay bare the wound to
extract the poison; and in the purity of her soul
she did not even imagine the horrible nature of
that secret which was preying upon his. Her efforts
were in vain. Night came on, and though
she strove to keep him at home, the spell was too
powerful to permit her to succeed.

“`Where is it you go, dearest Carl? Why,
night after night, will you go forth in so much sorrow,
and with features so wild, so full of apprehension;
and when you return — so full of horror —
so haggard — so dreadful? Tell me, dear husband,
whither it is you go, and why it is you suffer
in this manner.'

“`Nay, do not heed me, dearest,' said the unhappy
man, with a gentleness of manner which
made his sorrows only the more touching — `do not
trouble yourself about me. I have busy and vexing
thoughts, and shall not look well until they are

digested into form. When I resolve them, then
will I remain with you, and be at peace.'

“`What thoughts are they?' she demanded;
but he smiled, and answered her evasively.

“`Ask me not — not now,' he replied, and resisting
her solicitations to be allowed to go forth
with him, he rushed out of the house. She followed
him to the door, and looked after him in the
street; and her own apprehensions were greatly
increased as she beheld the erratic impulse of his
movement, and the feebleness of his step — the one
betokening the disorder of his mind, the other the
debility of his body. While she looked and trembled,
with the big tear gathering slowly in her eye
and stealing silently to her cheek, the accents of a
mild but strange voice met her ears at a small distance,
and, turning, she beheld an old man standing
before her. He was a stranger to her, and
evidently a stranger in the place, since his air and
costume were very different from any that she had
ever before seen. His beard was long and white
like silver, and hung down neatly smooth and
clean upon his bosom; his hair, equally long, and
not less white, streamed with similar smoothness
down his back and shoulders. It was evident that
he was a person of very great age, yet his skin
was clear, of a pure white and red, and unmarked

by a single wrinkle. His mouth was small, and
wore a sweet expression, and his eyes were full of
benevolence. He carried a little staff, and a bundle
which probably contained a single change of raiment
— it certainly could not have held more; and
he seemed like some venerable traveller, who had
an unconquerable desire for travel, and had learned
to narrow his wants to the smallest possible limits,
consistent with the superior claims of an intellectual
nature.

“`Daughter,' he said, `Peace be with you.
Can you give me shelter and food for the night?
I am a stranger, and would abide with you.'

“The heart of Matilda, like that of Carl, was
open as day, and the stranger most probably had
seen in her countenance that he would not be refused;
for, even as he spoke, he prepared to enter.
He was not deceived in the person he addressed.
With a sweet voice, full of respect — for his venerable
white hairs had impressed Matilda with a
proper and gentle awe — she bade him welcome,
and having closed the door — after giving a long
lingering look to the form of her husband, who
was rapidly passing from her sight — she led the
way for her aged guest, into an inner apartment.
There she spread before him the simple repast
from which the unhappy Carl had fled. The old

man blessed the bread ere he broke it, and blessed
the giver. He then ate heartily, and at intervals
conversed with Matilda, who sat with him at the
table, though she ate nothing. Her heart was too
full of doubt and sorrow to suffer her to eat, and
while her guest spoke, the tears gathered unbidden,
and without her consciousness, to her eyes. He
saw them.

“`Daughter, you weep — you are unhappy.
Why is it — what is your sorrow.'

“`Alas! father, are we not born to sorrows.
Is there one who escapes?'

“`True, my child — sorrow is human, and to
grieve is the attribute of man, and perhaps his
blessing. They are blest who can weep. God
loveth those whom he chasteneth; for it is through
trial only that we gain virtue, and through virtue
only that we gain heaven. The untried are the
unblessed, for then is the work harder for them,
and the prospect of virtue more remote. Such,
my daughter, is not your case. The fire even
now is purifying you, and if you grieve, you do not
murmur. Sorrow, like a goodly medicine that is
to work for our healing, must be submitted to
without murmuring. Whence come your sorrows,
my daughter — let me know them. I have travelled
much among men, and I know many of the

arts of healing. I have some skill which I may
boast, in curing those hurts of the mind which
come from our indiscretions, and are to be healed
by our humility. Let me know what grieves you,
and hear to my counsel.”

“`I grieve not for myself, my father, so much
as for one that I love — my husband.'

“`You are married then?'

“`I am, and to one of the best of men; but he
is thoughtful even to sadness, and I fear that his
thoughts are sometimes too vexing for his mind,
which they very much disorder. Something
troubles him very greatly even now, and before
you came he went forth in deep anxiety, which it
was painful to me to behold. He will be away
until near midnight, or even after; and when he
returns, it will seem that some dreadful strife hath
shaken him — his face will be pale as if with sudden
fright — his eyes wild, staring, almost starting
from their sockets, and his whole appearance that
of a man almost distraught.'

“`And how long hath he been troubled in this
wise, my daughter?' demanded the aged stranger.

“`But a few days,' Matilda readily replied; for
there was something so encouraging in the appearance
of the old man, that, although a woman
rather disposed to reserve in her manners, she felt

that she could have freely told him every secret
of her bosom.

“`But a few days — and before this time, he
hath shown none of these habits?'

“`None, father — none of this wildness and affliction.
He hath been thoughtful ever, and fond
of sad thoughts, — but he hath never been wild
and stern as he is now, and never did he go abroad
in this fashion after the night.'

“`You tell me of one,' said the stranger, after a
brief pause given to thought — `You tell me of
one who hath done a sudden wrong, and whom a
just conscience is smiting sorely; or, one, perchance,
who is fond of his error, or, from a false
and unseemly pride, who persisteth in it.'

“`Oh, no, father — I cannot think it. Carl
would never wrong human being. He is the most
just and honorable of our village — that everybody
says of him.'

“`That may be, my daughter, but is there no
wronging of God and of one's self — which is also
a wronging of God, as it perverts the service of the
creature from the place and power to which it is
due. Can you tell me that Carl Werner has not
done this.'

“Matilda tried to think, before she answered,
whether she had mentioned her husband's name.

She did not recollect having done so, and yet the
old man had pronounced it. Before she could resolve
this thought or reply, the stranger continued:

“`It is always a bad sign to see one, on a sudden,
depart from a good habit, my daughter. You
say that your husband seldom or never went forth
at night, but always preferred to remain at home,
until now.'

“`Yes, father, — but it is with evident reluctance
that he now leaves me. It is like tearing
himself away that he rushes out of the house, soon
after nightfall, and goes off I know not where.'

“`To return miserable,' said the old man. `To
bring him back to an old habit, my daughter, is
probably to give him the peace of mind which you
say he seems to lack. Have you striven to keep
him at home, my daughter, since you have seen
the evil of this habit?'

“`I have, my father, but without success,' was
the reply.

“`You must do it,' said the old man with vehemence
— `you must do it. A good wife, who
loves her husband, and is beloved by him, has a
thousand sweet arts of persuasion which will not
fail to procure from him her wishes. Your husband
loves you.'

“`Of a truth, I think it.'

“`Then, my daughter, if you love him, you
shall not fail to persuade him, if you seek to do it.
You must keep him at home. He must not go
abroad. These nightly wanderings make his infirmity.
They prove that he is subject to some
evil influence, which thus exacts his obedience,
and imposes upon him this form of service. You,
and you alone, can save him; for, as the evil influence
strives through the powers of hate, it can
only be safely contended with by the powers of
love. This is the war which is ever going on between
the two great principles by which the world
is divided. You must prove that the principle of
love in your bosom is stronger than that of hate in
the enemy of your husband. Can you prove this,
my daughter; for, unless you can, Carl Werner is
lost to you forever, as he certainly will soon be lost
to himself.'

“`I can — I will!' cried the devoted wife, with
terror and love both equally mingled in her countenance;
for the words of the venerable old man
had deeply impressed her, and a something in his
air and manner assured her that he was worthy of
all confidence.

“`I can — I will, my father — only tell me
what I shall do — how work — what say.'

“`Love needs no counsellor, my daughter, for

it is God's nature, and is by instinct wise. True
love, I speak of; and not the idle fancies which
the profligate and vain have misnamed love. If
you love Carl Werner with a true wife's love, you
will seek that he should be always with you — you
will seek to make him happy. These are your
present tasks. You must begin by keeping him
from this wandering habit. He must not go forth
again at night — for he flies from the principle of
love, to pay homage to the principle of hate.
Withdraw him from that foul worship, and he is
safe, and you are both happy.'

“It would be needless to dwell upon, or to detail,
the farther dialogue which then took place
between the young wife and her venerable guest.
It is sufficient to say that the longer she listened to
to his counsel, the more she became impressed with
its force, and with the necessity for its adoption.
While she heard him she had no wish for sleep,
and hours seemed to pass away like minutes until
the clock struck the midnight hour, and she then
grew more than ever alarmed at the absence of
her husband. She was desirous of putting into
use and exercise the advice which the old man
had given her, and would have sallied forth, even
then, to look after him, when the stranger dissuaded
her from it

“`Do you remain,' he said, `while I go forth
and seek him.'

“`You!' — she said — `no, father, you are too
old and feeble, and your limbs are weary with the
long day's travel.'

“He rose, as she spoke these words, and as he
moved over the floor, she was answered. Where
had those aged limbs acquired that strength and
elasticity which they now exhibited?

“`But you know not where to seek him, my
father.'

“He smiled; and she did not doubt, when she
beheld that smile, that the aged man knew better
where to find her husband than she did herself.
He paused as he crossed the threshold, and bidding
her be of good cheer, he blessed the house
and departed.

15. XV.

“Meanwhile, what of Carl Werner? With a
fearful instinct he proceeded, upon leaving his
dwelling, to the place of meeting with the spectre.
Vainly did he strive against the fascination which
impelled him to seek the abbey. Why should he
so wilfully seek that which was so full of torture?

He had now no wish to hear the revelations of the
dead — he had no thought, certainly, to profit by
them, when brought by one whose very presence
was so terrific; still less did he desire to owe his
knowledge to a source so foul and fearful. These
were his thoughts, nor his thoughts merely.
These were his frequent resolves throughout the
day. `I will not go to-night,' his lips muttered
at all hours; yet, with the coming of evening, his
good resolutions failed him. A power which he
strove vainly to resist, drove him onward; and like
the criminal, reluctant yet compelled, he appeared
regularly at the appointed hour at the summons of
his tyrant. Carl felt that there was a judgment in
all this. He felt that it was a decree of heaven
against him for the unholy feelings and desires of
his heart. Yet, where, and when, and how, was
this to end? He dared not think! His knees
trembled beneath him as he put this question to
himself, and felt, with the increasing weakness
and misery of every moment, that it could end
only in his death.

“This conviction was despair. Despair has its
strength, but it is the strength accorded by a demon
at a fearful price. The price was hope and
peace — the penalty was the loss of two lives —
the life of the present, and the life to come. Carl

felt that they were already gone, and all his
thoughts were now given to the demon. The
principle of hate grew active in his fears, and the
principle of love grew feebler and feebler, in the
continual decay of his hopes. The strife was not
only against Carl Warner, but it was against the
sweet young wife of his bosom. He felt it to be
so, himself, as he found himself continually laboring
not to think of her.

“We need not say, that in the abbey that night,
the same hour of torture was passed by Carl, in
company with the demon, as before. The belief
that his friend was the victim and the slave of hell,
sent forth by the infernal monarch to perform a
duty which he dared not disobey, was the racking
conviction to Carl. Vainly he demanded of the
spectre to disavow the features he had assumed.
His prayer was idle. Would the principle of
hate yield up his chief vantage ground? As well
might he implore indulgence from that power,
whose only office is punishment. He raved to the
demon — defied his malice, and vainly flattered
himself that the passion which he showed to his
tormentor, was, in reality, a re-assertion of his virtue.
Thus do men hourly chain themselves with
their own sophisms. The very tumult in his soul,
and the violence of his lips, as they sprang from a

feeling of hostility, were, in truth, only so many
tributes to the principle of hate. The fearless
calm, the gentle earnestness of love, were not in
his heart. It was rather a place of fears and strife;
and every moment of his paroxysm, increased the
number of avenues through which sin might enter
and perpetuate its sway. The conflict nearly destroyed
the mortal. Almost exhausted, Carl
rushed from the ruins; and, this time, he left the
demon squat upon the tomb-stone, where he had
sat all the time of their conference, glowing and
grinning at the agony, and yelling forth his dreadful
laughter, as he beheld the flight of the victim.

16. XVI.

“Carl was not permitted to reach his home in
peace. A group of revellers stood in his path
as he was about to enter the village. They
danced and sang at his approach, and soon gathered
around him with tumultuous cries. They
sang in his ears the praises of revelry, and invited
him to join them.

“`Be not churlish, brother,' was the cry —
`why cherish care? why mate with sorrow? why
deny thyself to live? The wine, the wine, boys,

and here's health and a fresh heart to our new
companion.'

“Carl envied them their felicity; and their
language, for the first time in his life, seemed
sweet in his ears. Hitherto, he had led the life of
an abstemious and wholly studious youth, rejecting
utterly those noisy and spendthrift pleasures
which are so apt to lead astray the young. He
began to think that he had erred in his practice,
and had been guilty of injustice to a class of persons
who were a great deal wiser than himself.
The torments which he had just undergone, prepared
him for this way of thinking. He hesitated,
murmured, looked vacantly around him, and
they took him gently by the arm, and renewed
their solicitations. Among the foremost of these,
he now recognized the bacchanalian who had before
assailed him. But he was not intoxicated on
this occasion; and while he spoke with the words
and warmth of a boon companion, his language
was carefully chosen and gently insinuating. Carl
began to yield; his eyes were already turned in
longing upon the tavern — his feet were at the
guidance of the individual we have just spoken
of — in his thought, the indulgence of wine began
to assume the appearance of a leading and necessary
object: and in another moment the powers of

evil would have made large strides towards the
possession of their victim, when another hand
pressed the arm of Carl Werner, and a gentle,
but strange voice, in his ears pronounced the
name of his wife.

“`Matilda — she waits you, Carl — she suffers
at your long absence. Will you not go to her?'

“The old man whom we have seen setting forth
from the house of the wife in search of the husband,
stood at his elbow. He had come in time. His
words operated like magic, and Carl broke away
from his conductors.

“`Matilda — my wife — my poor wife!' he exclaimed
— `Yes — let me go to her.'

If the words of the aged man were so quick and
powerful to move Carl Werner, his presence seemed
to have no less an effect upon those who sought
to lead the youth astray. They shrank away
from the stranger with hisses, and though reviling
him, they still fled. Carl was surprised at this,
and the more surprised and horror stricken
when he distinguished among the howls and hisses
of the flying crew, the horrible laugh which
had so much haunted him before. The old man
took no heed of their clamor, but composedly
conversed with Carl while they proceeded to the
lodgings of the latter, with all the calmness and

ease of one whom a confidence of superiority keeps
from anger towards an inferior, as certainly as it
protects from harm.

17. XVII.

“Carl felt better and happier in the embraces of
his wife when he reached home, than he had felt
for some days before. The principle of love was
reviving within him. The conversation of their
aged guest contributed largely to this improvement.
They could not but acknowledge the influence
which they could not but feel. Yet he
could scarcely be said to converse. His words
seemed so many laws settling doubts and silencing
controversy. He spoke from authority—from
an authority, seemingly, even beyond that of strong
common sense and great experience. Carl was
surprised and pleased to find himself able to listen
to his words; and though the terrible strifes which
he had recently undergone were still busy in his
mind, he yet found pleasure in his new companion.
Much of the old man's conversation seemed,
indeed, to be intended for his particular case. He
spoke of the `various encounters to which mortals
were subject. The necessity of confidence in

heaven's justice—the willingness to wait—the
readiness to endure. He then spoke of the principle
of love as he had spoken to Matilda. He
insisted upon it as sufficiently strong to withstand
the opposite principle of hate, and to trample over
it in the end. The conflict, he said, would be
long and perilous, and it would be continued
through nations and individuals to the end of
time; — patience, he said, and perseverance,
prompted by the spirit of love, which is eternal,
would be certain to achieve the victory. In the
meantime, it would be necessary that the labors of
love should be increased and strengthened. We
should strive to love one another, as the best policy,
and the noblest moral economy. Every falling off
in our affections from each other, was a gain to
the rebelling principle of hate, and kept back humanity
from its hope of heaven. Every increase in
the amount of human love, was a succor to the
sovereign principle; as much so, as, in the warfare
among men, would be the accession of new numbers.
To love one another is to conquer evil, for
as evil toils through the principle of hate, it can
only be successful over us, by engendering in our
bosoms hostility to our fellows, and a general
faithlessness of each other, which must produce
hostility. To confide, should be the first lesson,
as it is always the first and noblest proof of
love!'

“This counsel strengthened Carl Werner and
his wife, and made them both think. Carl felt
calmer as he thought, and retired to his chamber
with new and better resolutions. The old man
prayed with the two before they retired; but though
Carl knelt with the rest, he yet found it impossible
to pray. He could only think, and his
thoughts were confused, apprehensive, and not
given, as he felt himself, to the sovereign principle
of love. When he retired to his chamber, he resolved
to pray alone; but he could not. He
knelt by the bedside in vain. His tongue seemed
to cleave to the roof of his mouth. His brain
seemed to glow like fire, and he longed once more
for the presence and the conversation of the aged
man. He slept but little during the night, and
when Matilda awakened at intervals, she heard
nothing but his groans.

“The next day the old man sought an opportunity
of conversation with Matilda in secret.

“`My daughter,' he said, `your husband
must not go forth to-night. You must exert all
your strength—all the strength of your love;
spare no prayers, no solicitations, but you must
keep him at home. He goes to pay homage to

the principle of hate. He must break his bondage.
He must withhold his homage; and he must prove
that he renounces the hateful worship, ere the principle
of love will come certainly to his aid. He will
not find relief — he cannot be happy — till then;
and he must do this himself. We can do nothing
towards it, save by our prayers, and these will be
of little avail, until, of his own resolve, he breaks
to you the secret of his sorrow. When he freely
and voluntarily declares to you the trouble of his
mind, he will find relief. To confide our wo to a
beloved one, is to find healing. He must acknowledge
this truth, ere he can hope for healing; and
it is a truth that he must teach himself. I warn
you, therefore, unfold nothing that I have said to
you, which shall move him to this determination,
else it will be of no avail. We may tremble, but
we must be silent; and if our fears become
stronger than our hopes, we must then only resort
to our prayers.'

“That day the old man gave Carl himself a
lesson which had its effect in promoting the wishes
of all, though, to the passing thought, it would
seem to have no necessary connexion with the misfortunes
of the latter. He saw him in a condition
of stupor, sitting upon the threshold, and evidently
unconscious of all things around him.

“`My son,' he said, `we do not all our duties
when we have said our prayers. Indeed, we may
be said to do none of them, if we do but this. Our
prayers are offered that we may have strength and
judgment to perform our duties rightly and thoroughly.
The first of these is industry. The decree
of God — one of the first — is one of the elements
of religion. “Thou shalt earn thy bread
in the sweat of thy face.” He who prays merely,
and toils none, is a hypocrite, and though he may
deceive himself and his fellow men, he cannot deceive
God by his professions.'

“`Alas! my father — I would work,' said the
unhappy Carl, `but I cannot — I am sick — I am
sad — too sad — too sick to work.'

“`Hast thou tried, my son.'

“`Of what use to try, my father. I feel that I
should do nothing.'

“`The will is the service, my son. God tasks
not your service, but he receives the free tribute
of your heart, and if the will is free to serve him,
the amount of your body's service is of little regard.
Try — let the will govern the limbs, and
they will do much. Certainly, thy labor will lessen
the troubles of thy mind, which, in most cases,
spring from the tyrannous imbecility of the frame.

Try, my son — thy labors will avail thee much
more in thy sadness than all thy prayers.'

“Carl obeyed, and strove diligently to labor,
and though he did but little, yet he felt better from
what he did. The old man conversed with him
while he toiled, and he gathered goodly counsel,
and pleasant consolation, from his words. But as
the day waned, the agonizing apprehensions of
Carl were renewed. The fascinating spells of the
demon began to work upon his mind, and his increasing
disquiet became visible to his household.
At supper he was unconscious of the meats before
him, until the words of the aged guest aroused his
consideration, while he prayed for a blessing upon
the repast. Carl gradually grew fixed in mute
attention as he listened to the terms of this prayer,
which was, in some respects, peculiar. The old
man prayed that `the fond husband might ever be
heedful of the affections with which he had been
endowed by the confiding wife — that he might
heed the meaning of her pale cheek, her tearful
eye, and laboring bosom — that he might never
estrange himself from one who looked so much, so
entirely to him, for countenance and comfort — and
that the ways of error into which frail mortality
was ever but too prone to fall, might never seduce

the regards of the comforter, from the weak but
confiding heart to which they were entirely due.'

“Much more after this fashion was said by the
old man, but these words had their effect. Carl
looked upon his wife with eyes of closer inquiry
than he had fixed upon her for many days. He
saw, for the first time, that her cheek was pale —
as if death had set his hand upon it — that her eye
was full of tears — and that her bosom heaved
with an anguish which her lips had never spoken.
Her eye caught the glance of his own while he
gazed, and she burst into a flood of tears — rose
from the table — rushed to the spot where her
husband sat, and threw herself at his feet. How
dreadfully was he shocked by this movement!
How bitterly did he reproach himself! He felt
that he had been selfish — that, heedful of his own
sufferings only, he had given neither eye nor
thought to hers. He sank down upon the floor
beside her; and he muttered broken words, imploring
forgiveness. The venerable guest saw that
the moment was come, when love was to obtain
the mastery or forever fail; and without being
seen by the two, he left the apartment. But his
words had been deeply impressed upon the mind
of Matilda, and she needed not his presence to
prompt her in the performance of her task. She

poured out her full heart to her husband, told him
of her fears during his absence, of her sufferings
as she beheld the sapping and overcoming character
of his, and implored him, for the love which he
had once vowed her, as earnestly as if she had
lost it. Long and trying was their conference,
and more than once the wife despaired of her object.
But though she trembled, she yet implored,
and the principle of love prevailed. The heart of
Carl was touched — the seal removed from the
fountain — and he poured forth, in her astounded
but unshrinking senses, the whole strange and
dreadful secret.

18. XVIII.

“He had scarcely done so, when he heard a tap
on the window, as of one claiming admission. He
started, he trembled — a guilty fear rose in his
throat and choked him.

“`It is he — the demon — the spectre!' he exclaimed,
gaspingly.

“`Bid him enter,' cried the old man, who had
returned to the apartment without their perceiving
either his departure or his entrance, and who

seemed perfectly conversant with the whole narrative
—

“`Bid him enter, Carl.'

“But Carl hesitated and trembled. He moved
not; and Matilda rose to her feet.

“`I fear nothing!' she exclaimed — `I will
throw open the window. If it be the spirit of
Herman Ottfried, he will not harm me. If it be
other than his, it cannot. God be with me — for
I will do it!'

“The voice of the old man arrested her, as she
was about to do what she had said.

“`Daughter!'

“She turned, and saw that his eye rested anxiously
upon Carl, and she then understood that
the office belonged to her husband. She did not
need to look upon him twice. He had been praying
while she spoke, and he now rose.

“`No, Matilda — the task should be mine. I
have looked upon the fiend before — I do not fear
to look upon him again. Still less do I fear —
having your eyes upon, and your prayers for, me.'

“A horrible yell of laughter reached his ears from
the outside, and half unmanned him. He shivered
all over; but just then the aged guest repeated
these words, as if for himself.

“`The Lord is my strength, and my redeemer.

He is with me, and I fear not the evil one. Be of
good cheer, oh, my soul, for in this is thy strength.
Thou shalt prevail in the strife with thy enemy,
even as love prevaileth over hate, and the spirit of
God over the spirit of the devil.'

“With a single blow of his fist, Carl threw
wide the shutter, and though his voice trembled
while he spoke, yet the words which he uttered
were distinct —

“`Enter — if it be God's will — enter!'

19. XIX.

“The mocking spectre was once more before
him — and the grin of malice and imagined victory
was again visible upon his countenance, until he
beheld the form of the venerable guest, still kneeling
upon the floor, with eyes and hands uplifted to
heaven, and seeming as if he beheld him not.
Then his whole aspect was altered. His grin became
a bitter scorn, and, though he still wore the
exact features of Herman Ottfried, yet the whole
expression was so changed to that of a hellish hate,
that, even to the eyes of Carl, the likeness seemed
almost gone.

“`Thou here!' exclaimed the spectre, addressing
the aged man.

“`Thou seest!' was the reply.

“`I see — but thou art here in vain — thy
prayers will avail him nothing — he hath bound
himself to me. My power is upon his pledge.
He cannot escape — he must meet me where I
will; and when he forbears to come — when,
urged by such as thee, he presumes to disobey, I
will seek him with redoubled tortures, where he
hides, and tear him from thy very altars. Carl
Werner — I command thee. Come!'

“Carl trembled all over, and he felt an irresistible
power dragging him forward. At this moment
the old man spoke —

“`His pledge shall be fulfilled — but not to
thee. Look, Satan! — God hath heard the prayers
of love — and his messenger comes to release
the thrall of hate. Look! — the pledge is redeemed?'

“As he spoke, he pointed to the opposite corner
of the apartment, upon which his eyes had been
earnestly fixed, even while the demon was addressing
him. There, visible to all, stood another
spectre, having the precise features of Herman
Ottfried, and the very expression which he was
wont to wear in life. The contrast between the

one and the other spectre, both having the same
features, was prodigious! They represented different
principles. The one had borne the features
of punishment — the other came with the
mild attributes of mercy. Alike in every feature,
they were yet as utterly unlike as night and day.

“The demon put on a look of agony, mingled
with hate and disappointment, as, with a howl and
hiss, he fled from the presence of the spectre whose
features he had worn for the purposes of hate, but
whose glance of benignity and love he could not
withstand. Howling with hate, he fled; while the
gentle spirit advanced into the apartment.

“`Oh, brother, dearest Herman!' cried the
sister, with a joyful accent, as she rushed towards
him. She sunk down upon the spot where she
would have embraced him, and her eyes beheld
his shadowy form melting away, even like the last
gleam of a lovely sunset into the distant shadows.

“`Look to your wife, my son,' said the aged
man — `she swoons — give her help.'

“Carl raised his wife, and in a little while she
recovered — but the aged man had disappeared.
They never saw him again.