textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/IRVING/irving-spectre-600.txt

                                    1819-20

                                THE SKETCH BOOK

                             THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM

                              A TRAVELLER'S TALE*

                              by Washington Irving

  * The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will
perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss
by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place
at Paris.

             He that supper for is dight,

             He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!

             Yestreen to chamber I him led,

             This night Gray-Steel has made his bed.

                    SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, AND SIR GRAY-STEEL.

  ON THE summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and
romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the confluence
of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the
Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay,
and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs; about which,
however, its old watch-tower may still be seen, struggling, like the
former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down
upon the neighboring country.

  The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,*
and inherited the relics of the property, and all the pride of his
ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much
impaired the family possessions, yet the baron still endeavored to
keep up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the
German nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old
castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built
more convenient residences in the valleys: still the baron remained
proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing, with hereditary
inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that he was on ill terms with
some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had
happened between their great-great-grandfathers.

  * i. e., CAT'S-ELBOW. The name of a family of those parts very
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in
compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine
arm.

  The baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature, when she grants
but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it
was with the daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and
country cousins, assured her father that she had not her equal for
beauty in all Germany; and who should know better than they? She
had, moreover, been brought up with great care under the
superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their
early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all
the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady.
Under their instructions she became a miracle of accomplishments. By
the time she was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and
had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such
strength of expression in their countenances, that they looked like so
many souls in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty,
and had spelled her way through several church legends, and almost all
the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made
considerable proficiency in writing; could sign her own name without
missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it without
spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing
lady-like nicknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most abstruse
dancing of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar;
and knew all the tender ballads of the Minne-lieder by heart.

  Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and
strict censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no duenna
so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated
coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went
beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or rather well
watched; had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and
implicit obedience; and, as to the men- pah!- she was taught to hold
them at such a distance, and in such absolute distrust, that, unless
properly authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the
handsomest cavalier in the world- no, not if he were even dying at her
feet.

  The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The young
lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others were
wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be
plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into
fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those immaculate
spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her
aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that
though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet,
thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of
Katzenellenbogen.

  But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with
children, his household was by no means a small one; for Providence
had enriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and
all, possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble
relatives; were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every
possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All family
festivals were commemorated by these good people at the baron's
expense; and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare
that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family
meetings, these jubilees of the heart.

  The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with
satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in the
little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the dark
old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around,
and he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He
was much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all those
supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany
abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded even his own: they
listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never
failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth
time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the
absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all things,
in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age.

  At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family
gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance: it was
to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A
negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old nobleman
of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of
their children. The preliminaries had been conducted with proper
punctilio. The young people were betrothed without seeing each
other; and the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young
Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army for the purpose,
and was actually on his way to the baron's to receive his bride.
Missives had even been received from him, from Wurtzburg, where he was
accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be
expected to arrive.

  The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable
welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The
two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole
morning about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken
advantage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and
fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful
bridegroom could desire; and the flutter of expectation heightened the
lustre of her charms.

  The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of
the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft
tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were
continually hovering around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take
great interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world
of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in what
manner to receive the expected lover.

  The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth,
nothing exactly to do: but he was naturally a fuming bustling little
man, and could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry.
He worried from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite
anxiety; he continually called the servants from their work to
exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber,
as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm
summer's day.

  In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had
rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with
good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein
and Ferne-wein; and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid
under contribution. Every thing was ready to receive the distinguished
guest with Saus und Braus in the true spirit of German hospitality-
but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after
hour. The sun, that had poured his downward rays upon the rich
forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the
mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower, and strained his
eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of the count and his
attendants. Once he thought he beheld them; the sound of horns came
floating from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number
of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along the road;
but when they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they
suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last ray of sunshine
departed- the bats began to flit by in the twilight- the road grew
dimmer and dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared stirring in it but
now and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor.

  While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity, a
very interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the
Odenwald.

  The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route in
that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels toward matrimony
when his friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of
courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as
certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered at
Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had seen some
service on the frontiers; Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest
hands, and worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who was now returning
from the army. His father's castle was not far distant from the old
fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the
families hostile, and strangers to each other.

  In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends related
all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole
history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never
seen, but of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing
descriptions.

  As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed
to perform the rest of their journey together; and, that they might do
it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the
count having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake
him.

  They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military
scenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be a little tedious,
now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the
felicity that awaited him.

  In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald,
and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly-wooded
passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have always
been as much infested by robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at
this time, the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of
disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not appear
extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang
of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended
themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the count's
retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers
fled, but not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a
friar summoned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his
skill in administering to both soul and body; but half of his skill
was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate count were numbered.

  With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to
the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not
keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent
of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared
earnestly solicitous that his mission should be speedily and
courteously executed. "Unless this is done," said he, "I shall not
sleep quietly in my grave!" He repeated these last words with peculiar
solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no
hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness;
promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in
solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon
lapsed into delirium- raved about his bride- his engagements- his
plighted word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle
of Landshort; and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the
saddle.

  Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely
fate of his comrade; and then pondered on the awkward mission he had
undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed; for he was to
present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp
their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were
certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed
beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world;
for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of
eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all
singular adventure.

  Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holy
fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend,
who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his
illustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the count took
charge of his remains.

  It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of
Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more
for their dinner; and to the worthy little baron, whom we left
airing himself on the watchtower.

  Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended
from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from
hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already
overdone; the cook in an agony; and the whole household had the look
of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged
reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence of the
guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point of
commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice
of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old
courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder
from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law.

  The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the
gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air
of stately melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he should
have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was
ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper
respect for the important occasion, and the important family with
which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the
conclusion, that it must have been youthful impatience which had
induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants.

  "I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon you thus
unseasonably-"

  Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and
greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy
and eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the
torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to
flow on. By the time the baron had come to a pause, they had reached
the inner court of the castle; and the stranger was again about to
speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appearance of the
female part of the family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing
bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it seemed as
if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that
lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear;
she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidly raised;
gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger; and was cast again to
the ground. The words died away; but there was a sweet smile playing
about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that showed her
glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of
the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony,
not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.

  The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for
parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular
conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted
banquet.

  It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls
hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of
Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the
field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears,
and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan
warfare; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned
horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of
antlers branched immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom.

  The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed
in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that could
not be overheard- for the language of love is never loud; but where is
the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the
lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner,
that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color
came and went as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, she
would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a
gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young
couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply versed
in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in love
with each other at first sight.

  The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests
were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light
purses and mountain air. The baron told his best and longest
stories, and never had he told them so well, or with such great
effect. If there was any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in
astonishment; and if any thing facetious, they were sure to laugh
exactly in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most great
men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one; it was always
enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hochheimer; and even a
dull joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is
irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener wits,
that would not bear repeating except on similar occasions; many sly
speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with
suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out by a poor, but merry
and broad-faced cousin of the baron, that absolutely made the maiden
aunts hold up their fans.

  Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most
singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper
cast of dejection as the evening advanced; and, strange as it may
appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more
melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was
a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind
but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride became more and more
earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair
serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame.

  All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety
was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their
spirits were infected; whispers and glances were interchanged,
accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the
laugh grew less and less frequent; there were dreary pauses in the
conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales and
supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another still more
dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into
hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried away
the fair Leonora; a dreadful story, which has since been put into
excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world.

  The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He
kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a
close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and
taller, until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower
into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh,
and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement.
The baron was perfectly thunderstruck.

  "What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, every thing was
prepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished
to retire."

  The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; "I must lay
my head in a different chamber to-night!"

  There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was
uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his
forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties.

  The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every
offer, and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out
of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified- the bride
hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye.

  The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle,
where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting with
impatience.- When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway
was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the
baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still
more sepulchral.

  "Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you the reason
of my going. I have a solemn, and indispensable engagement-"

  "Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your place?"

  "It admits of no substitute- I must attend it in person- I must away
to Wurtzburg cathedral-"

  "Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until
to-morrow- to-morrow you shall take your bride there."

  "No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my
engagement is with no bride- the worms! the worms expect me! I am a
dead man- I have been slain by robbers- my body lies at Wurtzburg-
at midnight I am to be buried- the grave is waiting for me- I must
keep my appointment!"

  He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and
the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the
night blast.

  The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and
related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others
sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the
opinion of some, that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in
German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of
other supernatural beings, with which the good people of Germany
have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the
poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive
evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the
caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This,
however, drew on him the indignation of the whole company, and
especially of the baron, who looked upon him as little better than
an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as
possible, and come into the faith of the true believers.

  But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were
completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular
missives, confirming the intelligence of the young count's murder, and
his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral.

  The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut
himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with
him, could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They
wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking
their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so
good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank
more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the
situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a
husband before she had even embraced him- and such a husband! if the
very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have been the
living man. She filled the house with lamentations.

  On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired
to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of
ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her
longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber
was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively
gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves
of an aspen-tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just
tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden.
She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A
tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its
head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth!
she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment
burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the
music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her
arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared.

  Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she
was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady,
there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed
endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though
the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections
of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even
that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that
chamber again; the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as
strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle: the
consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone: but she drew a
promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she
should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth-
that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her
lover kept its nightly vigils.

  How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is
uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there
is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is,
however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance
of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week;
when she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by
intelligence brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young
lady was not to be found. Her room was empty- the bed had not been
slept in- the window was open, and the bird had flown!

  The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was
received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the
agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends.
Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable
labors of the trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck
speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, "The goblin! the
goblin! she's carried away by the goblin."

  In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and
concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of the
domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the
clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and
had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her
away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful
probability; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany,
as many well authenticated histories bear witness.

  What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a
heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great
family of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt
away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law,
and, perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was
completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were
ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the
Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded
on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the
doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition.
A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended
by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from
her horse, and falling at the baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was
his lost daughter, and her companion- the Spectre Bridegroom! The
baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre,
and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was
wonderfully improved in his appearance since his visit to the world of
spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly
symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance
was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark
eye.

  The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as you
must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself
as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the
young count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver
the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had
interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of
the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few
hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How
he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat,
until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit.
How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his
visits by stealth- had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's
window- had wooed- had won- had borne away in triumph- and, in a word,
had wedded the fair.

  Under any other circumstances the baron would have been
inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly
obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had
lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though
her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not
exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the
knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man; but several old
friends present, who had served in the wars, assured him that every
stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to
especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper.

  Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the
young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The
poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving
kindness; he was so gallant, so generous- and so rich. The aunts, it
is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict
seclusion, and passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but
attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows
grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having her
marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen
should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at
having found him substantial flesh and blood- and so the story ends.

                        THE END
.