Allemar was about four-and-twenty when he first saw Ellen: she was not then quite sixteen; and although not altogether the “angelic” and “etherial” beauty which he imagined her to be, and as which his passionate language was wont to speak of her, yet was she a sweet girl—such a girl as one, possessing her, would not be inclined to change for another, although a thousand beauties were given him for choice:—yellow-silky hair—fine expressive blue eyes—teeth like ivory—middle size—shape like Venus herself:—gentle, yet acute in thought; and as musical in her soul as the spheres are said to be in their bodies. He was a manly, open-hearted—and, what his companions called—a good-looking fellow; but the ladies of his acquaintance (and the ladies are the best judges in the world of such matters) all agreed that he was irresistible amongst them—whether from his manliness of person, his elegance of mind, or his suavity of manners; or whether from the happy combination of these three qualifications, I am not prepared to say—but certain it is that he was “the man for the ladies.”
When first he marched into the town of ***** in his light-infantry dress, on the flank of his company, the band merrily playing, and the sun brightly glistening on his accoutrements, I ween—as bards say—he disturbed many a quiet heart, and kept many bright eyes from sleeping so well as they before had been accustomed to do. The regiment was covered with white dust, and the summer’s sun gave the countenances of the men a fresh and ruddy appearance. When the officers retired to the inn, and were lounging at its parlour windows, out of the many beautiful females who passed and repassed, (for ladies have always a deal of out-door work to do—such as visiting, shopping, &c.—on the day a new regiment marches into a town,) few did not look kindly on my friend Allemar. I witnessed their glances, and, to do the dear angelic beings justice, they expressed their meaning in the most mistressly manner.
However, Ellen was not amongst them; nor did Allemar meet with her until two months after his arrival at ****. He was, however, not unknown to her, although she was completely so to him: she seldom passed a day without seeing him, and with each sight increased her disposition to see him again. At length, they were introduced to each other at the house of a mutual acquaintance; and from that hour they were never happy asunder. Their opportunities of meeting were, at first, not very frequent, owing to the prudent vigilance of her widowed mother and a dragon of an old maiden relation, who had little else to do but attend to Ellen’s morals: however, Allemar was fortunate enough to attract the kind notice of this antique virgin, and therefore found his opportunities of conversing with his beloved increase. I have often been present when they met during a rural walk, and from what I witnessed in the ancient lady’s manner towards my friend, I have no doubt that she regarded him with a tenderness wholly incompatible with their relative ages. And so changed, too, in her general demeanour!—From a stiff, cold, sour, puritanical Duenna, she, all on a sudden, was transformed into a giggling, foolish, taudry-dressed flirt. Instead of an umbrella she now carried a yellow parasol; and although seldom without clogs of a moist day before, now ambled in blue-satin shoes. Her conversation, too, was now on the beautiful tints of the clouds—the varieties and fragrance of the flowers—illustrating her opinions by quotations from Darwin’s “Loves of the Plants.” She would sigh as she spoke to Allemar of the happiness of true friendship, and the sweets of retirement with those “we esteemed!”—There is no doubt of it—she was in love with him, and this love was very nigh proving the means of depriving poor Allemar of his Ellen for ever; for when she found that her hints, and her sighs, and her languishes, were all thrown away upon him, and that he was not only the lover, but the beloved of her beautiful relation, she turned out the most terrible of all she dragons that ever opened a mouth. But enough of her, let her go to the—the place to which all superannuated maids must go at last:—she has nothing more to do with my story—so adieu!
Allemar and Ellen met, and met again;—they walked together by the moonlight, and parted often as the day peeped over them—they loved truly, passionately, virtuously:—they seemed made for each other; and to have divided such would have been the scathing of all that is divine in love—the destruction of all that such lovers value more than existence itself.
However, they were obliged to separate; but not without a hope of meeting again. Allemar’s regiment was ordered to march for Portugal; and as Ellen’s friends were not disposed to let her marry at that time—even had Allemar received the consent of his—it was agreed upon between the lovers, that they should wait a more favourable opportunity of uniting in matrimony: at the same time, pledging each other to eternal faith in love.
It was in May the regiment received the route; and Allemar passed the night previous to marching in sweet converse with his beloved Ellen. What a romantic night! Let the reasoner say what he will—let the philosopher prate with his cold tongue—there is nothing of more real worth to the heart than the sweets of early love;—and the hour of parting between two true and virtuous lovers is a melancholy pleasure, perhaps equalling in tender delight their happiest meeting. It was a beautiful night—there was not a breath of wind; and the moon, shining brightly down, threw a fairy light over the whole scene.
On this night, as the clock struck twelve, the enthusiastic and romantic Allemar stood under Ellen’s window, in the orchard which was beneath it, and with his enchanting voice, accompanied by an old harper—such as we read of in romance—and a “second” from me, serenaded his Beloved. The harp was a small one, but well-toned;—the harper was a fine bass singer—a man whose pupil in music Allemar was—and I, although but an indifferent vocalist, made up the trio. The scene—the time—the music—the circumstance of parting—all conspired to impress me with an idea of a romantic dream, the memory of which can never leave me. These are the words of the