University of Virginia Library

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.