Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 350, December 1844

"It was autumn. The days were declining. Showers and tempests swept through the forest. Upon a night, brightened by no moonbeam or glittering star, Emma sat melancholy and alone in her apartment. The heavy embroidered curtains were drawn across the high windows of the balcony, which jutted out as a point of observation from the castle-wall. At intervals, the maiden applied her delicate ear to the window, catching eagerly at every strange sound muttered forth by the growing storm. She had resumed her seat many times, when the castle-bell tolled eleven, and almost at the same moment the cry of a screech-owl was distinctly heard. The expectant damsel glided on tiptoe to the window, and listened eagerly. The cry was repeated. Emma's eye sparkled at length with joy, a deep blush overspread her cheeks, and she produced from an aperture a ladder of twine, which she fastened to the casement. The cry of the owl was heard for the third time. The ladder was dropped, and in another instant a vigorous youth had mounted it.

"Bolko and Emma, happy and blessed, were in each other's arms, and they forgot all but the delicious present. Vows of love and constancy were exchanged, and rings were given, in remembrance of the blissful hour. But strange to say, as Bolko was about to adorn the hand of Emma with the pledge of his affection, a fearful gust of wind burst the window open, and blew into the room a little glistening object that rolled to Bolko's feet and settled there. Emma raised it from the ground, and discovered in her hand a broken ring.

"Bolko saw and trembled. It was his gift to Auriola. He fixed his eyes upon the broken symbol, and there glared before them the third charmed picture created from the waters. The rope-ladder, the balcony Emma and himself, all grouped, and taking the shape and form of that bright vision. Bolko glanced at the window, dreading to meet the reproachful look of Auriola; but instead of this, he heard with no less horror the approaching footsteps of his Emma's father.

"'Fly, Bolko, fly!' exclaimed the maiden. 'My father! We are lost!'

"Bolko hurried to the recess, and would have escaped, had not the malicious wind already carried away the rope-ladder. A prisoner and unarmed, he expected nothing short of death at the hands of the baron. The latter entered the apartment, stood for a few seconds in silence at the door, and measured the criminals with looks of stern severity.

"'My aged eye did not deceive me, then!' he said, at length, advancing to the trembling lovers.

"'Baron!' said Bolko, hesitatingly.

"'Silence, sir!' continued the old knight. 'If I should act now as my fathers would have done, I should fling you through that very window which helped you, like a robber, into this room; but I charge myself with blame already in this business, and I am more disposed to mercy. Come hither, young man. I know the fire and boldness of our youth. Give my child your hand; you are her future husband. May God prosper you both, and send his blessing on your union!'

"Bolko quaffed with the sturdy Baron of T – until an early hour of the morning. The happy Emma acted the part of Hebe, and presented the flagons to the merry carousers.

"'Why have you withheld this from me?' asked Hubert, when Bolko related to him the unaccountable restoration of the ring. 'Oh, youth, youth! inconsiderate even to madness, and only content to listen to the voice of wisdom when they can of themselves find no outlet from difficulty and danger.'

"Bolko stood with folded arms at the window, gazing into the forest, and upon the lofty turrets of Castle T – peeping in the grey distance above it.

"'Thou hast not visited the moor of late?' asked Hubert, after a pause.

"'What should I do there?' answered Bolko peevishly. 'Why should I spend my days in chasing an apparition, the mere creation of an over-heated fancy?'

"'Beware whom thou calumniatest!' said Hubert solemnly. 'Beware of the mysterious being that can deal out weal or woe to thee and all thy race! One whom thou mightest have appeased hadst thou been obedient and followed my instructions.'

"'Thy instructions!' repeated Bolko hastily. 'It is because I have listened too patiently to thy advice, because I have connected myself with thy aërial and capricious schemes, that I am the most miserable of men. But for thy persuasion and thy childish parchment, I should never have dreamed of making love to a ghost.'

"Hubert disregarded the youth's reproaches.

"'Rage avails not here,' he said calmly. 'Wisdom alone can save thee. Listen to me. Women are women ever, even such as we call supernatural – easy to anger, easy to persuade – before flattery the weakest of the weak. Praise the ugliest for her beauty, and she smiles graciously, yea, with the mirror before her eyes. Speak the plain truth, and you are a rough uncouth companion. They thrive best upon the sugary food of delusion – therefore, delude them. It is the rattle of these eternal glorious children!'

"'What wouldst thou have me do?'

"'Cast the ring into the Spring, and pray to Auriola for forgiveness.'

"'And if she prove obstinate?'

"'Have no fear; she will forgive you. Here is the ring; take it; it is once more united!'

"Bolko took the pledge from Hubert, and hastened to the moor. The high grass was already withered by storm and cold; it lay bent down upon the marshy earth-crust, which now breathed out its vapour more abundantly than ever, wrapping the Gold Spring in one enduring mist. If this spot looked barren and deserted in summer, the abandonment was increased a hundred-fold in autumn. Even the butterflies were gone. The damp and chilly fog only was visible; nothing could be heard but the monotonous current of the rippling water.

"The boggy ground yielded to the foot more readily than ever, and Bolko trod it with a faltering step. He approached the spring, and, suing for reconciliation, dropped the ring into the charmed element. As though he feared some extraordinary result from the act, he covered his eyes with his hands, and could with difficulty summon courage to remove them. When he did so, he perceived the fog receding by degrees from the confines of the moor, and the graceful form of Auriola standing before him at a little distance. As at their first meeting, her countenance was averted. She waved the earthen pitcher as was her wont, and bathed the ground on which she went with flashes of the brilliant water.

"'Auriola!' cried Bolko, in a voice that carried the tenderness of love, the sorrow of repentance, to the ear of the listener – 'gentle Auriola!' She turned her face towards the imploring youth, placed the pitcher at her side, and beckoned him to approach.

"'My father was right!' said the Moor Maiden. 'No Gottmar but is fickle and inconstant. Well it is for thee, youth, that thou art here of thy own free-will, and didst not tarry for my summons. Thou hast kept thy promise badly, and thou wilt keep it so again, if I give thee no monitor to aid thee. Take this, and carry it, henceforward, in thy bosom; it will protect thee from harm, and keep thee faithful in spirit, albeit in heart thou art already estranged from me.'

"With these words, the enchantress placed upon the neck of Bolko a chain braided of her own golden hair, to which was attached a small box wrought of the shards of the Peacock's eye and Purple-bird. In the tiny case, trembling with its ever-changing light, was one pearly drop from the spring.

"'Lose or give away this jewel,' proceeded Auriola – 'this jewel, which is a portion of my heart, and thy ruin and the destruction of thy house is certain. Love, or at least its symbol, can and must avert the curse of my father!'

"Bolko looked into the earnest and marvellously bright eyes of Auriola, as she pronounced his doom. His heart belonged once more to the Maiden of the Moor, and his gaze made known his passion. She touched his forehead with her transparent fingers, poured the last drops of water into the hollow of her hand, and in her usual manner blew the little curling waves into the misty air. A multitude of images arose, but in scarcely finished outline. The moist atmosphere seemed to hinder their accomplishment.

"'Now, farewell!' said Auriola. 'Thou hast beheld. Thy life is troubled, as are the feelings which sway thy heart. Love truly and wholly, as aforetime thou lovedst me, and the mirror of thought will again display its clear bright pictures.

"Auriola took the pitcher, and her bare feet, scarcely disturbing the faded blades of grass, glided towards the margin of the spring, where she melted into air.

"Emma and Bolko were united in holy matrimony. The halls of Castle T – overflowed with joyous guests. Music delighted the noble visitors during the marriage-feast, and a happier scene could not be imagined. All hearts joined in wishing prosperity to the bridal pair, and the latter seemed to entertain no fears for their bright future. The banquet over, the guests, preceded by the newly-married couple, withdrew to the adjoining saloon. The old knights seated themselves in the niches of the windows, having still many goblets to empty over the dice-box, whilst the younger spirits disposed themselves for dancing. Bolko, with his high-born bride, commenced the ball. If they were happy before, they were now at the very porch of a terrestrial heaven. They made but short pauses in their pleasure, and these only that they might mingle again the more intensely in the delightful measure.

"It was during the jocund dance that Bolko's doublet suddenly opened, and the mysterious little box flew out. The bridegroom was made aware of the accident by the exclamations of his partner.

"'Oh! look, look, Bolko! See that magnificent butterfly! How singular at this season of the year!'

"Emma caught at the little beauty, and Bolko discovered his fault.

"'Hold, hold!' said he, in a whisper. 'That is no butterfly for thee, my love! Its colours play for me alone!'

"Emma looked enquiringly at her husband, then more closely at the little box, glowing in a fire of colours, and she beheld the golden hair chain to which it was attached.

"'A chain too! and what beautiful hair!' The maiden caught at the prize, and continued, 'Who gave thee this hair and the sweet case! Dearest Bolko, to whom does it belong? Why have you never mentioned this? What need was there of secresy?'

"Emma sobbed, and Bolko hardly knowing what excuse to offer, withdrew her to a neighbouring room.

"'Promise me, dearest Emma,' said he, 'to be calm and patient, and you shall know every thing.'

"The young wife looked at him distrustfully.

"'Make known to me the history and contents of the little box, and I will restrain my curiosity until – to-morrow.'

"'Content, my beloved, so let it be; as we return to Gottmar all shall be cleared up.'

"'Oh, I unhappy!' exclaimed the girl, bursting into tears.

"'Say rather happy, dearest. Since all our happiness flows from the history of this chain; from this alone. Sweetest, let us return to the dance.'

"Emma resigned her arm to her young lord with a sullen resignation. As the latter opened the folding-doors of the saloon, and gazed for a few seconds upon the dancing throng, he seemed to possess a distant remembrance of the scene. The Gothic arches, the window niches, the gaily-attired musicians, the groups of dancers – the whole scene had once before been present to his eyes. He taxed his memory until his thoughts carried him to the bleak and barren moor. Had not the dazzling vision flowed into the sunny evening air over the white transparent fingers of the ethereal Auriola? He acknowledged it, and shuddered.

"The dance was at an end. The guests had departed. In the eyes of the newly-married Emma a tear of troubled joy trembled, as she sank upon the bosom of her young and doating husband.

"Upon the following morning, Bolko already repented him of his hasty promise, and delayed his departure by every means in his power. The weather favoured him, for hail and storm were pouring down upon the earth. As the day declined, Bolko found it impossible to conceal his disquietude; and Emma, when she perceived his anxiety, attributed it at once to conscious guilt. This conviction on her part only made her urge their departure with greater perseverance. There remained at last no good ground for refusal, and Bolko silently acquiesced in her wish.

"For some time the young couple sat side by side, and were very sparing of their speech. Bolko, indeed, was dumb. The inquisitive Emma, however, had not so powerful an excuse for silence. In a few kind words she reminded her lord of his pledged word, and begged him to confide in her.

"'Emma,' said Bolko in reply, and in a serious tone, 'if I comply with thy request, I risk the eternal happiness of both. I have promised that which I cannot perform without a breach of faith. Thou canst gain nothing by my communication, and I pray thee, therefore, give me back my promise.'

"Bolko could not have preferred a more untimely suit. Emma, inquisitive, suspicious, and jealous, would rather have been put to death in torture than have given up her claim. She refused his petition at once; implored, threatened, implored again; and, finding all such efforts only darkened Bolko's humour, proceeded to flattery and coaxing. She promised the most perfect secresy, and used, in short, every artifice by which woman knows how to overcome the strongest resolutions of weak man. Bolko grew tender-hearted, and then related to his wife all that he had to tell; – the history of the malediction that rested on his family, and the singular manner in which he had effected the expiation.

"Emma listened to the narrative not without an inward pique and lively jealousy.

"'I thank thee, Bolko, for thy confidence,' said she. 'Fear not my prudence. But for the charm, thou wilt not surely wear it so near thy bosom.'

"'Next my heart, beloved – since there it shields us both from ruin.'

"Emma bit her lips with womanly vexation.

"'Thou canst not wish,' continued Bolko, 'that I should take it thence.'

"'I do, I do!' replied the jealous wife. 'I wish it. I insist upon it – now – this very instant.'

"The storm increased in fury. The fir-trees were beating together as if in battle.

"'It is impossible!' cried Bolko. 'Thou art mad to ask it.'

"'Then shall I mistrust thy love,' continued Emma, 'or canst thou hope for my affection whilst that ghostly gift divides us? Never! Inhuman man, thou wilt teach me to hate thee.'

"The carriage drove rapidly through the hurricane into the midst of the forest. The wind bellowed, the yellow lightning glared, and thunder crashed and resounded fearfully from the distant valleys.

"'It is the warning voice of heaven!' said Bolko. 'Its lightnings will reach us if I yield to thy entreaty.'

"'Heaven has nothing in common with enchanters and sorcerers,' replied Emma; 'nature is uttering a summons to thee, and – whilst a devoted wife embraces thee – protects and defends thee against demoniac powers, bids thee renounce all witchcraft, and put aside the unholy gift.'

"Bolko answered not, but peered through the door carriage windows to learn his exact situation. The dark pinnacles of Gottmar lay immediately before him. Above his head the tempest lowered, hurling its lightnings on every side.

"'Art thou angry with me?' enquired Emma sorrowfully, leaning her ringleted head upon the bosom of her husband. Bolko pressed her forehead to his lips. Emma threw her arms about his neck. She wept, she kissed, she coaxed him; they were the fondest lovers, as in the earliest days of their attachment. The heart of Bolko was melted. In the intoxication of happiness he forgot his danger; and reposing on Emma's bosom, did not perceive that she untied his doublet, and heedfully but eagerly searched for the amulet. She was mistress of it before Bolko could suspect her intention.

"'It is mine, it is mine!' almost shrieked the young wife in her delight, snatching away both chain and box. The next moment the carriage window was drawn down and the precious objects thrown into the storm. Bolko caught at them, but too late. A gust of wind had already clutched them, and carried them away.

"A flash of lightning struck a beech-tree, that blazed, awfully illuminating the whole neighbourhood. The horses took fright, plunged aside, then tore with the carriage towards a treeless melancholy-looking plain. Bolko recognised the spot at the first brief glance.

"'The moor! the moor!' he screamed to the driver; but the latter had lost all power over the snorting steeds, who bore the fated carriage in a whizzing gallop towards the marsh. The blazing beech-tree rendered the surrounding objects fearfully distinct. Bolko could descry the figure of Auriola at the margin of the spring. Between her fingers glittered the ring, and words of lamentation issuing from her lips, dropped into the soul of Bolko and paralysed it."

"'Auriola, Auriola!' exclaimed the youth, supporting the pale and quivering Emma – 'forgive me! forgive me!'

"The Moor Maiden dropped the ring into the well, and it vanished like an unearthly flame. Auriola herself, slowly and like a mist, descended after it. She held her hand above her head, and it seemed to point to the onward-dashing carriage.

"Horror upon horror! the carriage itself began to sink into the earth – quicker and quicker.

"'We are sinking! Heaven help us!' cried the driver. Bolko burst the carriage door open, but escape was impossible. The moor had given way around him. The horses were already swallowed up in the abyss. The pale earth-crust trembled and heaved like flakes of ice upon a loosening river. It separated, and huge pieces were precipitated and hurled against each other. In a few seconds horses and carriage, bride and bridegroom, had disappeared for ever. As the moor closed over them, the hand of Auriola vanished.

"The Curse of her father was accomplished.

"On the same night, Gottmar castle was struck by lightning. It burned to the ground, and there the aged Hubert found his grave."

"THAT'S WHAT WE ARE."

"Careful and troubled about many things,"(Alas! that it should be so with us stillAs in the time of Martha,) I went forthHarass'd and heartsick, with hot aching brow,Thought fever'd, happy to escape myself.Beauteous that bright May morning! All aboutSweet influences of earth, and air, and sky,Harmoniously accordant. I alone,The troubled spirit that had driven me forth,In dissonance with that fair frame of thingsSo blissfully serene. God had not yetLet fall the weight of chastening that makes dumbThe murmuring lip, and stills the rebel heart,Ending all earthly interests, and I call'd(O Heaven!) that incomplete experience – Grief.It would not do. The momentary senseOf soft refreshing coolness pass'd away;Back came the troublous thoughts, and, all in vain,I strove with the tormentors: All in vain,Applied me with forced interest to peruseFair nature's outspread volume: All in vain,Look'd up admiring at the dappling cloudsAnd depths cerulean: Even as I gazed,The film – the earthly film obscured my vision,And in the lower region, sore perplex'd,Again I wander'd; and again shook offWith vex'd impatience the besetting cares,And set me straight to gather as I walk'dA field-flower nosegay. Plentiful the choice;And, in few moments, of all hues I heldA glowing handful. In a few moments moreWhere are they? Dropping as I went alongUnheeded on my path, and I was gone —Wandering again in muse of thought perplex'd.Despairingly I sought the social scene —Sound – motion – action – intercourse of words—Scarcely of mind – rare privilege! – We talk'd —Oh! how we talk'd! Discuss'd and solved all questions:Religion – morals – manners – politics —Physics and metaphysics – books and authors —Fashion and dress – our neighbours and ourselves.But even as the senseless changes rang,And I help'd ring them, in my secret soulGrew weariness, disgust, and self-contempt;And more disturb'd in spirit, I retraced,More cynically sad, my homeward way.It led me through the churchyard, and methoughtThere entering, as I let the iron gateSwing to behind me, that the change was good —The unquiet living, for the quiet dead.And at that moment, from the old church towerA knell resounded – "Man to his long home"Drew near. "The mourners went about the streets;"And there, few paces onward to the right,Close by the pathway, was an open grave,Not of the humbler sort, shaped newly out,Narrow and deep in the dark mould; when closed,To be roofed over with the living sod,And left for all adornment (and so best)To Nature's reverential hand. The tomb,Made ready there for a fresh habitant,Was that of an old family. I knew it. —A very ancient altar-tomb, where TimeWith his rough fretwork mark'd the sculptor's artFeebly elaborate – heraldic shieldsAnd mortuary emblems, half effaced,Deep sunken at one end, of many names,Graven with suitable inscriptions, eachUpon the shelving slab and sides; scarce nowMight any but an antiquarian eyeMake out a letter. Five-and-fifty yearsThe door of that dark dwelling had shut inThe last admitted sleeper. She, 'twas said,Died of a broken heart – a widow'd motherFollowing her only child, by violent deathCut off untimely, and – the whisper ran —By his own hand. The tomb was ancient then,When they two were interr'd; and they, the firstFor whom, within the memory of man,It had been open'd; and their names fill'd up(With sharp-cut newness mocking the old stone)The last remaining space. And so it seem'dThe gathering was complete; the appointed numberLaid in the sleeping chamber, and seal'd upInviolate till the great gathering day.The few remaining of the name dispersed —The family fortunes dwindled – till at lastThey sank into decay, and out of sight,And out of memory; till an aged manPass'd by some parish very far awayTo die in ours – his legal settlement —Claim'd kindred with the long-forgotten race,Its sole survivor, and in right thereof,Of that affinity, to moulder with themIn the old family grave."A natural wish,"Said the authorities; "and sure enoughHe was of the old stock – the last descendant —And it would cost no more to bury himUnder the old crack'd tombstone, with its scutcheons,Than in the common ground." So, graciously,The boon was granted, and he died content.And now the pauper's funeral had set forth,And the bell toll'd – not many strokes, nor long —Pauper's allowance. He was coming home.But while the train was yet a good way off —The workhouse burial train – I stopp'd to lookUpon the scene before me; and methoughtOh! that some gifted painter could beholdAnd give duration to that living picture,So rich in moral and pictorial beauty,If seen arightly by the spiritual eyeAs with the bodily organ!The old tomb,With its quaint tracery, gilded here and thereWith sunlight glancing through the o'er-arching lime,Far flinging its cool shadow, flickering light —Our greyhair'd sexton, with his hard grey face,(A living tombstone!) resting on his mattockBy the low portal; and just over right,His back against the lime-tree, his thin handsLock'd in each other – hanging down before himAs with their own dead weight – a tall slim youthWith hollow hectic cheek, and pale parch'd lip,And labouring breath, and eyes upon the groundFast rooted, as if taking measurementBetime for his own grave. I stopp'd a moment,Contemplating those thinkers – youth and age —Mark'd for the sickle; as it seem'd – the unripeTo be first gather'd. Stepping forward, then,Down to the house of death, in vague expectance,I sent a curious, not unshrinking, gaze.There lay the burning brain and broken heart,Long, long at rest: and many a Thing besideThat had been life – warm, sentient, busy life —Had hunger'd, thirsted, laugh'd, wept, hoped, and fear'd —Hated and loved – enjoy'd and agonized.Where of all this, was all I look'd to see?The mass of crumbling coffins – some belike(The undermost) with their contents crush'd in,Flatten'd, and shapeless. Even in this damp vault,With more completeness could the old DestroyerHave done his darkling work? Yet lo! I look'dInto a small square chamber, swept and clean,Except that on one side, against the wall,Lay a few fragments of dark rotten wood,And a small heap of fine, rich, reddish earthWas piled up in a corner."How is this?"In stupid wonderment I ask'd myself,And dull of apprehension. Turning, then,To the old sexton – "Tell me, friend," I said,"Here should be many coffins – Where are they?And" – pointing to the earth-heap – "what is that?"He raised his eyes to mine with a strange lookAnd strangely meaning smile; and I repeated —(For not a word he spoke) – my witless question.Then with a deep distinctness he made answer,Distinct and slow, looking from whence I pointed,Full in my face again, and what he saidThrill'd through my very soul – "That's what we are!"So I was answer'd. Sermons upon deathI had heard many. Lectures by the scoreUpon life's vanities. But never wordsOf mortal preacher to my heart struck homeWith such convicting sense and suddennessAs that plain-spoken homily, so brief,Of the unletter'd man."That's what we are!" —Repeating after him, I murmur'd lowIn deep acknowledgment, and bow'd the headProfoundly reverential. A deep calmCame over me, and to the inward eyeVivid perception. Set against each other,I saw weigh'd out the things of time and sense,And of eternity; – and oh! how lightLook'd in that truthful hour the earthly scale!And oh! what strength, when from the penal doomNature recoil'd, in His remember'd words:"I am the Resurrection and the Life."And other words of that Divinest Speaker(Words to all mourners of all times address'd)Seem'd spoken to me as I went alongIn prayerful thought, slow musing on my way —"Believe in me" – "Let not your hearts be troubled" —And sure I could have promised in that hour,But that I knew myself how fallible,That never more should cross or care of this lifeDisquiet or distress me. So I came,Chasten'd in spirit, to my home again,Composed and comforted, and cross'd the thresholdThat day "a wiser, not a sadder, woman."C.