But why, said the old man, do I talk so long—I weary you, my children, for the fancies of age are not those of youth—hope's fairy flowers are bright for you—the faded things of memory are mine alone—with them I live, but rejoice ye in your happiness, and gather now, in the spring time of your days, treasures to cheer you in the fall of life. As to your favourite, the stove, although I love it not so well as the old familiar fire-place, I can admire and value it as part of the spirit of improvement which is spreading o'er our land—her early troubles are passing away, and she is rising fast to take her place among the nations of the earth—bitter has been her struggle for existence, but the clouds are fading in the brightness of her coming years, and her past woes will be forgotten.
He ceased, but we all loved to hear him talk, he was so kind and good, and he was earnestly requested for one of those tales of the early times of our own land, which had often thrilled us with their simple, yet often woeful interest.
I am become an egotist to-night, for self is the only theme of which I can discourse. My spirit, too, is like the minstrel harp of which you have to-night been reading, 'twill "echo nought but sadness;" but if it please you, you shall have uncle Ethel's love story—well may we say alas! for time,
"For he taketh away the heart of youth,
And its gladness which hath been
Like the summer's sunshine on our path,
Making the desert green."
More than sixty years have elapsed since the time of which I now shall speak. We lived then, a large and happy family, in the dwelling where our fathers' sires had died—sons and daughters had married, but still remained beneath the shadow of the parent roof tree, which seemed to extend its wings like a guardian spirit, as they increased in number. 'Twas near the city of New York, and stood in the centre of sunny fields, which had been won from the forest shade. Our parents were natives of the soil, but theirs had come from the far land of Germany, and the memories of that land were still fondly cherished by their descendants. The low-roofed cottage, with its many-pointed gables and narrow casement, was gay with the bright flowers of that home of their hearts—cherished and guarded there with the tenderest care—all hues of earth seemed blended in the bright parterre of tulips, over which the magnificent dahlia towered, tall and stately as a queen—the rich scent of the wallflower breathed around, and the jessamine went climbing freely o'er the trellissed porch and arching eaves—each flower around my home bore to me the face of a friend—they bore to me the poetry of the earth, as the stars tell the sweet harmonies of heaven—but there is a vision of fairer beauty than either star or flower comes with the thought of these bye-gone days—the face of my orphan cousin Ella Werner arises in the brightness of its young beauty, as it used to beam upon me from the latticed window of my home: for her's, indeed,
"Was a form of life and light,
That seen became a part of sight,
And comes where'er I turn mine eye,
The morning star of memory."
Ella's mother was sister to my father: she lived but long enough to look upon her child, and her husband died of a broken heart soon after her. Thus the very existence of the fair girl was fatal to those who best loved her—not best, for all living loved her. In after-years it seemed as though it was her beauty, that fatal gift, which ne'er for good was given to many, caused her woe. Ella's spirit was pure and bright as the eyes through which it beamed—the gladness of her young heart's happiness rung in the silvery music of her voice, and in the fairy magic of her smile she looked as if sorrow could never dim the golden lustre of her curls, or trace a cloud on her snowy brow—gentle and lovely she was, and that was all. There was no depth of thought, no strength of mind, to form the character of one so gifted. Her faculties for reasoning were the impulses of her own heart: these were generally good, and constituted her principle of action—but changeful as the summer sky are the feelings of the human heart, unswayed by the deeper power of the head. Such were Ella's, and their power destroyed her. Alas! how calmly can I talk now of her faults; but who could think of them when they looked upon her, and loved her as I did—'tis only since she is gone I discover them.
Of the other members of the family I need not speak, as you already know of them; but there is one whose name you have never heard, for crime and sorrow rest with it, and oblivion shrouds his memory. Conrad Ernstein was also my cousin, and an orphan—he was an inmate of our dwelling, and my mother was to him as a parent. He was some years older, but his delicate constitution and studious mind withdrew him from the others, and made him the companion of Ella and myself. I have said that Ella's mind was too volatile, so in like degree was Conrad's, in its deep unchanging firmness and immutability of purpose. Nothing deterred him from the pursuit of any object he engaged in—obstacles but increased his energy to overcome and call forth stronger powers of mind—this was observable in his learning. Science the most abstruse and difficult was his favourite study, and in these he attained an excellence rarely arrived at by one so situated.
Wondered at and admired by all, his pride which was great was amply gratified, and what was evil in his nature was not yet called into being—his disposition was melancholy, and showed none of the joyousness of youth—yet that very sadness seemed to make us love him all the more—his air of suffering asked for pity—'twas strange to see the glad-hearted Ella leave my mother's side, while she sang to us the songs of the blue Rhine, and bend her sunny brow with him over the ancient page of some clasped volume, containing the terrific legends of the "black forest," till the tales of the wild huntsmen filled her with dread—then again would she spring to my mother, and burying her head in her bosom, ask her once more to sing the songs of her native land, for so we still called Germany; and, as you see, the romances and legends of that country formed our childhood's lore, my early love for Ella grew and increased with my years, and I fancied that she loved me.
On the first of May, or, as it was by us styled, "Walburga's eve," the young German maidens have a custom of seeking a lonely stream, and flinging on its waters a wreath of early flowers, as an offering to a spirit which then has power. When, as the legend tells, the face of their lover will glide along the water, and the name be borne on the breeze, if the gift be pleasing to the spirit. Ella, I knew, had for some time been preparing to keep this ancient relic of the pagan rites—she had a treasured rose tree which bloomed, unexpectedly, early in the season—these delicate things she fancied would be a fitting offering to the spirit. She paused not to think of what she was about to do—the thing itself was but a harmless folly—from aught of ill her nature would have drawn instinctively; but evil there might have been—she stayed not to weigh the result—at the last hour of sunset she wreathed her roses, and set out. In the lightness of my heart I followed in the same path, intending to surprize her. I heard her clear voice floating on the air, as she sung the invocation to the spirit—the words were these:—