The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 6, December 1849, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXV, No. 6, December 1849 Author: Various Editor: George R. Graham J. R. Chandler J. B. Taylor Release Date: August 20, 2017 [EBook #55396] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, DECEMBER 1849 *** Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by Google Books GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. VOL. XXXV. December, 1849. No. 6. Table of Contents Fiction, Literature and Other Articles The Conscript Jasper St. Aubyn Three Pictures: Sunrise—Noonday—Night Major Anspach Self-Devotion A Case of Gold Fever My First Love The Death of Cleopatra The Two Cousins: A Mas-Sa-Sanga Legend Of Western Canada Unfading Flowers Wild-Birds of America Editor’s Table Review of New Books Poetry, Music, and Fashion To My Steed Summer’s Night The Death of the Year The Cottage The Misanthrope Alice Vernon Song. On the Wide World I Am Sailing. The Broken Reed The Old Wooden Church on the Green The Fairies’ Song Pleasant Words Dirge. On the Death of a Young Lady. Passing Away The Undivided Heart Le Follet My Life is Like the Summer’s Rose Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. THE DEPARTURE. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. VOL. XXXV. PHILADELPHIA, December, 1849. NO. 6. THE CONSCRIPT; OR THE FOUNDATION OF MORALS. ——— BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER. ——— [SEE ENGRAVING.] The family of the Widow Berien had risen from their evening devotions, and were preparing to hasten to bed that they might rest from the toils of the day past, and to prepare for the fatigues of that which was to come. One by one they had taken leave of the mistress of the house, and had withdrawn, and Louise advanced to give her mother the evening kiss and receive the evening benediction—when the mother pointed to a chair and requested her daughter to sit down. The movements of the girl evinced an understanding of the object of her mother, and her countenance showed that she had drawn herself up to sustain the rebuke which had been prepared for her, for when both were seated Louise turned her face to her mother to discover, if possible, by the appearance of severity there, how the storm was to commence. “You have seen Adolph again, to-day,” said Madam Berien, in a mild tone, and with a glance which conveyed nothing like anger. “I met him returning from the field.” “And what did he say?” “It is scarcely necessary for me to repeat what he said or what I replied—it was probably not much different from what others in similar circumstances say. Not greatly different from what passed between you and my father at our ages, and in our situation.” “And that, Louise, shows me that you still persist in the resolution to marry Adolph.” “I have changed neither my inclinations nor my wishes so far as I may resolve on such matters.” “And my opinions are to go for nothing?” “Can you say that, dear mother? Can you say that your opinion, your command, and your wishes go for nothing, when for two years I have postponed our union solely in deference to your wishes, and here renew my promise, that while I will 313 marry no one but Adolph, in my present state of feeling, I will assuredly not marry him until you shall have given your consent, or at least, withdrawn your opposition.” “My consent will not easily be obtained under existing circumstances. I do not object to the condition, appearance, or general conduct⁠—” “On what then, dear mother, have you founded your hostility to Adolph?” “On nothing. I have no hostility to Adolph—I wish him well—I love him as the son of my cousin, on his father’s side, and his mother was the friend and companion of my childhood, and both of them were my long continued neighbors— but⁠—” “But what, mother? Tell me, is there any secret reason for your dislike to the connection with the family? Has he or have his parents committed crimes which would bring disgrace upon us if known? Tell me; I would not do aught that might be construed into discredit; nor would I have my happiness destroyed by vague insinuations—speak to me, mother, plainly. I can bear the truth. I have too much of your own character to shrink from what I ought to know or ought to do, and I have also too much of your firmness to relinquish a settled object on account of imaginary or only great difficulties. I can bear disappointment if it is in the way of duty, or I can meet and conquer obstacles. Let me know on what ground I stand. If Adolph has committed aught against the laws, or if there is aught against his condition which should operate with the most delicate and fastidious, I can and will relinquish all association with him. I know how necessary his presence is to my happiness, but I know also how cherished is the good name of the family.” “Louise, you know how amid all the tumults of the revolutions with which the country has been visited; revolutions that shook the throne and altar—revolutions that in attempting to purify the political condition of the nation destroyed its religion; you know, how amid all these tumults and disorganizations, when religion had been driven by the sword from her temples, and by ridicule from our dwellings, I have sought to cherish her in our domestic circle. Morning and evening have I gathered you around our family altar, and sought to keep alive in you the faith which has been the salvation of man, and which must be the guardian of woman’s position and woman’s purity.” “I know, dear mother,” said Louise, as she recalled all the cares and labor which had been used to keep her feet in the ways of truth. “I know, dear mother, how great has been your devotion; how constant your vigilance in our behalf, and how your service has been that of the priest at well as the mother.” “And thus, my dear child, while the wickedness and folly of our people have done more against religion than heresy itself would attempt, while the services of the altar have been performed to such a meagre audience, that the voice of the priest has been echoed along the vacant aisles of the church, and no impressions of religion on the Sabbath have sanctified a thought on the other days of the week; nay, when as in some of the neighboring cities and villages, the priest himself has poured ridicule on his office, and made the mysteries of religion a theme for mirth and laughter, till children have done mockery to their God and his service, by mimicking in their plays the solemnities of the sanctuary, and have been encouraged and rewarded by the laughter and applause of men and women; have I not sought to save you from the contamination, and to keep alive in your heart the love of God and a conformity to the will of his Church?” “You have, you have, dear mother, and I sometimes have thought when I have kneeled with you in morning and evening devotion, that you had gathered up the fragments of the consecrated yet broken altar, to erect a place of sacrifice in your own heart, and I have loved religion more that you have pleaded its cause, strengthened its sentiment in my bosom, and stood forward for all the duties and services which may be performed by one of our sex. And I know, dear mother, that the will for the sacraments, the pure intentions which you excite are better, more profitable to us than the sacraments themselves without such intentions. But why, dear mother, do you now with such solemnity recall these things; why, when alluding to my relations with Adolph, do you refer to your religious zeal and effective exertions? Poor as have been the fruits from your cultivation of my religious sentiments, have I ever denied or derided what you taught? has my conduct ever done injustice to the lessons of love and purity you have imparted? or have I ever said aught that intimated a doubt of, or disrelish for, the doctrine and service of our holy church? I ask not in anger; I ask not, indeed, in unsanctified confidence, but I ask in sincerity—if I have offended against God and the church, let me know my errors; nay, while sensible of my want of zeal and efforts toward perfection, I avow myself ready and willing to improve by any advice or corrective which you may impart.” “I have not, my dear child, had reason to doubt of the exactness and purity of your faith—no observation which I have been able to make, and I have carefully watched—oh! how vigilant must a widowed mother be over the purity of faith and conduct of her orphan daughter—I have, I repeat to you, found nothing in your faith to reprove, nothing in your religion and stated exercises unworthy of a Christian. But⁠—” “But, mother—but—what can you mean? You talk to me earnestly of my association with, and my affection for Adolph—you allude to my faith and my conduct, and say that you find nothing in my faith to censure, and nothing in my religious exercises unworthy a Christian, but you omit to approve of my conduct. You avoid reference to that, unless you were approaching it with the terrible—‘But.’ ” “I was approaching it—and—” “Does my mother mean that there is aught in my conduct, my conduct with Adolph, because it is evident that the remarks all tend thitherward—does my mother suspect impropriety of conduct in me—mother, mother, for Heaven’s sake, spare me that imputation. For me and my thoughts, my inmost thoughts, your chamber has been as much the seat of the confessional as the place of the altar, and not a feeling of my heart, not an impulse of passion, not a motive or a wish has been withheld from you that would have been uttered in explanation or confession to the priest. I know there is wrong, dear mother, in the world. I am human, with human passions and human weaknesses, but not a thought of impurity has ever been uttered to me by Adolph, or been suggested by our relations with each other. Blessed queen of purity! in this thing I am innocent, in word and thought. Dear mother, let me not suffer—let not Adolph suffer in your estimation upon such a suspicion, he is above such weakness and wickedness, and I should need no further monition from Heaven to avoid 314 his society, than the discovery that his words, nay, that our meeting suggested thoughts unsanctioned by my religion, unworthy of your approval.” Louise paused in her vehement appeal. She had gone to the very verge of propriety in her asseverations, and she saw nothing in her mother’s countenance which indicated any change of sentiment. The girl felt for a moment indignant. The language of her mother implied a charge of the most painful character, and though it might not reach to the extent which, at first, she seemed to suppose, yet she felt that maidenly propriety is scarcely less outraged by an imputation of habitual association with the dangerous and the impure, than by a charge of crime committed—and she started at the bare hint of the wrong, and was stung to the soul when her vehement disclaimer seemed to work no change in the mind of her accusing mother. The warmth of Louise’s feelings betrayed no disrespect to her mother, and perhaps the good woman felt pleased at the sensitiveness of her daughter on such a subject. Still there was no removal of the objection which was felt against Adolph, and she replied: “Your justification of your conduct, and your sensitiveness on the subject to which you supposed I referred, show how important you and all deem the fame of a young woman; how essential to her is not only a pure mind, but an unsuspected character; and that to which I have referred is so intimately connected with what you suspect, that I shall take your virtuous indignation at what you imagined my allusion, as almost as applicable to my meaning as to your suspicions.” “What is it you mean, mother?” “I mean, that with all the kindness of Adolph’s manners—with all the respect he has shown for me, and his affection to you, he is tainted with the infidelity of the times, and not merely neglects the offices of the church, but ridicules the Christian religion.” “Never, mother, never; depend on it, some one has slandered Adolph to you.” “Does Adolph frequent, I will not say the sacraments of his church, but the church itself?” “I see him frequently there.” “You see him there, my daughter, when he expects you are ready to return—but never does he assist in the services of the church?” “I am not able to assert how often he attends the church, mother; but I think as frequently as most of the young men of this department, at least, of our village.” “That may be, my child, but it is of the general prevalence of irreligion in which it seems that Adolph shares, that I complain—and you know, my daughter, that following your father’s advice, on his death-bed, I have said in the language of the King of Israel, ‘as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.’ ” “And God forbid, my dear mother, that I should hinder the fulfillment of your pious resolution, or be an exception in your religious family.” “And yet you will be, if you yoke yourself unequally with one who, if not a heretic, is only not that from his indifference to any religion.” “I will not, of course, assume that yoke without your approval.” “That is in a spirit of obedience; but, my daughter, it would be better if instead of limiting yourself not to marry any one without my approval, you would consent to advise with me as to some proper person among your acquaintance whom you would marry.” “My dear mother, the only equality in such a yoke of convenience would be the perfect indifference with which each would regard the other.” Louise was not a little shocked at the remarks made by her mother. She loved Adolph, and she knew well enough that he did not frequent the church, though she had never heard him ridicule religion, his respect for her and her religious habits would have prevented that outrage. But she could not shut her eyes to the fact that Adolph lived out of the influences of her church, and she knew well that her mother would never consent to her union with such a man. She mingled the subject in her prayers before she sought her bed, and gave the whole night to the anxiety which it caused. Next day Louise opened her heart to Adolph, by expressing her fears that he had neglected the duties of his religion. Adolph sought to evade the matter by some playful remarks, but he discovered that Louise was more than usually in earnest. “Your mother is in this,” said he. “She is—and she adds, that I shall never marry a man who neglects the requirements of religion.” “Why, is she going to make a priest of me?” “I hope not,” said Louise; “for in that case we should be further from our marriage than we now are.” “What does she require?” “She requires that you forbear, in the first place, any remarks against religion; and secondly, that you frequent the church, at least.” “I will do that to please her and you, at any rate,” said he. “You will do it from a higher motive, I hope,” said she. The result of the conference between Louise and Adolph was the promise on his part to be constant at church on all holydays, and to forbear any remarks which could be construed into a disrespect for religion and its ministers. Louise retired gratified at what she had gained, but not without some sense of the unworthiness of the motives of her lover, and with many doubts whether she ought to depend on such a shallow change. Adolph loved Louise—he promised readily—but he smiled in his heart at her seeming confidence. The truth was Adolph had ridiculed religion; not so much from any doubts of its truth, or any conclusions to which he had been led by argument, as by the necessity of improper association, the power of that state of mind that builds up skepticism as a sort of retreat from the stings of conscience. The moral principal of Adolph had suffered much from his associations. 315 It was a source of much gratification to Louise that Adolph kept his word—and Madam Berien could not deny that he was punctual in his attendance at the church, if not exceedingly edifying in his deportment. This brought Adolph more within the influence of Madam Berien’s family, and that influence could not fail of being beneficial; he certainly was saved from much wrong if he was not influenced to do a great deal of what was right. Such however was the force of example, that Adolph’s habit of going to church seemed to be growing into a principle. And influenced by the delicate persuasion of Louise he even commenced a preparation for the sacraments. The progress in the work of piety was most gratifying to his betrothed, and even received some applause from her mother. The good woman was at length persuaded to give her consent to the union of her daughter with him, and the marriage was to take place immediately after Easter. We need not speak of the happiness, and the bustle which such a consent produced in the family. With Louise it was a calm joy. It was to be the fulfillment of her heart’s dearest wish. She had as she believed prepared herself for it by humble prayer and careful watching, and she had aided in fitting her lover to be her husband, by a gentle forbearance with his peculiarities, and delicate suggestions as it regarded his errors. He was a better man, more worthy of being the son-in-law of her mother. Adolph felt that he had enough in Louise to make him forget the follies of his previous life, and though he had not the most entire confidence in himself, yet he knew that with her vigilance and her delicacy he should be in little danger of being less worthy of her than he then was. It is due to truth to say, that while Louise put confidence in the resolution of her lover, she did not feel that he was out of danger when out of her influence—danger not yet of open vice and profligacy, but of a neglect of religious duties and a resumption of those habits which had so nearly made shipwreck of him before. But he was not to be out of her influence— he was not to be removed from beneath her watchful eye. The marriage which was to take place in a few weeks would make him an inmate of her mother’s house, where, indeed, already the sweetness of his disposition and his manly bearing had made him a favorite. So that Madam Berien, while she thanked God for the earnestness with which she had dealt with her daughter and his regard, confessed that his conduct now was irreproachable, and that even the religious sentiment seemed to be fully re-established in him. It was near the close of a day early in April, that the family of Madam Berien was gathered around a table which seemed supplied with almost every thing but eatables. It was the finishing up of the wedding-dresses, and they had been about so long that there was no more pretence at concealing their uses, or hesitancy in referring to the ceremony and the time when they were to be used. Madam Berien had just finished, for the twentieth time, a detail of the arrangements, when the curé arrived. He was always a welcome visiter at the house. His labors were lightened by the beautiful example of the family, and his wants in some measure supplied by their charitable piety. He was at home, for he felt that he might indulge there in any little sallies of wit and pleasantry, without the danger of having his language quoted to sustain irreverence; and he could speak of religion and its offices, with a certainty that those with whom he conversed sympathized with all his feelings. In the midst of the appropriate merriment, in which real happiness rather than boisterous mirth seemed to predominate, a knocking at the door announced the approach of a stranger. He was ushered into the humble apartment, and presented the appearance of a veteran soldier of some consideration in the service. “I have been directed,” said the military visiter, “by persons in the village, to call at this house for citizen Adolph Lefevre. As my business is of an important kind, madam will, I hope, excuse my intrusion upon her domestic privacy.” Adolph rose, and announced himself as the person inquired for. “In that case,” said the visiter, “I have reason to be gratified with my call; the nation cannot fail to derive service from so finely proportioned a soldier. I bear, sir, to you a notice that you have been honored with a call to be mustered immediately into the service—as a conscript.” “A conscript! I am, sir, a conscript for 18—, but not of the present, nor even of the next year.” “I am aware, citizen conscript,” said the military gentleman, growing more and more civil as he meant to be more and more imperative, “I am aware of the year of your conscription, but the necessities of the grand army have compelled the emperor to anticipate a year or two; and you, who would otherwise have been no candidate for the cross of the legion of honor for two years at least, are now presented with the opportunity, which, of course, every Frenchman desires, of serving your country, without any such delay.” The officer presented Adolph with a paper which contained the order for his departure, fixed the day, and named the place of rendezvous; and then, with military grace, took leave of the family. It is not possible to describe the misery which this order had brought into the family. Six months before, Adolph would have thought less of the dangers of the camp, and Madam Berien would have felt relieved by his departure; now, the thought of separation was terrible. The certainty seemed for a time to have paralyzed the family. The marriage was, of course, to be postponed. “I could,” said Louise, to the curé, “I could have sustained the blow better, had I perfect confidence in the strength of Adolph’s power of resistance. It is not my disappointment that makes me weep; if I know my heart, dear father, it is the apprehension for Adolph’s moral safety. He must be exposed to all the debasing influences of a great army, and to all the dangers of association with men who make a mockery of all that is holy in religion, and all that is decent in morals; and he must stand the taunts and jibes of some of those from whom he has recently been attracted. He will fall, assuredly.” “Let us pray for his endurance of the trial,” said the curé. “Let us find some one,” said Louise, “that will assist to sustain his resolution of good, that will watch over him, and admonish him of his dangers.” “Who shall do that,” said Father Rudolph, “but who e’er it may be, he turneth a sinner from his ways, and hideth a multitude of sins. It is a blessed office.” 316 “Father,” said Madam Berien, “are there now no chaplains in the army?” “Alas, my child!” said the venerable curé, “war is not carried on now with that formality and parade which once distinguished it. The rapid movements of the troops give but little chance for religious impressions, and the morals of a camp seem to preclude the hope of any demand for clerical aid.” “How few of our army escape death or incurable wounds!” said madam. “Alas!” said Louise, “it is the camp more than the field that I dread; death or wounds are less injurious than the decayed morals.” There was trouble in the family of Madam Berien, trouble in the heart of Adolph. He was too young, too much a Frenchman of the time, to express an open regret at joining the army, and so he mourned his separation from Louise, and the disappointment of his marriage hopes, secretly. He dreaded the dangers of the association. He had really improved; he had begun to love virtue as he loved Louise; and he feared the consequence of the want of her influence in the cause of his improvement. The night before the departure of the few conscripts which were to leave the village, was spent by Adolph at Madam Berien’s; the curé was present most of the time. In the morning the busy movement in the place denoted that all were ready. Louise had only one word of farewell, one kiss to give, and her part was accomplished—and her heart sunk within her as she placed upon Adolph’s neck a little medal, which she carefully hid beneath his dress. The ferry-boat that crosses the river some distance above the village, received the conscripts, and many of their friends, who would accompany them to the rendezvous beyond the river. The neat uniform of the regiment sat well upon Adolph’s manly form; and as he stood on the boat and took his parting glass with one of the principal dignitaries of the village, he looked as if he deserved golden instead of worsted epaulets. One friend only accompanied the youth—it was his faithful dog, Ponto, who shared in THE CONSCRIPT’S DEPARTURE. The regiment was mustered—it joined others—and in a few days was on its march to be united with an attachment of the grand army. The army of the French, in those days to which we refer, was not of a kind to be overlooked, whereever it encamped, or whithersoever it marched; but just in proportion to the obtrusiveness of the whole was the indistinctness of its parts; and though each man in the ranks was made to feel something of personal identity, yet few out of the ranks looked upon the marshaled host as any thing less than one vast machine which a master-mind had formed, and a master-hand was directing; and to have supposed that a single soldier could have found distinction, or acquired note, unless by some excessive crime, or excessive courage, would be like identifying a drop in the ocean, or expecting some particle of matter to assert and confirm its indisputable right to distinction. All heard of the progress and the victories of the army, but none knew exactly who were included in that little sentence, “one thousand killed and wounded;” and the heart of Louise sunk within her as occasional bulletins of battles reached the village, with statements of daring courage, of admirable conduct, and of numerous deaths. Letters were then not common from the army, at least from private soldiers. Time passed, and Louise obtained permission of her mother to visit a relative at a distance; it was deemed a good opportunity to repair her health and spirits by a change of scenery and of company; and so she left her mother with more than usual evidence of grief at departure, for Louise, though affectionate, was not timid, and she rarely anticipated danger in any undertaking of her own; and such was her self-possession, that she never suffered from any of those incidents of travel which so often disturb the nerves of more delicate persons. A battle had been fought, and a German city yielded to the arms of the French. The wounded were disposed of in the hospitals, churches, and hotels of the conquered city. Adolph lay stretched out upon a well prepared bed in a small chamber, quite apart from some of his wounded brethren. A musket-ball had passed through his body, escaping the vital parts, but producing a wound which it was feared would, from the lack of regular attendants, and the warmth of the weather, prove mortal. He had suffered much, and his system was not in a condition to aid nature; still he rather improved. One morning, while he lay ruminating on the change in his affairs, he saw the surgeon of the regiment entering the room, followed by a young, slightly-built person, who seemed to have very little of the military in his movements or his dress; his face, for a moment, sent back the thoughts of Adolph to the home of his boyhood and youth; he started, as if some sudden pain had seized him, but looking again, he heard the name of the stranger announced. It was Klemm; he was the secretary to the general commanding the city. “I have come,” said Klemm, sitting down beside the bed of Adolph, “to assist in taking care of some of our wounded.” “Of our wounded,” said Adolph. “Yes, our wounded; for, though my pronunciation is rather German than French, I am a native and a citizen of France, educated in Germany, and bearing in my speech pretty strong proofs of my master’s powers of instruction, and my own of imitation. I have left some of the volunteer nurses with others, and have come to do my best by you. I have some acquaintance with the art. Is this your dog?” “Yes, this is Ponto the second; his predecessor, whom I brought from the village with me, perished in the same action in which his master received his present wound; and long used to the company of a faithful dog, I procured this, the nearest resemblance to old Ponto that I could find, and have christened him after his predecessor.” “And transferred your affections from the old to the new companion?” “Not entirely yet, but nearly, I think; he is likely to inherit the love as well as the name of the deceased.” “Love is a quality easily transferred, then?” said Klemm. “Why, yes; we soldiers, who are quartered in favorable positions, do certainly find it a convertible commodity.” 317 “I will dress your wound,” said Klemm. When the office had been performed, and Adolph was settled quietly down upon his well beaten pillow, Klemm said, “It is now time for me to repair to my duties at head-quarters, and you would better compose yourself to sleep. Do you need the assistance of a chaplain as well as a nurse?” “To confess the truth,” said Adolph, “I believe I could about as well dress my wound myself, as to go over some of those troublesome prayers with which my boyhood was unutterably bored. I think, however, that a little sleep would be about as refreshing as prayers.” Just as Klemm was withdrawing, Adolph called to him. “Do I understand that you are to act as assistant surgeon or nurse in this building?” “Yes.” “Then I think I shall recover, for I have felt no dressing like this since I was shot; and probably in a few weeks we may have a frolic together, for I perceived as they brought me hither that the place is not wholly destitute of females.” Considerable familiarity grew up between the wounded man and his nurse. The exceeding delicacy of the attentions of Klemm, his soothing care, his skillful application of all the prescriptions of the surgeon, created in Adolph a spirit of gratitude which then found expression in words, but which he hoped would have other exponents at a future time. “I see you wear a token,” said Klemm, as he took hold of the medal which had been placed round the neck of the soldier. “I should think that one who wore this would not fail in his daily devotions. Or is this a love token?” “Well, rather more of love than religion, I imagine.” “Oh, then your heart has suffered as much as your body?” “Why that might be the token of another’s love for me, rather than of mine for her.” “That is true, indeed; the medal itself might have been bestowed as a token of love for you; but surely, if worn by you, it was worn as a token of love for another.” “Why, to say the truth, it has been worn without much thought any way; but if you will look at it, you will see that it has saved my life by breaking the force of a ball.” “It has certainly suffered considerably,” said Klemm, as he gazed at the crushed medal. “It is strange,” said Klemm, some days afterward, when dressing the wounds of Adolph, “that you should wear a religious medal on your neck, and appear to be inattentive to services for which such things are worn, and even indifferent to the motives for which this particular one was given.” “Do you know the motive?” said Adolph. “You told me some days since, that it was rather a token of love than religion.” “In which I think it proper to say I was wrong.” “You awaken in me a curiosity by your remarks which I certainly have no right to expect will be gratified.” Adolph, whose fault of character it was to yield to immediate influences, professed himself willing to explain, desiring it to be understood, however, that the names he should use with regard to the absent, should be fictitious. “My own follies are justly visited on me, but I have no right to connect respectable names with mine in this situation.” Adolph, changing the name of the village and that of Madam Berien’s family, related to Klemm the circumstances of his life—his love for Louise, his irreligious habits, his restoration to propriety, his call to the army, and added that the evil associations of the camp had obliterated not only the sense of respect which he had begun to feel for religion, but it had really led him back to skepticism; and his life in the army had of late been in accordance with his want of belief. “Of course,” said Klemm, “you retain your affection for things and persons of this world, notwithstanding your loss of belief in the doctrines that relate to that which is to come?” “Not entirely.” “Have you ceased to love Louise—do you love another?” “Neither; but I confess to you that as I released myself from the trammels which the religious opinions of Louise placed upon my mind and conduct, I felt less respect, and consequently less love for her.” “Does your respect and love go together?” “My love for her was almost entirely dependent on respect. She was my superior in education, my teacher in religion.” “And so she put on airs, did she—played the school-mistress?” “I should certainly do injustice to her were I to admit the force of your query. She led me back into religious observances less by any thing masculine in her character than by the evident disinterestedness of her conduct, and the conviction that however little I might respect the requirements of religion, I certainly found the results of the outward observances of the rules the best for myself.” “Do you still love Louise?” “Can I love her, and live as I have lived for these last six months? I ask seriously.” “I will answer that when I can ascertain how intimately your self-respect is connected with that respect which you say was the fount of your love for Louise.” “It is certain that for some months after I entered the army, my resolutions for good were well maintained, and I thought that my affections for Louise were augmented by absence. But I fell into the habits of those with whom I associated, and I soon found that they shared the opinions which my earlier companions professed; and I confess to you that my old skepticism returned, and though my sufferings here have certainly prevented me from the indulgence of dissipation into which I had fallen, yet I do not find that my religious belief has returned with my change of conduct.” “Probably not, your change of conduct, as you call it, is only the necessity of your position, and you have perhaps sinned as heartily here, within sight of death, as when you were in the full flush of health.” “And, by the way, Mr. Klemm, that is the unkindest remark you have made to me yet, and smacking the least of German accent of any sentence you have uttered. How much your voice resembles Louise’s!” 318 “Do I resemble her much in other respects?” “You are not as tall, and you are darker; beside, your shock of hair resembles her splendid head about as much as your guttural German does her pure French.” “Adolph,” said Klemm, in accents far more Germanic than those recently used, “would you seek to renew your relations with Louise if you were now permitted to return?” “The only weakness which I ever knew in Louise was her love for me, and that, I have occasion to know, would not allow her to marry me with my present vices.” “Could you not conform to the customs of her family without a change of opinion?” “Would you advise me to do it?” “Would you do it?” “Klemm, you have seen too much of my character for me to affect to conceal much from you. I repeat it, I do not find myself disposed to any sanctimonious display of piety; I cannot and will not submit myself to the mortifying sacraments of the church. But if I could play the hypocrite, I would not deceive Louise if I could; and I suppose it is an evidence of my want of love for her now, that I will not do this to secure her as my wife. What say you?” “I will answer you to-morrow,” said Klemm, as he hastily left the room. “All gone! all impressions of piety erased, all holy resolutions abandoned, all faith shipwrecked, all progress given up, all religion relinquished; yet what is that last sentiment he utters, ‘I would not deceive her even to make her my wife.’ Surely while the sentiments of religion are clouded, while their effect is denied, they are lying deep in the heart, buried, but not lost—silent, unseen, but surely not dead.” Adolph was recovering slowly, and his nurse sought to comfort him with the assurance that he would soon be allowed to return home upon a furlough. “Why should I desire to return home,” said Adolph, “a wreck of what I have been—a wreck in mind and body, my health ruined and my faith destroyed? I take back nothing which caused my departure to be regretted.” “You have heard, then, that Louise, apprised of your situation, has resolved to discard you?” “No, I have not heard it, but I feel it; and, moreover, I cannot and will not impose upon her faith in me.” “I think if you could resolve to resume your religious duties there, notwithstanding all that has passed here, though she should know it all, she would receive you. But shall I invite a priest into your room?” “To have me laughed at by the whole regiment. I have little to confess that I have not told you—nothing, indeed, that you may not fully understand by what I have said.” “But I have no functions to grant absolution, whatever you may confess.” “Has any one more than you have? Is not the whole system one of priestcraft? What do priests know more than I do, and for what are they seeking to bring me under their care, unless to augment their power, and increase their comforts?” “Perhaps you have an inclination to listen to teachers of another creed? They are in the next town.” “Oh no, they are all alike in one thing, however they may differ in other matters, to rule others and help themselves.” “Was Father Rudolph of that class?” “No, apparently not—but how do you know Father Rudolph? Or how did you know that I was acquainted with him?” Klemm bit his lip—“It is not difficult to ascertain who have been your friends, as in your delirium you were very free with their names.” “Did I repeat her name.” “Only as Louise. But you are apparently set against the clergy.” “Yes.” “Have you thought really of their influence on your life? Have you considered that much of all that you call morals is indeed the effect of their religious teaching?” “That is religion not the priest.” “I speak for the instrument, I confess; but a clergyman is to religion what an army is to a war—and you might as well think of conducting a national contest without officer and soldier, as a moral, religious contest without a clergy. And I doubt whether you have any idea of religion, unless it be a sort of restraint upon certain actions and passions. You mean morals when you say religion, and as you have seen morals exist where there was no profession of religion or observance of prescribed devotion, you think that such a morality is an independent system. Let me correct that idea. I agree that we find morals without religion, but I do not agree that morals would exist without it, and thousands of our young officers (I heard some of them last evening,) assert with philosophic gravity, that they are moral (they mean good) without religion. How vain—how short-sighted. They overlook the great fact that their morals are good habits founded on the religious teachings and practice of their mothers or priests, and that all the credit which they claim for their philosophy is due to Christianity, and that less settled in habits, or less reflective than they now are, they would fall with the first temptation that presented. What do you say to that Adolph?” “I say nothing now—proceed.” “I will proceed to make a personal application. To whom was the virtue of your childhood and youth due? Certainly to your virtuous, religious mother.” “Did you know my mother?” “What a question!” “If not, how did you know that she was religious?” “Because you said that in your childhood you were religious and had a mother. You gave me a knowledge of the cause when you stated the effect.” “But my mother was neither a priest nor a religeuse.” “No, but she frequented the sacrament of the church, and attended to the instruction of a priest, and thus became 319 religious. But you admit that falling into bad company your morals became, if not depraved, at least vitiated, and that you began to despise religion when you neglected morals.” “But when I began to reform, certainly I did not owe my change of purpose to a priest, and I only intended the reformation in my morals.” “To whom then were you indebted for moral improvement?” “To Louise.” “And did not Louise owe her instruction to the same priest whom you had neglected? Nay, is it not probable that she applied to Father Rudolph for advice in the very matter of your reformation, and that he prescribed the condition on which she was to indulge her affections and encourage yours?” “I cannot say that it was not so. But Louise was pretty independent in her manners, and would scarcely have asked the priest’s advice with regard to a lover.” “Do you know any thing temporal of greater consequence than matrimonial engagements, or any relation more likely to have effect upon what you seem to think the priest has a legitimate right to meddle with?” “I do not believe the priest interfered.” “I know he did.” “You know?” “It is most natural that he should have done it. And now permit me to suggest still further, that while you owe the lessons which Louise gave you to the good father, you owe the reformation which you commenced to the remains of religious instruction in your heart. Undoubtedly it was your love to Louise that gave her influence over you, but it was religion that made her efforts successful.” “You confuse me—I do not assent, but I cannot now contend.” “I will leave you—leave you with this single remark, that not only did you owe your former reformation to religion, but there is religion now dealing with your heart, and your affection for Louise will return with the ready admission of religious instruction and the performance of religious duties.” “I think I love her now as well as ever.” “Then I shall hear more to-morrow of your experience.” The night was one of nervous irritability, and poor Adolph presented to the surgeon the next morning, one of the worst cases of relapse in the hospital, and Klemm was early summoned to the room of his patient. The day was passed in painful aberration of mind, and short unrefreshing sleep. The evening found the sufferer somewhat relieved. “What can I do for you more?” said Klemm, as he smoothed down the pillow after assisting Adolph to acquire a comfortable position. “That voice again!” said Adolph, “and no German.” “I have got clear of my German accent by conversing with you.” “Only at times,” said Adolph. “Can I do nothing more for you?” “Nothing, I believe.—Did you prepare for the priesthood?” “No. I had neither inclination nor vocation.” “I am sorry.” “Adolph you are very sick—sick, less from the pain of your wound than from the tumult of your mind. I am unable to assist you. Let me invite in a clergyman, who is in the hospital.” “Are there any here?” “One. The terrible state of the wounded in some of the wards has compelled the officer to admit a priest.” “Is there contagious disease?” “Yes.” “Do you not fear for yourself?” “Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus.” “What’s that?” “Remember the words. I will call in the clergyman.” And before Adolph could either consent or refuse Klemm had left the room. In a short time a priest entered the chamber of Adolph, and proceeded to make himself acquainted with the state of his penitent’s mind, and then to attend to the duties of his sick call. Adolph was calm and settled when Klemm returned, but not communicative. Klemm then announced his departure a duty, and the fact that Adolph would, as soon as his strength would permit, be allowed to return home. The parting of the friends that evening was truly affecting. Klemm was made to promise a visit to the village —“Though,” said he, “I may make an impression on Louise unfavorably to you.” “I do not fear that,” said Adolph. “Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus,” said Klemm. “A German quotation which I will show you in the original, or at least explain to you when we meet in your village.” Klemm took leave of Adolph and Ponto, the faithful dog, and proceeded on his journey. Men gather to see a regiment, a single company, or even a little squad depart for the camp—but few look out for the returning wounded—they come back singly and sorrowful. The wagon that was passing the ferry house nearly opposite the village in which resided Madam Berien, stopped for a moment, and a soldier, war-worn and wounded, stepped slowly from the vehicle, followed by his dog. He entered the house, and as he closed the door upon a small parlor, he found 320 himself confronted by a female. “Adolph!” “Louise!” “And your mother?” “Well—all well.” “And Ponto,” too, said Louise, as the affectionate dog, after reconnoitering round her, sprang up to receive his share of the caresses—“Ponto, too, come back.” “Yes. But this is not Ponto that left the village with me. How comes he to be so familiar with you?” “Your wounds are better?” “I am well nearly. I need only rest—only your kindness, and I shall be ready for another campaign,” said he with a melancholy smile. The boat awaited the passengers, and a few on the opposite shore were waiting for the CONSCRIPT’S RETURN. Adolph was received by the villagers on the shore with hearty welcome, and was conducted toward his former residence. As he entered the little hamlet, he turned slowly into the church, and at the foot of the humble altar poured out to Heaven the thanks which swelled up in his heart for his return. And near him one heart gushing with love and gratitude was breathing out its thanksgiving that the wanderer had first sought the house of God. THE RETURN. The post-office the next day supplied a letter, without post-mark, giving Adolph an officer’s commission for the gallantry that saved his colonel’s life at the imminent risk of his own, and extending his furlough for a year. “But Louise,” said Adolph, “how your complexion has suffered since I saw you.” “I have been absent for some weeks.” “Yes, and these mountain relatives of yours always look of about the same color as one of their ripe grapes.” Adolph having now some position, and a source of reliance upon his good resolution, presented himself before Madam Berien to solicit formally the hand of her daughter. The matter had evidently occupied the worthy lady’s attention, as she consented at once, referred to an early day for the marriage, and desired that her own house might be the residence of her son-in-law and his wife. “Surely, Providence is too good to me,” said Adolph, when he announced to Louise the result of his negotiation. “Has it ever failed you when you really relied upon it?” “Did it not allow me to be sent to the army, and to suffer horribly? I do believe I should have died without Klemm.” “Has not your campaign resulted in the adoption of a sounder code of morals, a restoration to religious exercises, and the acquisition of rank, and in our almost immediate marriage? And will not Klemm be here at our wedding?” “I hope so, but faith Klemm is such a well-made handsome little fellow, that I might wish him to tarry until after our marriage. I should not like to find him and you chatting German sentiment together in the German language.” “And why not, Adolph?” “I might fear that the sleek little secretary would outshine the wounded lieutenant.” “Fear, Adolph! You would not fear.” “Why not?” asked he, with a smile. “Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus,” said Louise, with a strong German accent. “Good Heaven, Louise! where did you find that quotation, and where that accent and look?” “Why, the quotation is from the Bible, and the accent is as true German as my grape-raising relatives know how to give.” No Klemm arrived as Adolph hoped, and so the bridal party set forward to the church where Father Rudolph was awaiting their arrival. The simple but interesting ceremony was concluded, and as the party rose from their last genuflection toward the altar, Louise whispered into her husband’s ear: “Klemm has come!” “Where—where is he? Oh! how I long to have him share in the happiness which I enjoy, and he will share in it, for it is of his own producing. Oh! Louise, could you but know—but I have told you all I can tell; yet I cannot express what I feel for that young man’s beautiful devotion to my good—to him alone, next to God, am I indebted for this day’s unspeakable delight.” “I thought you owed it to me,” said Louise. “To you—to you indeed, that you are mine—but to him that I was made worthy of your acceptance. Dear Louise, I am afraid you must share—” “Afraid, Adolph—‘Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus.’ ” “Louise, you confound me—whose is that tone of voice—whose that arch look? Surely you are not yourself now?” “Not this moment, Adolph. Just now I am Klemm!” The sacrifices of Louise had been accepted in Heaven—of course they were appreciated on ea...