University of Virginia Library

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.