"LI B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 St242-f 
 v.l
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/festivalofmorahi01stan
 
 THE 
 
 FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 A ROMANCE.
 
 THE 
 
 FESTIVAL OF MORA 
 
 AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE. 
 
 By LOUISA SIDNEY STANHOPE, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 MONTBRAZIL ABBEY, THE BANDIT'S BRIDE, THE CRUSADERS, 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 The drone sleeps; 
 The bee, labours out fruit and honeyt 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 JK1MLD FOR JOHN RICHARDSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 1821.
 
 Uxbridge, Print wl by W* hake.
 
 853 , 
 
 v. X 
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Oppression ! 
 Like au alarum bell to slumb'ring watch, 
 Rouses the inmost spirit of peace. 
 
 A HIS very sword thinned the Danish 
 ranks! this very rust, the blood of the 
 foes of Sweden !" exclaimed the youthful 
 Xavier, gazing with an eye of fire on the 
 unsheathed blade trembling in the grasp 
 of Ladislaus. " Dear, good friend, tell me 
 ;Hiore — tell me of strife and conquest; for 
 I my feelings hie with you to battle, and 
 ^ my heart beats as though it would burst 
 my bosom."
 
 !i THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " Alas ! I can tell you nought, save 
 woe, and wrong, and violence," replied 
 Ladislaus ; " save tyranny and persecu- 
 tion — a country bleeding at every pore 
 — a usurper trampling on every law of 
 honor and humanity — a nation bankrupt 
 in all of liberty or ." 
 
 " What, every hope annihilated, every 
 effort dead?" interrupted the beardless 
 patriot. " Lives there no spirit to re- 
 dress and to chastise ? Can man submit 
 to the yoke ? — can he bend his neck to 
 the conqueror ? Untrammelled, freeborn, 
 can he ." 
 
 " Necessity, stern necessity is a yoke 
 of iron," solemnly pronounced Ladislaus 
 — " In the forest of Tyvede, near the lake 
 Veler, the spirit of Sweden sank in the 
 grave of the administrator." 
 
 " Not so — not so," eagerly resumed the 
 youth. " The spirit droops, but dies not : 
 something here at my heart, in my soul, 
 tells me we are not born for slavery. Give 
 me that sword, stranger, friend, dear
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 3 
 
 mysterious Ladislaus ; baptized in ene- 
 mies' blood, I will treasure it as a holy 
 relic, as a precious spur to the lagging- 
 fires of patriotism : — oh, give it me, for fain 
 would I too weep o'er the manes of my 
 country !" 
 
 " First ask my life," said the veteran; 
 'tis all that's left me of my former station. 
 This sword was the gift of — was the 
 avenger of — was — was — Strange boy, 
 you steal upon me unawares ; upon my 
 solitude, upon my secret commune ; you 
 — you — " He turned aside his head as 
 though ashamed of his emotion, then with 
 a sudden effort, " Leave me, dearest Xa- 
 vier, I am scarce myself; recollection, 
 calamity, bereave me of my fortitude." 
 
 Xavier dropped upon his knees, his 
 cheeks, his very temples, flushing the full 
 tide of his feelings — " I dare not — I can- 
 not crave confidence," he articulated — 
 " I am too young, too unformed to war- 
 rant the trust : yet could I explain what 
 passes within; could I mould the wild 
 b2
 
 4 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 hopes of a wilder fancy ; could I give body 
 to my wishes ; could I unlock my breast, 
 and show the hidden folds of my heart, 
 you would see the strength, the energy of 
 man, budding, bursting ; you would see 
 freedom — Sweden— revenge — stamped 
 with a die of fire !" 
 
 " Where have you inhaled an enthu- 
 siasm so glorious?" asked Ladislaus, 
 viewing him with mingled admiration 
 and wonder. 
 
 " Here, in my native province," ar- 
 dently rejoined Xavier, " upon the moun- 
 tains, amidst the forests ; — here, where 
 every bird, soaring 'twixt earth and sky, 
 breathes of nought but liberty !" 
 
 " And your teacher ?" questioned La- 
 dislaus. 
 
 " Nature — intuition," replied Xavier! 
 " "Tis dangerous to talk of teachers now. 
 1 have heard of the massacre of Stock- 
 holm, and I have prayed for the souls of 
 the outraged." 
 
 His lip quivered; a lear stood in his
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 5 
 
 eye ; recovering himself, " I come to bid 
 you adieu : my leave expires, and I must 
 return to Saverdsio." 
 
 " Not to-night, my young friend," said 
 Ladislaus : " the curate, your good uncle, 
 would not urge through a snow storm. 
 No, no, we cannot part with you to-night: 
 my Sigrida must bind you with one of 
 her sweetest smiles." 
 
 " Your Sigrida," murmured Xavier, 
 " could almost tempt against judgment ;" 
 and then he crimsoned at the import of 
 his own words. 
 
 " To Sigrida s influence then look we 
 for indulgence," archly replied Ladis- 
 laus ; " remember, we part not to-night." 
 
 " And yet," urged Xavier, " to-morrow 
 the mountain passes may be trackless, and 
 justly may 1 be taxed with neglect. I know 
 every intricacy of the distance, the pine- 
 forests, the rocky defiles ; I have traversed 
 them often in heavier storms than this.*" 
 
 " Ah ! but you have never left behind 
 you those who would press a sleepless
 
 6 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 pillow, those who would conjure ideal 
 horrors, and fancy your moan in every 
 gust which blew." 
 
 "Those," repeated Xavier, and the 
 quickening pulsation at his heart almost 
 checked articulation. 
 
 " Yes, Sigrida would mourn for the 
 preserver of her father," resumed Ladis- 
 laus; "and I too lack not gratitude. 
 Come, come, you must yield acquies- 
 cence, and to-morrow I promise to fur- 
 nish a well penned document proving 
 resistance and sheer opposition the bar- 
 riers to obedience." 
 
 " What, if to-morrow the snow be very 
 deep, and the waste pathless?" asked 
 Xavier. 
 
 "Why then we will keep you in our 
 own snug cabin until the sun thaws, or 
 the frost hardens a safer footway; nay, 
 and 1 will bear you fellowship, and 
 meet the brunt of first reproof." 
 
 " Reproof is a weapon my kind uncle 
 knows not how to wield," observed Xa-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 7 
 
 vier ; " ruling through the heart, he go- 
 verns by the magic sway of affection." 
 
 " Well then the venture be still smaller," 
 said Ladislaus. " Go you; say to Si- 
 grida you have deferred leave-taking till 
 to-morrow, and I will quick conceal this 
 weapon of strife and death." 
 
 Xavier moved not; he looked intently 
 on the sword, and fancy conjured a thou- 
 sand improbabilities. 
 
 " It is an intricate maze," observed 
 Ladislaus, diving within his thoughts; 
 " time may yet furnish the clue, but po- 
 licy, and even gratitude, now withholds 
 disclosure." 
 
 " The blood of the foes of Sweden" 
 mournfully repeated Xavier; and then in 
 awe and reverence he bowed his lip to 
 the grimed and bedimmed blade. 
 
 " You are a patriot ! you love your 
 country !" said Ladislaus, after a pause of 
 thought. 
 
 " As my life," solemnly pronounced 
 the youth.
 
 8 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " You feel her wrongs and her indigni- 
 ties?" 
 
 " Oh yes, in my heart's core !" 
 
 " And your uncle, the curate of Sa- 
 verdsio T 
 
 " In his church, in his closet," eagerly 
 replied Xavier, daily, nightly, prays for 
 her prosperity and coming peace." 
 
 " Alas ! prayers are impotent ; how- 
 ever they may brace the mind to resigna- 
 tion, they blunt not the iron goads of ty- 
 ranny." 
 
 " True, but they bring peace to the 
 surcharged heart; like rain distilled on 
 the flinty earth, they soften and they 
 temporize." 
 
 " Your uncle deals out blessings, not 
 curses." 
 
 " My uncle is the friend of human na- 
 ture ; he deals out blessings, because he 
 feels man too frail to curse his fellow." 
 
 " And Chris tiern, the imperial spoiler — 
 the murderer-^-the blasphemer — the " 
 
 " Even Christiern of Denmark," inter-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 9 
 
 rupted Xavier, " comes within his pale of 
 sanctifi cation : he prays for grace and a 
 new heart to the persecutor, for patience 
 and fortitude to the persecuted. I would 
 you could behold him; beneficient and 
 holy, irradiated by the meek spirit he in- 
 voketh, stemming the current of revil- 
 ings, and striving to mould his little flock 
 to christian love." 
 
 " The Dalecarlians are a hardy and ad- 
 venturous race," thoughtfully remarked 
 Ladislaus : " the last province in wretch- 
 ed Sweden which yielded allegiance to 
 the tyrant." 
 
 " And the first," exultingly exclaimed 
 Xavier, to file the chains of slavery! A 
 rude but simple people, jealous of their 
 privileges, lovers of their country, foes 
 to oppression and violence: amidst the 
 sturdy miners, deep within the bowels of 
 the earth, often have I noted the wri things 
 of hatred and malignity excited by the 
 name of Christiern." 
 
 w You have noted — you have bosomed 
 b5
 
 JO THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 the kindling sparks of dissatisfaction and 
 rankling discontent?" 
 
 " Yes, and I have pined to blow those 
 sparks into a flame," pursued Xavier; " to 
 stir the inward grumblings of rebellion, into 
 the raging volcano of reprisal and radical 
 change. Would that a second Engel- 
 brecth would arise, to shake once more 
 the base of usurpation, and rescue Sweden 
 from the lawless fangs of Danish tyranny! " 
 
 " As well may we seek justice at the 
 hands of Christiern, as a champion midst 
 the general carnage," observed Ladislaus. 
 " Guilt is too wary to spare the lives of 
 the injured. A vile disgraceful plot en- 
 snared our flower and strength. Gusta- 
 vus Ericson ." 
 
 11 A plot," interrupted the attentive Xa- 
 vier. 
 
 " Yes, a plot ; a treacherous, a damn- 
 ed plot," said Ladislaus, his eyes flashing 
 the fire of his feelings. " Gustavus Ericson, 
 the great standard-bearer of the crown, 
 the descendant of our kings, rousin-ger-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. H 
 
 man to the administrator, and son to Eric 
 Vasa, governor of Finland, with six of 
 our chief nobles, ensnared as hostages on 
 board the Danish fleet, were there ar- 
 rested and disarmed, contrary to the 
 faith of kings, and the law of nations." 
 
 " Holy God! and murdered?" asked 
 the shuddering Xavier. 
 
 " They were conveyed to Denmark," 
 pursued Ladislaus " And though mad- 
 dened at a treachery so black, the royal 
 Steno manned every boat in the harbour 
 of Stockholm ; though he himself headed 
 his little fleet, eager to attack the Danish 
 squadron, to liberate the hostages or pe- 
 rish in the effort, a brisk gale' -springing 
 up, defeated all our hopes : not a sail 
 scudded on the face of the Baltic : sea 
 and sky alone were visible : the Danish 
 fleet had outstripped our course, and we 
 returned to port, baffled and unavenged." 
 
 " We," repeated Xavier, his eyes in- 
 tently fixed on the agitated countenance 
 of the narrator.
 
 12 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " I should say," hesitatingly resumed 
 Ladislaus, " the mourning friends of the 
 noble prisoners, the zealous compatriots 
 of the administrator." 
 
 " Sacred be your concealments," said 
 Xavier. " Tell me of the ill-starred nobles, 
 so fatally duped by the arts of Chris- 
 tiern?" 
 
 "Alas! quick hastens the completion 
 of the tragedy," resumed Ladislaus : "we 
 beheld them no more : but we lived for 
 vengeance : and not until Otho Crumpein, 
 the general of the Danish forces, piercing 
 into Westgothland, entrenched himself 
 near the forest of Tyvede ; till a feigned 
 retreat drew us into a rash and impetuous 
 pursuit; till staggering, dismayed, and 
 overpowered, our hopes fell with the gal- 
 lant Steno, did we know the weakness 
 of our trust. Stubborn and deadly was 
 the conflict : even now, my blood ices, 
 and my hair bristles towards heaven, when 
 1 recall the havoc of that day : foes and 
 friends fell around : our infantry guarded
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 13 
 
 the pass of Tyvede, and brave and des- 
 perate was our resistance : blood stream- 
 ed like water on the earth ; and men and 
 horses, Danes and Swedes, lay grappled 
 in death and ruin. Mighty heaven ! 'twas 
 then 1 — 'twas then, the wounded, dying 
 Steno, on a sledge was borne from the 
 field, his last look resistance, his last 
 prayer for his country : — he fell by a can- 
 non-shot, at the very moment, when his 
 courage and his noble daring had nearly 
 rifled the glorious palm of victory !" 
 
 " You saw the administrator fall — you 
 shared in the mortal conflict," said Xavier. 
 
 " I received him, stricken and dying in 
 my arms," faltered the veteran — " I was 
 bending over him, when the last struggle 
 spoke the flight of the spirit — I — 1 — " 
 He passed the back of his hand across 
 his eyes, then gasping down a sob — " I 
 clung to the fortunes of the administrator, 
 until fate > until — " he ceased, and half 
 burying his face upon his breast, turned 
 mournfully away.
 
 14 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " At the death of queen Margaret, 
 when Eric duke of Pomerania, according 
 to the treaty of Calmar, succeeded to the 
 three kingdoms," thoughtfully observed 
 Xavier; " when retiring to Denmark, 
 his governors, and his viceroys, treated 
 the Swedes, not as free subjects, but as 
 disarmed enemies, even here, in Dale- 
 carlia, an avenger arose in the form of 
 Engelbrecth." 
 
 " Even here," repeated Ladislaus, his 
 tears drying beneath the burning flush of 
 new awakened emotion. 
 
 " The bow too tightly strung will snap," 
 whispered Xavier, in a tone more felt than 
 heard. " Here, in Dalecarlia, the revolt 
 began, and the oppressor of our country, 
 felt and rued man's native struggle for 
 freedom : peasants in thousands marshal- 
 led round the standard of Engelbrecth ; 
 province after province caught the glorious 
 fire ; and patriots, in ermine and in rags, 
 joined in the stress for liberty ! O ! to 
 have lived in those days ! to have freight-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 15 
 
 ed hope and life in a cause so blessed ! 
 to have grasped the sword, to have track- 
 ed in vital blood the effort for emancipa- 
 tion! to — " 
 
 " Have a care, dearest Xavier," implor- 
 ed Ladislaus ; " such words, such hopes, 
 breathed to the very winds, entail 
 death. Youth with ardour should com- 
 bine discretion. Heaven knows, I too 
 see and mourn the gyves of bondage, the 
 goading cankering rust of tyranny ; but 
 how to cast the yoke — how out of chaos 
 to call forth might and power." 
 
 " The nobles who live scattered and 
 fallen, the remnant of prince Steno's ar- 
 my," quickly rejoined Xavier. 
 
 " How unwittingly do you estimate 
 the strength of Denmark," sighed Ladis- 
 laus : " our own people too war against 
 us, for the suffrage of the church sides 
 with Christiern." 
 
 " True, my friend, but patriotism is a 
 nerve of iron, and a just cause, man's 
 surest, firmest breastplate. Let our ex-
 
 \6 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 patriated nobles return ; let them side 
 with the horde who groan beneath their 
 grievances, and perish the vaunting boasts 
 of the traitorous archbishop of Upsal, per- 
 ish the vain bravado, of all his suffragans, 
 and all his trust !" 
 
 " Alas ? the massacre of Stockholm 
 leaves no hope on which to rest," said 
 the shuddering Ladislaus. " In one day 
 ninety-four of our nobles, besides our se- 
 nators, our consuls, and our magistrates, 
 bled beneath the axe of the executioner : 
 the whole city was devoted to violence 
 and pillage, for a brutal soldiery outvied 
 the inhumanity of their recreant king. 
 'Tis an era of calamity, persecution, and 
 woe ! those who survive may mourn, but 
 they cannot redress." 
 
 " I would question of the brave Gus- 
 tavus, of Sigonis, Nicholaci, Ryning, of 
 all the noble hostages so treacherously 
 conveyed to Denmark ?" said Xavier. 
 " Living in the obscurity of Saverdsio, I 
 have heard nought, save when sojourning
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 17 
 
 at Oernetz, in the house of Peterson, the 
 husband of my maternal aunt." 
 
 " Experience and probability casts a 
 sable shade oer their fortunes," replied 
 Ladislaus : for the tyrant who could mas- 
 sacre a whole senate, who coolly and sys- 
 tematically could doom to the axe the 
 trunk, would not spare the branches. 
 Yet rumour, even to this obscure corner, 
 spreads the escape of the royal Gustavus : 
 it is said, that evading the search of Chris- 
 tiern, he still lives. God grant," and fer- 
 vently he raised his clasped hands, " it 
 be to pour out the teeming vial of retribu- 
 tive vengeance !" 
 
 "Amen! amen!" ejaculated Xavier ; 
 and further he would have questioned, 
 but Ladislaus implored forbearance. 
 
 " It is a theme to sink us even to de- 
 spair," he exclaimed ; " to retain a vestige 
 of peace, deaf and blind must we be to 
 our country's wrongs. Besides, my young 
 friend, time is flitting, and Sigrida may be 
 jealous of my monopoly: go, seek her,
 
 J 8 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and I promise to join you on the instant." 
 How could sorrow, care, or gloom, 
 pervade the magic circle of innocence and 
 beauty ? Sigrida was the fairest of Swe- 
 dish maids, and Xavier forgot even the 
 indignities of persecution, in the soft lus- 
 tre of her sunny eyes, and the versatile 
 witchery of her smile. Habited in the 
 simple costume of her country, the short 
 petticoat of crimson, topped with a tight 
 vest of spotless white, displayed the sculp- 
 tured proportion of her perfect figure ; the 
 black sash contrasted the snow of her 
 arms and bosom ; and her hair, flowing 
 in wild redundance, shone like threads of 
 gold. She was plying her distaff when 
 he entered, and in tones, " sweet as the 
 shepherd's pipe upon the mountain," warb- 
 ling a national ballad. 
 
 Xavier paused involuntarily, and as he 
 
 glanced o'er the bright and radiant image 
 
 of youthful loveliness, he inwardly blessed 
 
 the storm which held him in bondage. 
 
 " O you are come at last!" said Sigrida ;
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 19 
 
 " in truth, I thought you half way to Sa- 
 verdsio." 
 
 " Your good father barred my passage, 
 and how could I rebel against his Jaws ?" 
 
 " Did you wish to rebel?" 
 
 "Not absolutely, though but for this 
 snow storm, I had promised my uncle to 
 return." 
 
 "I hope it may snow, and snow, and 
 snow, for the next month," said the art- 
 less Sigrida. " Indeed, Xavier, when 
 you go to Saverdsio, but for my dear fa- 
 ther, I always wish to go to Saverdsio too. 
 Long after you have quitted our cottage, 
 I feel — I feel just as though I had lost 
 something necessary to my comfort." 
 
 " The society of those we esteem ever 
 augments our comforts," observed Ladi- 
 slaus, entering at the moment. 
 
 " Then 1 am sure I esteem Xavier," 
 ardently exclaimed Sigrida, " and 'tis no 
 wonder I miss his presence." 
 
 " You are very kind," faltered Xavier, 
 crimsoning and turning aside his face
 
 20 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 4 ' Say rather, I should be very ungrate- 
 ful if I didiiot love you, and the good 
 Stiernhelm your uncle, and little Ulvilda ; 
 nay, all the household, to Gotha, the great 
 dog in the court-yard." 
 
 " Your love is very diffusive," said La- 
 dislaus, smiling. 
 
 " Sigrida raised her dappled cheek, 
 and throwing back her auburn ringlets, 
 with eyes gemmed in tears, sprung upon 
 his neck: " Just eighteen months, dearest 
 father," she murmured, " since Xavier 
 rescued all my hopes in you." 
 
 Ladislaus kissed the polished brow of 
 his daughter ; his eyes turned in mute elo- 
 quence on Xavier, as his lips trembled at 
 the revisal of that period. 
 
 " If unknown I prayed for the preserver 
 of my father," pursued the maid, " known 
 in the blessed peace of Saverdsio, I che- 
 rished him as my best friend." And then 
 she extended her hand, and with a naivete 
 all her own, " Dearest Xavier, I do in- 
 deed love you ; and I love every tree, and
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 21 
 
 every shrub, which blossoms around your 
 happy home." 
 
 " Hush! hush!" implored the gratified 
 youth, pressing to his lips the precious of- 
 fering. " It was chance — it was the in- 
 terposition of heaven — it was — no more, 
 in pity's sake, no more. 
 
 " It was a deed of grace, an effort of phi- 
 lanthropy," exclaimed Ladislaus, " which 
 will live to the last stretch of memory : 
 yes, my child, we are bound to love him, 
 even if his own merits forged not the 
 chain." 
 
 " Then do you not wish it may snow 
 for a whole month?" asked Sigrida; " for 
 however duty may urge, Xavier must then 
 tarry at Rusrgoden." 
 
 " And should we erect our gain on the 
 loss of the venerable Stiernhelm?" de- 
 manded the fond father; " think, my child, 
 should we joy in the privation of others." 
 
 " Not entirely — not exactly," hesita- 
 tingly pronounced Sigrida, " yet I shall 
 sorely miss Xavier."
 
 22 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " Then you study your own comfort in 
 preference to the curate's." 
 
 " My wishes will not make it snow," 
 said Sigrida, archly. 
 
 " Neither will your heart foster selfish- 
 ness," concluded Ladislaus. 
 
 Sigrida glanced timidly at Xavier: he 
 sat in an attitude of abstraction, his arms 
 folded, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. 
 Raising her finger to her lip in token of 
 silence, with a soundless step she stole 
 behind him, and placing her hands upon 
 his eyes, " Guess," she exclaimed ; and 
 then blushing, she struggled, for Xavier, 
 starting into being, retained those hands, 
 and covered them with rapturous kisses. 
 
 " Tis all fair," said Ladislaus, laugh- 
 ing ; but Sigrida looked grave, and Xa- 
 vier abashed and fearful. 
 
 M Have I offended?" he asked, relin- 
 quishing his hold, and anxiously perusing 
 her features. 
 
 " Did you intend offence ?" 
 
 " No, heaven knows I did not."
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 23 
 
 " Then you think me capricious." 
 " Dearest Sigrida, I think — " 
 " Well, well," interrupting him, and ral- 
 lying back her wonted smile, " if you think 
 me a petulent caded child, you must lay 
 your accusation here," affectionately kiss- 
 ing the cheek of her father; " for even 
 my kind nurse Hetha will tell you I have 
 been spoiled from the cradle." 
 
 The night was cold and rayless; the 
 snow still fell, and the frozen earth was 
 deep clothed in its unvarying vesture ; no 
 moon illumined the surrounding forests, 
 nor did the giant outline of rock and hill 
 catch one gleam of an aurora-borealis. 
 
 " I hope all those we love are safe 
 housed," said Ladislaus, drawing closer 
 to the blazing hearth, " 'tis a night to 
 plead excuse of the most fastidious ; and 
 Mr. de Stiernhelm would have thought us 
 crazed had we suffered your return." 
 
 " I am sure, Xavier, had you quitted 
 us as you wished," artlessly exclaimed 
 Sigrida, " 1 should have been very very
 
 24 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 wretched, for I should have pictured 
 nought but your perishing in the snow/* 
 
 " Say not as I wished," implored Xa- 
 vier; " indeed, my sweet friend, my wishes 
 would chain me here, and but for my pro- 
 mise to my uncle, I too would pray for it 
 to snow a whole month." 
 
 " To bury us all in one cold grave of 
 wretchedness," drily remarked Ladislaus : 
 " your wishes indeed are most philan- 
 thropic." 
 
 " Oh, but my dear sirP 
 
 " Oh, but my dear father!" 
 
 " Enough, enough," good humouredly 
 smiling; " we shall see what earth and 
 sky hold forth to-morrow; and for to- 
 night, reach your lyre, my girl, and warble 
 us a ditty ; it will beguile the hour till 
 supper. 
 
 Sigrida rose from her seat, but Xavier, 
 swift as light, had already lifted the in- 
 strument from the shelf, and placing it on 
 her knee, stood in wrapt attention. Archly 
 smiling, and turning her playful eyes upon
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 25 
 
 him, with a light hand, she swept the 
 chords, and sweetly sung : 
 
 The rain now flows j 
 
 The north-wind blows j 
 The snow our pathways darken : 
 
 But coming day, 
 
 Bedight and gay, 
 O'er frozen wastes will hasten. 
 
 Just as the ray, 
 
 Begilds the way, 
 Midst breakers dark and dreary j 
 
 Though life be woe, 
 
 And fortune low, 
 Hope's faintest beams are cheery ! 
 
 Like dappled sky, 
 
 Fast flitting by, 
 Distilling dewy showers; 
 
 The ev'ning gloom, 
 
 Dark as the tomb, 
 Gives place to budding flowers. 
 
 And through this life, 
 
 Of hostile strife, 
 The pathway best to gladden ; 
 
 Blunting the thorn, 
 
 Of rankling scorn, 
 Hope turns our thoughts to heaven 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 20 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Hist, ye men of Dalccarlia ! 
 The season calls for caution and for doubt. 
 
 xV-S the silver tones of the artless and the 
 happy Sigrida ceased, a knocking at the 
 outer gate arose, and Ladislaus and Xa- 
 vier alike sprung upon their feet. Mo- 
 tionless and silent they listened : Sigrida 
 relinquished her lyre, and her cheek faded 
 to marble as she gazed alternately upon 
 each. 
 
 It was an era pregnant with crime and 
 danger ; an era to awaken slumbering pru- 
 dence, to make even confidence vigilent, 
 for tyranny and woe reigned in every 
 quarter: a late free and happy people 
 groaned beneath the iron sway of despo- 
 tism : the fiends were let loose in Sweden,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 27 
 
 and Denmark preyed upon her very 
 vitals. 
 
 Again the knocking was repeated, and 
 a voice of supplication craved admittance. 
 
 " Doubtless, some traveller, benighted 
 in the storm," said Ladislaus, snatching 
 up a light, and hastening to the door. 
 " Hetire, my child :" but Sigrida pictured 
 safety but at his side, and clinging to 
 the arm of Xavier, she too hurried into 
 the passage. Already had the whole 
 household assembled; Hetha, the late 
 nurse, now housekeeper; and Witskey, 
 trying to look formidable, spite of his 
 trembling limbs and scared visage, 
 
 " Be wary, my dear master," implored 
 Hetha, as Ladislaus raised his hand to 
 withdraw the bolts ; " the times are awful, 
 and caution befits us all." 
 
 " But not cowardice, good mother," 
 said Xavier. 
 
 " Perhaps a Dane," faltered Witskey. 
 
 " Still a man, and a fellow-creature," 
 firmly pronounced Ladislaus; and then 
 c2
 
 28 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 relinquishing the light, he tried to force 
 back the bolts, for the words from with- 
 out required no second consideration. 
 
 " Help, or 1 perish," was feebly uttered; 
 and fraught with nature's best feeling, pity, 
 he threw open the door. 
 
 The dame started back. " We are all 
 in the hands of heaven," she murmured, 
 "and heaven's will be done!" But no 
 phantom of a scared imagination rose in 
 terror ; it was no deceptive cloak of vice, 
 no surreptitious practice of fraud or rapa- 
 city : a traveller, shivering and destitute, 
 stood at the entrance, alone and unarmed, 
 couched in no other appeal than misfor- 
 tune and misery : his height towering ; a 
 black bandage tied over one eye ; and the 
 flap of his hat nearly shadowing his fea- 
 tures. 
 
 " Are you alone?" asked Ladislaus, in- 
 viting him with a smile of courtesy. " The 
 night is cheerless, and the blaze of a fire 
 alluring." 
 
 " 1 would ask shelter till morning," re-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 29 
 
 plied the stranger : " vainly have I sought 
 a hovel or barn to rest in, for alas ! I can 
 offer no other pay than gratitude." 
 
 " Tis a current coin to a feeling heart," 
 observed Ladislaus, leading for ward;" rest 
 and welcome ; we crave no pay save the 
 assurance of your comfort." 
 
 " Generous man ! The rapacity of an 
 unprincipled guide has indeed left me 
 nought but thanks. In the solitude of 
 your mountain passes, I have been rob- 
 bed—" 
 
 " Robbed !" echoed the pitying Sigrida. 
 " Blessed Mary, robbed and forsaken in 
 such a night as this!" She paused, blush- 
 ed, and turned aside her face, for the 
 glance of the stranger was rivitted upon 
 her. 
 
 " Sweet maid, your own innocent na- 
 ture shrinks from human turpitude. Yes, 
 robbed, and but for the friendly beacon of 
 hospitality gleaming through your case- 
 ment, had surely perished." 
 
 " The limited experience of my daugli-
 
 30 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 ter," said Ladislaus, " encompasses 
 nought of cruelty and ingratitude : inha- 
 biting this little nook, we are shut out 
 from external things. But suffer me to 
 lighten you of your cloak," placing a chair 
 close to the hearth — " we would fain do 
 more than sign of hospitality." 
 
 " Your pardon," rejoined the stranger, 
 still wrapping himself in its thick folds. 
 " Numbed and cold, the quick transition 
 is almost deadly," and he seated himself 
 in the darkest corner of the chamber. 
 
 Sigrida approached with a look of the 
 sweetest gentleness — " you shall have 
 another cloak," she urged ; " only part 
 with this, for the wet drops as the snow 
 dissolves ; and your hat too ; I pray you, 
 let me take them." 
 
 " You are indeed most kind," said the 
 stranger, yet he relinquished them with 
 evident reluctance, and drew the bandage 
 still closer over his eye. His inner gar- 
 ment was composed of the light drab of 
 the peasantry ; coarse and clean, tightly
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 31 
 
 fitting, and displaying to advantage, a 
 form 
 
 Where every god did seem to set his seal, 
 To give the world assurance of a man. 
 
 The broad rim of his hat no longer sha- 
 dowed a countenance flushed with youth 
 and manly beauty ; the black bandage 
 strikingly contrasted the polished white- 
 ness of his high forehead ; his hair was 
 dark and wavy ; his eye radiant and pene- 
 trating ; his brow, clouded with care and 
 thought, as a faithful index, eliciting each 
 fugitive expression of feeling : he seemed 
 far above the order he wished to assume; 
 grace spoke in every action, and often, 
 like a beamy ray upon a dark world, did 
 the smile of graciousness play in his eye 
 and hover o'er his features. 
 
 " The power of woman is indeed pre- 
 eminent," remarked Ladislaus; " my 
 daughter's single effort has obtained, what 
 the warmth of my entreaties, and the blaze 
 of my fire pleaded in vain. Well, 'tis one
 
 32 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 of Nature's wise ordinations, and T cannot 
 expect a repeal in my behalf." 
 
 " Beauty and gentleness enact laws of 
 their own," said the stranger ; " the com- 
 passion of woman is ever a passport to the 
 heart of man ;" and as he spoke, he bowed 
 with courteous gallantry to Sigrida. 
 
 " Have you journeyed far?" asked Xa- 
 vier, who till now had sat silent and 
 thoughtful. 
 
 " Through the whole country of Suder- 
 mania," replied the stranger ; " encounter- 
 ing difficulties and dangers, but no serious 
 impediment, save in the treachery of my 
 guide." 
 
 " The cruel, the inhuman wretch," ex- 
 claimed Sigrida, " to choose such a night, 
 and such a place!" 
 
 " Your pardon, fair maid, but for his 
 rapacity, I had found no harbour here." 
 
 Sigrida blushed, and smiled ; and Xa- 
 vier's pulse quickened, as he marked her 
 appreciation of the compliment. 
 
 " You have but newly visited our pro-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 33 
 
 vince then," said Ladislaus, " and must 
 not judge us by this early specimen." 
 
 " The same soil favoureth the antidote 
 as the poison," remarked the stranger: 
 " your hospitality, my good sir, will ever 
 tread on the heels of my escape." 
 
 " But are there no means to discover 
 and convict the culprit?" questioned Xa- 
 vier ; " no clue to tear him from his hiding- 
 den, and drag him forth to justice?" 
 
 " Justice," repeated the stranger — "jus- 
 tice in Svve — in — " he paused, then with a 
 sickly smile concluded — " in heaven we 
 shall all find justice." 
 
 There was a pathos, a solemnity in his 
 voice, which arrested every eye : his figure 
 seemed to tower into majesty, as his piety 
 conquered the struggle of his feelings ; yet 
 caution, that bitter foe to impulse and to 
 nature, chained the heart's-flow of Ladi- 
 slaus and Xavier : the one feared deceit ; 
 the other measured his looks and his words 
 by the prudence of his friend : a spy might 
 lurk even under the peasant-garb of their 
 c5
 
 34 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 unknown inmate ; Christiern might sap in 
 one their comforts and their lives. 
 
 Those who inhabit a realm replete with 
 blessings — who, rich in their privileges, 
 mourn neither the pressure of tyranny, or 
 the death of freedom, cannot, must not 
 judge the ice-chill of policy, freezing up 
 the genial spring of confidence, trampling 
 on every law of philanthropy, and curb- 
 ing man in all his genuine feelings — Oh, 
 no ! those who enjoy the contrast of des- 
 potism, cannot picture its blistering sway! 
 Ladislaus was good, and noble, and just 
 in all his dealings ; Xavier as near perfec- 
 tion as sin-born mortality can attain ; — it 
 was not their own hearts, it was the colour 
 of the times, the pressure of local circum- 
 stances, which fashioned all their scruples. 
 
 The kindly greeting of Sigrida, speak- 
 ing in the substantial fare which soon 
 smoked on the board, dissipated the steal- 
 ing blank of reserve : the stranger's thanks 
 beamed in a smile; for long fasting, fa- 
 tigue, and the keen pure air of the moun-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 35 
 
 tains, had imparted a relish for less than 
 dainties. The genuine elegance of the 
 Hebe-like hostess, alternately inspired ad- 
 miration and surprise; sportive, yet gentle, 
 she seasoned the feast, and drew with 
 magic sway the closer bonds of concord. 
 Ladislaus ventured to tread on the dan- 
 gerous footway of existing subjugation, 
 yet was the touch so light and wary, that 
 the stranger only noted it by a glance. 
 
 Close wrapped in cloud and mystery, 
 he seemed to hold a guarded watch upon 
 his very motions, diligently curbing every 
 effervescence of feeling, lest by a start, or 
 a flush, he should implicate his principles; 
 nor till Xavier spoke of the labour and 
 penury of the miners, did he venture a 
 single query. 
 
 " You possess some share in the rich 
 mines of this province?" he asked, ad- 
 dressing Ladislaus. 
 
 " No," was the reply. " This little te- 
 nure is all 1 hold in Dalecarlia." 
 
 u The miners," resumed the stranger,
 
 36 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 after a pause of thought, " are a brave, 
 hardy, and industrious people." 
 
 " Brave, I'll be sworn," exclaimed Xa- 
 vier; " and for their hardihood and in- 
 dustry, sorely are they tried." 
 
 " Doubtless," observed the stranger, 
 " many thousands labour for a scanty and 
 precarious subsistence in the bowels of 
 the earth ; without a murmur, toiling out 
 their strength and lives." 
 
 " No, not without a murmur," unguard- 
 edly rejoined the youth ; " dissatisfaction 
 and repining — " he caught the reproving 
 glance of Ladislaus, then hesitatingly con- 
 cluded, " Man may become familiar, but 
 never reconciled to adversity; he. may 
 bear with sullen fortitude, but he can never 
 fee) content beneath the load of his bur- 
 den." 
 
 " Yet must his proud spirit, submitting 
 to the yoke," exclaimed Ladislaus, philo- 
 sophically curb the whirlwind of feeling." 
 
 M Does philosophy delve the mines of 
 Dalecarlia?" asked the stranger — " tern-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 37 
 
 porizing with human misery, does it chase 
 sweat and dust from the brow of toil ?" 
 
 " Perhaps it may be necessity," replied 
 Ladislaus ; " however the cause differ, the 
 effect remains the same." 
 
 " For a season," pronounced the 
 stranger, in an accent so deep and em- 
 phatic, that it sounded like the intonations 
 of ancient prophecy : each eye was turned 
 upon him, and each pulse quickened at 
 the instant. He said no more, for he 
 seemed to shun the very scrutiny he ex- 
 cited. 
 
 " I am sure," gently remarked Sigrida, 
 " my heart has often ached at the hard 
 toil and harder fare of the poor miners. 
 I never see their sufferings, but I wish 
 myself great and rich, for what is the 
 use of riches but to ameliorate human 
 misery." 
 
 " A philanthropist !" murmured the un- 
 known, and he turned on her such a beam 
 of graciousness that her cheek kindled at 
 the glance
 
 38 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " My daughter," said Ladislaus, " knows 
 nought of the corruptions of worldly in- 
 tercourse; her experience extends not be- 
 yond the boundary of her own village." 
 
 " Dear father," quickly rejoined Sigrida, 
 " I have been often to Saverdiso, once at 
 Fahlun, and twice at Brunback." 
 
 " Granted, my child, yet the extent of 
 our travels is soon computed." 
 
 " Besides, only remember," numbering 
 with her finger, " I have been " 
 
 " Always as prudent and as discreet 
 as I wish you," interrupted Ladislaus, 
 with a significant glance — Sigrida blush- 
 ed, and bent her head in silence. The 
 stranger sat apparently absorbed in his 
 own reflections, nor did he venture a com- 
 ment on the evident check which pru- 
 dence had enjoined. Turning to Xavier, 
 " The mines at Fahlun are very exten- 
 sive," he said, " and the miners numerous?" 
 
 " Doubtless, the largest mine is at Fah- 
 lun," replied Xavier; " but the whole pro- 
 vince abounds in rich veins of copper,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 39 
 
 iron, and lead ore, and mines have been 
 delved in every direction." 
 
 " Perhaps you have descended amid 
 those buried worlds," resumed the un- 
 known, " and mixed with men shut from 
 the light of heaven." 
 
 " Yes, often," rejoined Xavier, " not 
 only in my own neighbourhood, but 
 around Fahlun, and traced indications of 
 dissatisfaction and repining, until I have 
 re-sought the sun with a heavy heart." 
 
 " Then content plies not the spade 
 and the mattoc," eagerly exclaimed the 
 stranger : " in the cursory glance of cu- 
 riosity, you have deciphered the rebellion 
 of warring spirits." 
 
 " Your pardon," said Xavier, " the 
 wildest stretch of imagination can give no 
 such interpretation to my words. I have 
 seen broken spirits, tears wrung by misery, 
 but no lurking fires to alarm or to en- 
 danger." 
 
 " You would infer, that man changes 
 his nature, that he drops all of humanity
 
 40 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 when he loses sight of the heavens," again 
 observed the stranger ; " that out-toiling 
 the ox, he feels satisfied with that sub- 
 sistence which re-strings his nerves for 
 exertion." 
 
 " No, no, you mistake me : I breathe 
 no such inference," exclaimed Xavier. 
 " The faculties of man cannot be so de- 
 based, his noble perceptions so perverted, 
 the divine spirit within him so sunk : but 
 circumstances — necessity — imperious — 
 irreversible — " He hesitated, paused, and 
 the stranger breathed a shuddering sigh. 
 
 " Living in quiet unoffending seclusion, 
 we seek not to analyze the feelings of our 
 neighbours," remarked Ladislaus, pitying 
 the evident embarrassment of his young 
 friend. " Were you to question of the 
 height of our mountains, the size of our 
 forests, the produce of our fields, or even 
 the best possible pass for fording the Dahl, 
 query whether you could meet with a 
 better geographer: but in the intricate 
 folds of the human heart, he lacks expe-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 41 
 
 rience. Nay, as well may you seek in- 
 formation here," and he placed his hand 
 on the shoulder of Sigrida. 
 
 The stranger bowed in silence, and Xa- 
 vier talked of hunting, fishing, shooting, 
 but he extorted not a single response ; of 
 the powers of cultivation in the sterile 
 track of his native province, of the beauty 
 of the woods, the variegation of the fo- 
 liage, the sombre green of the pine con- 
 trasting the lighter tints of the oak and 
 the birch : but wrapped in a cloud as cold 
 as the falling snow, in a dream, the fevered 
 offspring of his own perturbed fancy, the 
 unknown persevered in silence. 
 
 " Should the sun shine on our wilds to- 
 morrow, must you really return to Sa- 
 verdsio?" asked Sigrida; " dearest Xa- 
 vier, is there no possible plea to postpone 
 the evil ?" 
 
 " Not one that your heart could tole- 
 rate," replied the youth ; " far my uncle 
 would be anxious and unhappy, and that 
 would be paying too dear for pleasure,"
 
 42 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " Oh! far too dear," exclaimed Sigrida: 
 " in truth, I would not detain you one 
 single hour at such an expense. But 
 whenever you visit Rustgoden, you should 
 tell our dear uncle that you are going to 
 your other home, and then he could not 
 be alarmed at your tarrying." 
 
 " My uncle," said Xavier, with a sigh, 
 and a look of sadness, " is not what he 
 was: age is a stealing canker, corrod- 
 ing energy and strength: 'tis now that 
 I best can show the gratitude 1 owe 
 him." 
 
 " Tis true, he is more feeble, and his 
 hair much whiter," said Sigrida ; " but 
 he is as zealous as ever in his duties, and 
 as cheerful as the youngest of us all." 
 
 " A mind like the curate of Saverd- 
 sio's," observed Ladislaus, " may alike 
 defy the pressure of time or circumstances. 
 Upright and just in every thought and 
 action, to him the advance of age is as 
 the mellowing breath of a glowing au- 
 tumn; attaining the full maturity of his
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 43 
 
 powers, and scattering beneficence and 
 peace in his path, the transit of his sun 
 must be in brilliancy !" 
 
 The transit of that sun was death, and 
 the melancholy conviction awakened a 
 tear in the dark eyes of Xavier. 
 
 " I only pray," pursued Ladislaus, 
 " that when the brief years of my pil- 
 grimage be fulfilled, my trust may be as 
 stable, and my end as his end !" 
 
 " Alas !" exclaimed the stranger, in a 
 voice broken by emotion, " virtue and 
 human excellence ensure not the blessed 
 close you covet. There are fiends in 
 human mould, there are actions, damn- 
 ing, blistering actions — there are, holy 
 God ! there are rank and poisoning mil- 
 dews, blighting, blasting the wholesome 
 springs of life." 
 
 " And there is a Power above all, and 
 in all, and over all," piously pronounced 
 Ladislaus ; " a Power, who seeing fit to 
 afflict, yet afrlicteth not beyond our 
 bearing,"
 
 44 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " Oh! but there are remembrances, 
 there are convictions, there are injuries, 
 which annihilating patience, gall even to 
 madness; — there are deeds, there are 
 enormities, which bar almost the mercy 
 of heaven." 
 
 " I would you could hear the doctrine 
 of my pious uncle!" said Xavier, shudder- 
 ing at the stranger's wild words and wilder 
 gestures : " he would allay each gust of 
 mortal passion, and mould your heart to 
 resignation, and to holiness." 
 
 " Could he blunt the barb of memory V 1 
 asked the stranger; " could he extract 
 the festering fang of injury? — could he 
 chase blood, and death, and ruin, from 
 the brain, and from the eyes?" 
 
 " Yes, more, much more," replied the 
 youth; " he could awaken hope in the 
 soul, and lure it to a brighter beacon than 
 all this world can minister." 
 
 The stranger shook his head ; the con- 
 flict of opposing passions riotted within ; 
 grief, revenge, and ever and anon, a flash,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 46 
 
 a lightning-ray of intellectual fire, speak- 
 ing more than the lips dared utter. 
 
 " There are duties," he pronounced in 
 a low voice, " active, imperative duties, 
 which militate against the resignation of 
 the saint." 
 
 " My uncle would argue otherwise," 
 meekly yet firmly advanced Xavier; "he 
 would say there are no duties on earth 
 which receive not their surest bias in the 
 duty of holiness. Do reap instruction 
 from his lips : see him surrounded by his 
 own humble flock : accompany me to 
 Saverdsio, and he will teach you, as he 
 teaches them, the real estimate of life." 
 
 " To Saverdsio," thoughtfully repeated 
 the stranger. 
 
 " I will be your guide," eagerly pur- 
 sued Xavier; " spite of the snow, at 
 morn's earliest break we will adventure. — 
 I know every defile, every forest, and 
 every mountain ; we shall soon conquer the 
 difficulties, soon surmount the distance." 
 
 " Difficulties," repeated the unknown,
 
 46 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 mournfully smiling; " such difficulties are 
 bubbles in a perturbed stream, inflated 
 for the instant, then seen no more." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, they are real true 
 difficulties," exclaimed Sigrida; "diffi- 
 culties even to the venture of life. Tis 
 clear you are a stranger to our province ; 
 you cannot guess how we abound in 
 rocks and precipices; and when the snow 
 spreads a cheating covering, every pace 
 is hazardous." 
 
 " My daughter is timid," observed La- 
 dislaus," and bodies the idle terrors of her 
 sex." 
 
 " Dear father, have I not cause ? Only 
 recall, only — " deciphering caution in the 
 eye which met hers — " In truth," she con- 
 tinued, " when the bilberries and whortle- 
 berries are covered with snow, I never 
 see you or Xavier depart, but 1 petition 
 heaven for your safety." 
 
 " And will you not breathe a prayer 
 for me ?" softly asked the stranger — 
 " will you not include me in the behest
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 47 
 
 of grace? Sweet lady, you cannot pray 
 for a being more destitute, more forlorn." 
 
 " I always pray for the unhappy," said 
 Sigrida, feelingly. 
 
 " Then indeed am J prayed for," pro- 
 nounced the stranger, in a tone so touch- 
 ing, that the woman's heart of Sigrida 
 melted in her eyes. 
 
 " Methinks," remarked Ladislaus, " you 
 had better spare our fears and prayers by 
 tarrying until our mountains change their 
 vesture. Why wander further, unless 
 bound to any given point." 
 
 " Or at Saverdsio," importuned Xavier, 
 still zealous for the aid of his revered 
 uncle's pious exordiums. 
 
 " I would 1 could by more than words 
 evince the gratitude of my heart," ex- 
 claimed the stranger. " Kind, generous 
 friends, suffice it, that through the vicissi- 
 tudes of a long life, should heaven will it, 
 my sojourn in this province will never be 
 forgotten." 
 
 " Then you will tarry with us," said Si-
 
 48 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 grid a; " and when the mosses brighten 
 on the mountains, and the juniper-bushes 
 darken the fields, we will all journey to 
 Saverdsio together." 
 
 " And now," said Ladislaus, rising, 
 " let us journey to our pillows: sleep is 
 nature's best restorative, and the only sure 
 antidote to a harassed frame." 
 
 The stranger smiled his thanks : — and 
 whilst each individual, sheltered beneath 
 the humble and hospitable roof of Ladi- 
 slaus, wooes the Lethe of forgetfulness, 
 be it my office to introduce my reader to 
 the curacy and the curate of Saverdsio.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 4£> 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Mercy, handmaid of heaven ! 
 Mild and genial as summer dews ! 
 
 JtvEARED to the priesthood, and 
 fated at an early age to be the sole surviv- 
 ing guardian of two lovely sisters, Mag- 
 nus de Stiernhelm took possession of his 
 little curacy amid the pine-clad wilds of 
 Dalecarli-a. Humble as his fortune, aspir- 
 ing not beyond the sacred duties of his 
 calling, beyond ministering consolation, 
 admonition, and appeal, he hailed the 
 growing diligence of his little flock with 
 gratitude and pious transport : truth flow- 
 ed like Hybla's honey from his lips ; the 
 softer feelings of nature yielded to ima- 
 gined duty ; for if love reigned in his heart, 
 it was the love of holiness : a philanthro- 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 pist, aspiring after the heaven he pined to 
 share with all mankind, by conciliation, 
 by example, he weaned from the ways of 
 error, and lured to the deathless hopes of 
 eternity. 
 
 Calm and undisturbed as the cloudless 
 glory of a summer's sky, was all without 
 the curacy ; no murmur of dissension, no 
 threatening intimation of public ill : it was 
 that bright era, when the firm decision, 
 manly virtues, moderation, and profound 
 policy of Suanto Sturius, justly styled the 
 protector of the public liberty, gave peace 
 and universal prosperity to Sweden; when 
 curbing the power of Denmark, his pru- 
 dent maxims rendered his name as illus- 
 trious as the power of his arms and his 
 victories over the Muscovites. 
 
 Magnus de Stiernhelm took possession 
 of his church and his dwelling in this sea- 
 son of auspicious omen, when no groan 
 of oppression rang the death-peal of free- 
 dom, no unnatural faction riotted o er the 
 rights and comforts of his country. But
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 51 
 
 alas ! sorrow is our bound en lot on earth : 
 thought and care o'ershadowed the brow 
 of the curate ; and though religion tem- 
 pered the violence of grief, the tear of 
 melancholy regret hung warm upon his 
 cheek. 
 
 Fate had invested him in the guardian- 
 ship of two helpless sisters — Ingleburge 
 had scarce attained her second year, 
 when her father, and his father, by the 
 untimely sport of accident was severed 
 from life; when quitting his home in 
 health, he returned to it a breathless 
 corse. Grief, despair, and horror, quick 
 seized on the hapless widow: and though 
 de Stiernhelm, in violence to his own 
 bleeding heart, strove, in all the pious zeal 
 of his holy function, to rally fortitude 
 and impart resignation, the conflict within 
 produced the premature pangs of partu- 
 rition, and in giving birth to a second 
 daughter, the struggling spirit of his step- 
 mother escaped to its kindred skies. 
 
 Nought of import marked the infancy 
 d 2 

 
 52 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 of the orphans: like playful fawns they 
 gambolled in the rustic garden : and as 
 they shot into womanhood, their thoughts, 
 and their wishes, seemed concentrated 
 within the picturesque wilds of their nar- 
 row boundary. 
 
 The romantic contrasts of mountain, 
 valley, rock, and pasture, crouding in 
 grotesque irregularity ; the neat dwelling, 
 the gothic church, screened from the 
 northern blasts, and skirted with oak, 
 mountain-ash, and alder ; the broad still 
 waters of the Dahl, scarce rippling be- 
 neath the expanse of heaven ; scattered 
 patches of vegetation ; detached cottages, 
 rudely sited on rocky eminences; chains 
 of granite, heath-clad steeps, capped with 
 dark forests of pine and fir, wooing alike 
 the excursive glance, seemed as the com- 
 mingling profusion of art and nature. 
 
 It was a scene to nurse sad fancies, 
 and call the thoughts from earth to hea- 
 ven : yet the sisters rambled alone and 
 fearless ; sometimes hand in hand, glean-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 53 
 
 ing the rose of health on the hilly summits; 
 sometimes wandering on the sedgy banks 
 of the river; sometimes tarrying in the 
 dwellings of the cottagers. 
 
 Ingleburge was bright and blooming: 
 but mild as the mildest promise of spring, 
 pure as its ambrosial dews, beauteous as 
 its first budding flowers, was the mind 
 and person of Magdalene ! Ingleburge 
 was all fire ; Magdalene all tenderness : 
 the one framed to combat human ill ; the 
 other, to die beneath its pressure. 
 
 " How different does nature form us !" 
 said Ingleburge, wondering at the for- 
 bearance wherewith the good curate 
 would palliate error, and seek to wean 
 man from the weakness of his ways. 
 " Some all patience ; others all impetuo- 
 sity ; some all charity; others with souls 
 all deformity : a motly groupe, at best, 
 dearest Magdalene ; for even you and 1 
 are as opposite as hoar-frost and sun- 
 shine." 
 
 " And yet all alike wisely destined to
 
 ->4 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 fulfil our allotted parts," observed Mag- 
 dalene ; " all harmonizing in the one great 
 chain of sociality." 
 
 " Sometimes strangely discordant tho'," 
 rejoined the laughing Ingleburge; " for 
 the versatile gusts of passion, like sum- 
 mer's scudding tempests, overcloud and 
 threaten." 
 
 " Oh ! but reason holds the reins," said 
 Magdalene, " and nature frames us weak 
 only to prove its powers." 
 
 " Alack ! and a sorry test does it 
 prove," exclaimed Ingleburge : " know 
 you not what our good brother says? self 
 is harder to govern than a multitude." 
 
 " I am sure," eagerly returned Magda- 
 lene, " he speaks not from conviction ; for 
 if there is one created being, more gentle, 
 more meek, more forbearing, more benefi- 
 cent than another, it is our dear Magnus !" 
 
 " True, all true," exclaimed Ingleburge, 
 " but he is moulded out of purer clay. 
 Only when talking of the feuds which late 
 so fatally distracted our country, because
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 55 
 
 I blamed the royal Albert, after his de- 
 feat and capture near Falcoping, for pur- 
 chasing liberty with his crown, and re- 
 tiring into Mecklenburg, to wane out ex- 
 istence in peace and acquiescence, he de- 
 fended him, spoke of his abdication as 
 love for the public weal, and gently cen- 
 sured my vehemence, because I said I 
 hated Denmark, and would turn amazon 
 myself, rather than know Sweden under 
 its oppressive bondage." 
 
 " He would tell you, my dear sister," 
 replied Magdalene, u that heroism is a 
 masculine virtue ; and that women never 
 look so engaging, as when manufacturing 
 coifs and ruffs." 
 
 " I knew you would echo Magnus," 
 said Ingleburge, " because, like him, you 
 are half saint: but I, poor 1, am all mortal, 
 and would fly from a Dane as from a wild 
 beast." 
 
 " You are a strange odd being, Ingle- 
 burge : what though we yet see you wed- 
 ded to a Dane."
 
 56 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " A Dane !? she ejaculated, " holy 
 Mary! I would rather turn nun." 
 
 " Such prejudices are very weak," ob- 
 served Magdalene ; " they show — " 
 
 " No, they are very strongs if prejudices 
 they be," interrupted the laughing Ingle- 
 burge ; " 'tis a mortal aversion, an anti- 
 pathy inhaled with Swedish air. Do you 
 never marry a Dane, for 1 should hate 
 him, body and spirit." 
 
 " And yet you would fain call yourself 
 a christian," said Magdalene, somewhat 
 seriously. 
 
 " Well, and what then?" 
 
 " The bond of christian love militates 
 against ought of prejudice ; like softly- 
 stealing incense, it saps the unholy springs 
 of hatred, and curbs each earth-bound 
 bias." 
 
 " But I tell you, I am no saint, Mag- 
 dalene: and though our brother would 
 turn his other cheek to the smiter, I should 
 smite in return." 
 
 "You will judge differently, by-and-by,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 57 
 
 my dear sister," said the curate, advancing 
 unperceived; " time will yet temporize, 
 and amend the exuberant flights of youth, 
 and health, and happiness." 
 
 " Time works strange metamorphosis," 
 exclaimed Ingleburge, with a look of 
 mock gravity — "heigh-ho! it will sprinkle 
 all our brows with grey." 
 
 •' And it will sprinkle thought, I hope, 
 even before it sprinkles grey," resumed 
 de Stiernhelm, placing his hand on the 
 shoulder of his laughter-loving sister. 
 " Think well, is there no subject can 
 make you grave, even for the short space 
 of a few minutes ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, many, dear Magnus ! If you 
 were to enjoin me a penance of silence; 
 or if Magdalene were to love a Dane ; or 
 if my pretty bed of pansies were to be all 
 blighted ; or if " 
 
 " Supposing," interrupting her, " I were 
 to bring a lover in my hand?" 
 
 " Nay, that would make me smile." 
 " And yet," pursued the curate, " I 
 d5
 
 5§ THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 know no subject which calls for more 
 thought; reflection and consideration 
 should ever precede a step of such mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " But who ?" questioned Ingleburge, 
 regardless of all but the unknown lover — 
 " do tell me his name? — has he sprung 
 out of the mines ? or has he dropped from 
 the clouds?" 
 
 " His possessions lie in the mines," an- 
 swered de Stiernhelm : "he is rich and 
 powerful ; he lives in a good house, and 
 is both young and agreeable." 
 
 " Delightful !" exclaimed the thought- 
 less Ingleburge ; " young, agreeable, and 
 rich! Is he handsome? and has he got 
 a name ? But, dearest Magdalene, what 
 is the matter?" for her cheeks were co- 
 lourless, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Magdalene possesses thought for you 
 and herself too," said the curate. 
 
 Magdalene could only throw her arms 
 around the neck of her sister, and burst 
 into tears.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 59 
 
 " What have I said ?" implored the dis- 
 tressed Ingleburge: "indeed, indeed, I 
 shall wish him at the very bottom of his 
 own mine, if he makes you unhappy ;" 
 and she affectionately kissed the sobbing 
 girl. 
 
 Magdalene tried to smile, tried to rally 
 back her spirits ; but her tender heart pic- 
 tured a separation from her sister, pic- 
 tured the change in her happy home : and 
 even when she learnt it was Arnold Peter- 
 son, the possessor of Oernetz, she could 
 not feel joyous in the threatened change. 
 
 From that period all was sunshine on 
 the prospects of the lover: Ingleburge felt 
 no warmer preference, for Paterson was 
 young, agreeable, and rich; scarce a day 
 passed without his visiting Saverdsio, and 
 even the cares and sorrowing anticipa- 
 tions of Magdalene were lulled to sleep. 
 
 Winter had but newly departed, yet the 
 rapid progress of vegetation had clothed 
 the earth in an emerald garb : the pale 
 primrose peeped from its bed of moss, and
 
 60 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 the violet, and the wild strawberry, 
 dappled the base of the uplands. The 
 sisters, arm in arm, rambled through the 
 pastures : the air was mild and genial ; 
 no cloud darkened the azure-tinted sky ; 
 and the sun, shining in its full splendor, 
 imparted cheerfulness and beauty over the 
 pine-capped hills and heath-clad rocks. 
 Ingleburge was talking of Peterson ; and 
 Magdalene was silently listening to the 
 glowing anticipations of a young and fer- 
 tile fancy. 
 
 " May the visions of happiness be rea- 
 lized !" she mentally asperated — " may 
 each revolving year unfold fresh sources 
 of felicity !" 
 
 " He promises to take me to Stock- 
 holm," said Ingleburge ; " and you, my 
 dearest sister, shall go to Stockholm 
 too." 
 
 " And our brother?" asked Magdalene. 
 
 " Magnus is wedded to his curacy," 
 replied Ingleburge, " and I know not how 
 we can dissolve the charm." 

 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 61 
 
 " Then I am sure I shall be satisfied 
 with Stockholm in detail," eagerly re- 
 sumed Magdalene, " for my heart would 
 sorely reproach me for such a desertion." 
 
 " Then you mean to live and die at 
 Saverdiso ?" 
 
 " I hope so — I have no wish — I — " she 
 paused, for Ingleburge, grasping her arm, 
 shrieked in dismay. 
 
 They had lost sight of the curacy, the 
 church, and of all human habitation: 
 wild and scattered masses of rock, hill, 
 and forest, crowded on each other; 
 sombre pines, mingling with the heavens, 
 and rushing torrents, breaking from their 
 beds of granite. 
 
 " Virgin Mother!" ejaculated Magda 
 lene, as her eyes, following the direction 
 of her sister, descried a human being, 
 hurled, poising on the brink of eternity. 
 A horse, infuriate and maddened, gal- 
 lopped on the verge of the precipice 
 above, dragging at his heels, a cart, or 
 light vehicle, in which a man, rash even 
 unto death, boldly retained his seat.
 
 62 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Another shriek, wild and shrill, spoke 
 the sympathy of the sisters — a shriek of 
 instinctive horror, for it broke forth in 
 the self-same moment, that the traveller 
 sprung from the vehicle, and the animal 
 made the deadly plunge. Profound and 
 awful was the calm ; not a struggle, not 
 a groan, not a single sound succeeded — 
 it was as the drifting wreck, when the 
 reekless fury of the tempest has de- 
 spoiled all of life! Magdalene, statue- 
 like and wan, could only gaze ; Ingle- 
 burge, with returning breath, rallied the 
 powers of exertion. 
 
 " He moves not," she exclaimed. " We 
 must tender assistance if we would pre- 
 serve a fellow-creature — " and swift as 
 thought, she flew up a narrow track, trod- 
 den by the goats and the kine. 
 
 Magdalene shadowed her footsteps, 
 and together they stood at the side of the 
 senseless stranger. He lay amid brambles 
 and heath, yet had he evidently encounter- 
 ed some harder substance, for a fearful 
 wound was in his forehead, and blood
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 63 
 
 stained his face, otherwise tintless as the 
 shrouded dead. 
 
 Roused into exertion, combatting the 
 enervating influence of sensibility, Mag- 
 dalene supported his head upon her knee : 
 she loosened the kerchief from his neck : 
 and whilst Ingleburge, snatching his hat, 
 flew to the babbling brook, tearing open 
 his vest, she anxiously felt for the faintest 
 pulsation of the heart. The sudden chill 
 of the water, aided by the philanthropic 
 endeavours of the sisters, recalled the sus- 
 pended powers of animation: the stranger 
 opened his eyes ; he fixed them on the 
 angel features of his gentle supporter; 
 from her they wandered to the beauteous 
 Ingleburge, and then again they sought 
 the meek and lovely type of christian 
 charity. He tried to move, but power 
 was denied; he tried to speak, but he 
 only breathed an inarticulate sound ; the 
 hectic of a moment vanished, and his 
 eyes closed in returning faintness. 
 
 " We guess all you would say," said
 
 64 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Ingleburge — Magdalene could not speak ; 
 but a tear, the pure drop of genuine pity, 
 fell upon the forehead of the stranger. 
 Was it as healing unction ? — was it as an 
 elixir to the stricken spirit? again the eyes 
 unclosed, and a ray, never to be forgotten, 
 never to be effaced, shot from his soul to 
 hers! 
 
 Alas! hapless Magdalene! chaste lily 
 of Saverdsio! sweet, perishable as the 
 downy emblem of thy brief existence, it 
 was the precursor of fate, steeping thy 
 youth in bitterness ! 
 
 " We live in the valley below," said 
 Ingleburge. " Think you, sir, with our 
 poor assistance, you can descend the 
 mountain ?" 
 
 " I fear not, lady," replied the stranger; 
 " my leg, if not broken, is so materially 
 injured that I cannot stand." 
 
 " Tarry then until I come" — ana buoy- 
 ant on the office of benevolence, she left 
 Magdalene still supporting her suffering 
 charge.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 65 
 
 " Oh, that my brother were here!" 
 sighed Magdalene, as the clammy dews 
 of death seemed fast gathering on the 
 brows of the stranger — " If he should 
 die; if — holy saints!" and with an un- 
 steady hand, she tore off her veil, and 
 bound it round his still-bleeding fore- 
 head. 
 
 " For me, such solicitude, such pity — 
 for me such tears as angels shed !" mur- 
 mured the wounded man, and again were 
 his languid eyes rivetted on her pale and 
 agitated countenance. But Magdalene 
 saw nought but his sufferings, nought but 
 his danger — Love! how could she dream 
 of love, in the glance of the almost-dying 
 eye she encountered ? — how picture love, 
 in one apparently stricken beyond all 
 human aid? She watched his short quick 
 breathing — she petitioned heaven for his 
 recovery — yet so wild, so complex were 
 the feelings of her bosom, that she scarce- 
 ly knew youth and beauty strengthened 
 the spell of interest. She thought, she
 
 6*6 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 believed, age and helplessness had alike 
 chained her benevolence and her exer- 
 tions — mistaken Magdalene! the manly 
 form, the perfect symmetry, the match- 
 less features of the stranger, even though 
 shrouded in death, once seen had never 
 been forgotten ! 
 
 Wrought to an agonizing pitch of ap- 
 prehension and anxiety, each moment 
 protracted to an age, with strained eyes 
 and throbbing heart, she watched the nar- 
 row pathway winding to the valley below. 
 A moving group crowded on the distance. 
 It was Ingleburge, pilotting de Stiern- 
 helm and several rustics. She dared not 
 rise, yet she whispered succour, and then 
 she waved her hand to speed their pro- 
 gress. They gained ground; they ad- 
 vanced with rapid steps ; and soon, placed 
 on a kind of litter, Magdalene, in tearful 
 gratitude, beheld her charge borne in 
 safety to the curacy. 

 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 67 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 What though he be a Dane, 
 His blood may be as pure, his heart as chaste, 
 As one of Sweden born. 
 
 A- NIGHT of anxiety, care, and wake- 
 fulness, closed on a day of exertion : the 
 stranger lived in the brain of Magdalene ; 
 and if for a moment she dropped to sleep, 
 it was to recall the death-plunge of the 
 horse, to start in convulsive agitation, or 
 to awaken with cries of apprehension and 
 dismay. Ingleburge attributed all to fever- 
 ed perturbation, or the novelty of the past 
 incident on a mind by nature timid and 
 gentle : and though with the earliest dawn, 
 Magdalene deserted her thorn- strewed 
 couch, she suspected no motive beyond 
 compassion.
 
 68 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 The curate had himself watched by the 
 pillow of the invalid; and when he quitted 
 the chamber, called by his early duties 
 to the footstool of the Eternal — when 
 calm and unruffled, resigned alike to all 
 the dispensations of o'erruling mercy, he 
 stole into the passage, he hailed with glad 
 surprise the wakeful watch of a being only 
 less pure than the sin-cleansed spirits of 
 her native sky ! He held out his hand — 
 he greeted her with the kindly smile of 
 approval. 
 
 " He sleeps," he replied, to the half 
 uttered inquiry of Magdalene. " Go, my 
 sister : in resigning my station to a nurse 
 so gentle, I shall harbour no fear till my 
 return." 
 
 Magdalene pressed his hand in silence, 
 and with a step as light as the blind mole, 
 took her post at the bed's-head of the 
 stranger. Again did her thoughts fly 
 back to the scene on the mountain, to 
 the moment of terror and dismay ; she 
 recalled his look as she hung over him,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 69 
 
 as awakening from death to life, his eyes 
 rested on her as the officiating messenger 
 of charity. " O! if we should save him," 
 she mentally sighed — " if we should re- 
 store him to the blessing of health — if, 
 the humble instruments of heaven, we 
 should yield him back to his family! 
 Alas ! perhaps, those he loves mourn 
 him in suspense; parents, brothers, sisters 
 — sisters as fondly attached as we to 
 Magnus." 
 
 There was something so mournfully 
 sad in the bare possibility, that tears 
 iilled the eyes of the tender-hearted Mag- 
 dalene ; she longed to give words to her 
 solicitude, to question of his kindred, to 
 propose some expedient for lightening 
 the suspense of the anxious and the ab- 
 sent. A thin curtain screened him from 
 her view ; but she could hear the fevered 
 breathing of pain, and now and then the 
 start of aching inquietude : — how then 
 could she add to that inquietude by awa- 
 kening a fresh train of cares ? how say —
 
 70 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Those you love are wretched, without 
 possessing the means to allay that wretch- 
 edness ? Once she heard a sigh, and once 
 a low murmur as of entreaty. " Spare 
 me, my father," distinctly articulated the 
 stranger; " my heart and my will accord 
 not :" and then he pronounced the name 
 of Christina; and then with an audible 
 shudder, " No — no, the sacrifice is too 
 heavy." 
 
 Magdalene half rose from her seat; 
 she was all ears, yet she longed to tell 
 him he was not unheard ; and when again 
 he sighed, when again he uttered Chris- 
 tina, she would have stolen from the 
 chamber, but his voice arrested her. 
 
 " Lady," he faltered. She turned ; the 
 curtain was drawn aside, and his languid 
 eyes met hers. 
 
 A palpable crimson suffused her cheek ; 
 a soft confusion pervaded her manner ; 
 yet she took the hand so feebly extended, 
 and questioned with cordial interest of 
 his welfare.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 71 
 
 " I thought the vision too bright for 
 reality," he murmured. " Thank heaven, 
 'tis no dream : the same benign image 
 hovers o'er my waking as my sleeping 
 fancies !" 
 
 Magdalene, timid and bashful, shrunk 
 fearfully back ; she traced his words to 
 the wild flight of delirium and her coun- 
 tenance betrayed pity and alarm. 
 
 " On the mountain, rescued by your 
 philanthropy — is that frenzy ?" softly ask- 
 ed the stranger, for he read her doubts in 
 her features. 
 
 " Providence directed us in a moment 
 of peril," said Magdalene. 
 
 " To Providence then the praise," re- 
 joined the stranger, entering at once into 
 the enthusiasm of her character; " and 
 under Providence, to you." 
 
 The return of the curate, and his strict 
 injunction for quiet, checked all further 
 converse. 
 
 A whole fortnight elapsed in the like 
 caution : the wound in the forehead long
 
 72 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 resisted the healing powers of skill ; the 
 sprained limb still remained swollen and 
 useless; and a lingering fever closely 
 barred the chamber of the invalid, for 
 not even the accepted lover of Ingleburge 
 was admitted. The good de Stiernhelm 
 watched with unremitting diligence, and 
 Magdalene, with growing solicitude, mi- 
 nistered the little requisites to comfort. 
 Sometimes, she would cull a rose still 
 gemmed with the dews of morning ; 
 sometimes, she would tempt with ripe 
 and glowing fruit, and then would she 
 smooth his pillow, and smile him into 
 patience. 
 
 A meridian sun, cloudless and resplen- 
 dent, shone on the picturesque scenery, 
 as the stranger, for the first lime, reclined 
 on a low couch near the opened case- 
 ment. The village spire, catching the 
 bright refulgence, glittered like burnished 
 gold amid the clustering foliage ; patches 
 of corn and pasture varied the rich out- 
 line; meandering streams rippled like
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 73 
 
 threads of silver ; and here and there, half 
 way climbing the steep, the lowly roof of 
 modest industry ; granite rocks frowned 
 in the distance; and mountains, crowned 
 with forests of waving pines, mingled with 
 the horizon's limits. 
 
 It was the first day that de Stiernhelm 
 admitted ought of conversation: he sat 
 by the side of the invalid, and Ingleburge 
 and Magdalene stood at the window. 
 
 " I would tell you of myself," said 
 the stranger: " generous friend," and he 
 grasped the hand of the curate, " how will 
 my father, alike grateful, bless you and 
 your angel sisters for the preservation of 
 my life !" 
 
 " We will hear nought but your name," 
 said de Stiernhelm, gently ; " as yet you 
 are under my control, and remember my 
 ride's despotic." 
 
 " My name is Eric Banner — beyond I 
 have little to say. I am a native of Den- 
 mark, and uniform prosperity has left my 
 path in life uncheckered." 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Ingleburge glanced on her sister — 
 Magdalene's roses faded to snow. 
 
 " Banner!" repeated the astonished 
 curate; then half rising from his seat, " I 
 bless God, my lord," he continued, " in 
 having been the means of preserving the 
 heir of a noble house !" 
 
 But though Ingleburge saw the de- 
 scendant of kings in their unassuming in- 
 mate; though she knew him great, noble, 
 rich, highly-gifted, still he was a Dane, 
 and an ice-chill gathered round her heart ; 
 — he was a Dane, and the conviction cast 
 him far from her regard as earth from 
 heaven. A thousand causes of dislike rose 
 in the instant: he belonged to a nation 
 which had once lorded it over Sweden : 
 she deciphered in the glance of his eye, 
 in the curve of his lip, an instinctive love 
 of tyranny, but the lack of power to again 
 subjugate and trample on their rights. 
 
 In vain Magdalene contended and 
 strove by every sway of argument and 
 reason to avert the ban of hate: the count
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 75 
 
 was born a Dane, and the charge though 
 unwitting was monstrous. 
 
 " No, no, I can never esteem him," she 
 would exclaim, to the entreaties, almost 
 the tears of her sister : " let him go to his 
 detested country, and let us forget that 
 he has ever been here." 
 
 " And would you suffer injustice to 
 conquer every better feeling?" asked Mag- 
 dalene ; " would you, in opposition to 
 your judgment and your heart, suffer 
 malignancy to root out all of christian 
 charity ?" 
 
 " I wish him no ill," said Ingleburge ; 
 but why should you so warmly espouse 
 his cause ?" 
 
 " Because," faltered the blushing girl, 
 " I feel him oppressed ; because I would 
 ever defend the victim of prejudice." 
 
 " Is that all?" demanded Ingleburge, 
 archly. 
 
 Magdalene bent her burning face upon 
 her bosom. 
 
 " Dearest Ingleburge," she implored, 
 e2
 
 7(> THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " think of him as one who has never in- 
 jured yon, as one whose virtues, whose — " 
 "He is a Dane," interrupted Ingle- 
 burge; " and you know, Magdalene, I 
 have hated all and every Dane from my 
 very cradle." 
 
 " Away with such womanish preju- 
 dice," exclaimed the curate, entering at 
 the instant. " Had my mother borne me 
 in Denmark, doubtless you would have 
 hated me, although the son of your father.'* 
 " Oh no! my dear brother, had you 
 been born in Copenhagen, I should have 
 loved you for your virtues." 
 
 " How know you but the noble Ban- 
 ner possesses virtues to endear him to 
 every thinking being," pursued de Stiern- 
 helm; " that good as he is great, his mind, 
 as his exterior, be pure and without ble- 
 mish ? Conquer, I implore you, my sister, 
 this blot, this mildew on your charity; 
 'tis unworthy the talent heaven has as- 
 signed, unworthy a mind laying claim to 
 ought of rationality."
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 77 
 
 " Would you have me love him?" ask- 
 ed Ingleburge. 
 
 " No, but I would have you esteem 
 him until he forfeit his claim — I would 
 have you regard him with the same cor- 
 diality as when unknown and nameless. 
 Prejudice, believe me, is a rank weed, 
 which springing in the most fruitful soil, 
 chokes up the wholesome grain, and turns 
 it all to barrenness." 
 
 " Well, I will strive hard," said Ingle- 
 burge, smiling, " to conquer ought of re- 
 bellion in my composition, to tread in 
 your footsteps, dear Magnus : but I wish 
 too he were other than a Dane." 
 
 Days and weeks wore away, and weak- 
 ness combining with inclination, still 
 chained the count at Saverdsio : all that 
 hope, youth, fancy, pictured perfect, lived 
 within the magic circle of the curacy — 
 Magdalene was the talisman: for Banner, 
 though he trembled at the known ambi- 
 tion of his father, quaffed love's honeyed 
 poison, and wooed the subtle snare. He
 
 78 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 saw her perfect in all of woman's witch- 
 ery; lovely, gentle, tender, unaspiring, 
 rich in every charm which rivets the eye 
 and steals into the heart ; he saw in her 
 all that this world could offer of felicity, 
 and he forgot at once the distance fate 
 had interposed; he saw too the embryo 
 seeds of prepossession, the blush, the sigh, 
 the palpable emotion, the nameless, the 
 indescribable confession, so prized, so 
 dear to love ; the downcast look, the sen- 
 sitive flush, varying, dying, with the 
 coming instant. 
 
 It was heaven to sap the virgin heart 
 of Magdalene, to awaken the first thrill 
 of transport, in a bosom so exquisite, so 
 matchless ! " She loves me !" he would 
 exclaim, in the solitude of his own reflec- 
 tions, in the stillness of his own pillow ; 
 and then exulting in the consciousness, 
 would he woo the dream of bliss, forget- 
 ful that " the course of true love never 
 doth run smooth." 
 
 The good curate, a stranger to the mys-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 79 
 
 teries of passion, saw not the growing 
 thraldom — Ingleburge's whole thoughts 
 were absorbed in her approaching union 
 with Peterson, and the veil of infant im- 
 pression remained close drawn : glowing 
 flowers were strewed o'er the yawning 
 precipice of fate ; roses, muffling every 
 thorn, blushed in the halcyon path of the 
 lovers. 
 
 The necessity of removing from Sa- 
 verdsio, from Dalecarlia, even from 
 Sweden, was as an astounding blast to 
 the ear of slumbering security: the count 
 announced it in a broken voice; Magda- 
 lene felt it as the knell of felicity. 
 
 " My father summonses me hence," he 
 exclaimed ; " but my gratitude, and my 
 thoughts will remain ; for however dis- 
 tance may shut this earthly JEden from 
 my view, its remembrance will live even 
 to my death." 
 
 " You speak as though the parting were 
 to be final," said de Stiernhelm ; " ba- 
 nish this cast of sorrow, my lord, lest you
 
 80 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 infect us all. Curiosity, perhaps inclina- 
 tion, may yet lead you again to our moun- 
 tain wilds." 
 
 " Inclination, friendship, all that is dear 
 and sacred in the breast of man," faltered 
 Banner. " Ere yet the fields have lost 
 their verdure, perhaps — " he paused, and 
 cast a sidelong glance at Magdalene. 
 
 " We may see you again," concluded 
 Ingleburge. 
 
 Magdalene could not, dared not speak ; 
 the sob of choking emotion rose almost 
 to bursting; her cheeks, her very lips were 
 bloodless, and tears but ill suppressed 
 stole down her face. She turned timidly 
 towards him — their eyes encountered — 
 that one look, that one eloquent exchange 
 of sentiment, rallied back the telltale 
 crimson : she trembled for her secret ; she 
 feared to betray the gnawing worm with- 
 in, and with a tottering step she hurried 
 from the apartment. 
 
 The heart of the count misgave him — 
 " I have robbed her of her peace," — he
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 81 
 
 mused — " I have planted care where late 
 was only happiness — I have ravaged this 
 bower of content, and paid back in- 
 quietude for benefits ; — like an unwhole- 
 some blast, I have nipped the freshness 
 of the blossom, and doomed the elastic 
 spring of youth and hope to wither." 
 
 Magdalene had plucked a sprig of 
 hearts- ease, and she held it in her hand 
 as Banner advanced from the house. With 
 a quickened pulse she turned into a mossy 
 walk o'erhung with evergreens, but the 
 eye of love, excursive and penetrating, 
 marked the movement, and in an instant 
 he was at her side. 
 
 For several moments both were silent 
 — both were alike lost in thought. 
 
 " These woods, this garden, the church, 
 the river, the rocks, the mountains," at 
 length observed the count, " are so fami- 
 liar, so dear, that they will live in me- 
 mory — they will revive in sleep, though 
 half the globe should intervene." 
 
 Magdalene could only sigh. 
 e5
 
 82 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " There are impressions — there are cir- 
 cumstances, which the heart never loses," 
 he pursued, fixing his eyes intently on 
 her — " The day, the hour, when you res- 
 cued me from death, Magdalene, will 
 you ever forget it?" 
 
 Oh no !" fervently exclaimed Magda- 
 lene, " gratefully shall I recall it, as the 
 brightest hour — the — the — " hesitating; 
 
 " the life of a fellow- creature — the " 
 
 " And yet," interrupted Banner, " in 
 giving life, you give what is valueless 
 without peace. More — much more, Mag- 
 dalene, would 1 crave at your hands." 
 
 " What mean you, my lord?" asked the 
 agitated girl. 
 
 " Know you not, there is an intellec- 
 tual fire, an elysium, even here ?" resum- 
 ed the count; " a bond, a precious fel- 
 lowship of heart and spirit, which nature 
 implants as the foretaste of heaven?" 
 
 As he spoke, his eyes rested on the 
 flower which trembled in her hand — " a 
 dear, a mysterious link, binding soul to
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 83 
 
 soul ; an inexplicable, a wondrous sym- 
 pathy of feeling ; a coincidence, an over- 
 ruling impulse, riveting human des- 
 tinies?" 
 
 He paused, but she continued silent; 
 a passing blush glowed upon her cheek, 
 but her blue eyes were bent on the ground. 
 
 He cast himself before her — " On my 
 knees, I crave that little flower," he ex- 
 claimed — " I would plant it in my bo- 
 som — hearts-ease, Magdalane, at your 
 hands : oh ! let me bear it with me in dis- 
 tance — let me cherish it an earnest of 
 gentleness and favor." 
 
 He took her hand — he kissed it with 
 transport — her trembling fingers relin- 
 quished the flower, and hope and joy 
 sprung up in his heart. 
 
 " Rise — rise, my lord," she implored. 
 
 " Will you give it," pursued the count, 
 emboldened by her emotion ; " the 
 wretch's consolation, misery's sole friend 
 — hope, dearest Magdalene, hope, to cheer 
 me in my travels V 9
 
 84 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " Alas !" what would you of mef mur- 
 mured Magdalene, sinking on a mossy 
 bench, and covering her face with her 
 spread hands. 
 
 " Hearts-ease" said Banner: " this 
 little flower, Magdalene, not as a theft, 
 but a free gift." 
 
 Magdalene looked up ; her eyes, like a 
 sunbeam midst an April shower, shone 
 bright through the tears which flooded 
 them. 
 
 " Tis a perishable emblem," she arti- 
 culated, in a voice, so sweet and touching, 
 that it thrilled upon the soul's soul of the 
 lover. 
 
 " No, not perishable," he ardently ex- 
 claimed ; H it will never fade — never die 
 — in my warm heart will I cherish the 
 drooping blosom : bestow it, Magdalene, 
 and I defy the world ; — bestow it, and it 
 bears me a suppliant to my father's feet." 
 
 Magdalene shuddered; her life's blood 
 grew cold within her ; new fears, new ob- 
 stacles threatened ; fate seemed to gather
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 85 
 
 in thunder, and long was it ere all the 
 rhetoric of passion could allay the tumult." 
 
 " Fear not," implored the count, " my 
 father will love you for your virtues ; au- 
 thorized by his approval, soon shall I re- 
 turn to claim you: and will you, Magda-* 
 lene, angel of my destiny, in distance, in 
 absence, never forget, never renounce 
 me?" 
 
 " Never in life," faltered the maid, and 
 then she bushed and trembled at the im- 
 port of her words. 
 
 " Never think of another — never smile 
 on another," importuned Banner, glorying 
 in the sweet emotion which told him such 
 a doubt were impious. 
 
 " Another," repeated Magdalene, " oh, 
 my lord !" but her tongue could not speak 
 the reproach which lived in her eye. 
 
 " I do feel security," said the count, ex- 
 ultingly ; " the object of affection is the 
 world — " and for the first time he pressed 
 to his own tumultuous breast the gentle 
 lily of Saverdsio.
 
 86 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Struggling she broke from him — " Now 
 leave me — leave me," she implored — 
 " alas! each moment makes the parting 
 harder." 
 
 " One other boon," whispered Banner, 
 again sinking at her feet. " The precious 
 secret of our love — hide it from human 
 eye, bury it in your own pure bosom, 
 until I claim you as the brightest prize 
 heaven or man can yield me." 
 
 " My brother," faltered Magdalene, 
 wondering and doubtful. 
 
 " Is the being, whose regard, next to 
 your own, I most covet," rejoined the 
 count. " Dearest Magdalene, his rigid 
 principles would censure what excess of 
 love alone can palliate ; he views human 
 nature through the cold medium of rea- 
 son and reflection; how then could he 
 excuse impulse ?" 
 
 " A secret from my brother — the first 
 secret," sobbed Magdalene — "oh Banner ! 
 what do you require of me ?" 
 
 " Only this one compliance, my angel
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 87 
 
 friend," said the count ; 'tis but for a little 
 season : my father's sanction once ob- 
 tained, we will tell him all, nay, more, we 
 will pray him to sanctify our union." 
 
 " But why concealment? — why mys- 
 tery ? — " asked the still reluctant girl — 
 " where exists a being half so interested 
 for my happiness V 9 
 
 " Could you bear to hear me condemn- 
 ed, Magdalene ? Your brother knows 
 not the doubts, the perplexities, the sweet 
 bitters of passion ; how then could he 
 approve a disclosure, which the torture 
 of separation, and the knowledge of your 
 celestial perfections, alone extorted ? mi- 
 ser-like, I would fain secure my treasure, 
 forgetful that selfishness instigates the 
 deed." 
 
 Magdalene forced a melancholy smile, 
 but her heart still misgave her. 
 
 " Your brother," resumed the count, 
 reading every thought in her expressive 
 countenance, " would say, I ought to 
 share the rose, not the thorn, with the
 
 88 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 being beloved ; I ought to bear the heavy 
 burden of my own cares, without trans- 
 fusing one into her bosom. You see, I 
 know what I ought to be — I feel what I 
 am. Your brother is perfection — I all 
 error — will you not shield me then from 
 the lash of merited censure ¥ 
 
 Magdalene yielded although uncon- 
 vinced ; she promised to hide the mine 
 of inquietude ; she tried to bosom the like 
 sanguine anticipations with which the 
 spirits of her lover were buoyant ; but 
 she saw him depart with a feeling nearly 
 allied to despair. 
 
 In the brief lapse of a few flitting weeks, 
 what a change, what a woful change was 
 wrought in the late blessed retreat of con- 
 tent and innocence! The same sun shone 
 on Saverdsio ; the same mountains, the 
 same rocks, black with pine-forests, and 
 screening the blasts of the north ; the 
 same river, meandering through the ena- 
 melled valley ; the same cerulean sky, 
 reposing on its glossy bosom ; but the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 89 
 
 spirit of peace was fled, the elastic spring 
 of cheerfulness, the spontaneous flow in- 
 dicative of the soul's harmony. 
 
 Magdalene neglected not her duties, 
 but she fulfilled them without energy and 
 without hope ; languid and listless, she 
 moved through the daily routine, musing 
 on him whose image and whose love 
 coloured every flight of her young and 
 ardent fancy, numbering the weeks of his 
 absence, anticipating the bliss of his re- 
 turn. Suspense soon faded the roses of 
 her cheek ; apprehension succeeded, and 
 quick despair arose with all her train of 
 morbid horrors ; her eyes grew dim, and 
 often in solitude would she woo the sad 
 relief of weeping. 
 
 The last glow of summer died away, 
 and all of verdure vanished from the 
 " rocks where the snow-flake reposes." 
 Magdalene listened to the hollow moan- 
 ings of the blast, beheld the eddying 
 winds stripping the withered branches 
 of their yellow foliage, the hoar-frost
 
 90 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 banging on each spray, the rapid strides 
 of devastating winter. It seemed the 
 type of her own sunless fortune; glory 
 had passed away in the brief dream of 
 love, peace had been as bright and as 
 fugitive as the iris-bow in the heavens. 
 She had witnessed the marriage of the 
 gay and the happy Ingleburge — she had 
 smiled on a fate so opposite to her own 
 — she had parted from her with external 
 content, with internal sorrow : and now, 
 left to her own busy thoughts, to the con- 
 templation of de Stiernhelm's virtues, re- 
 morse gnawed in the fearful vacuum of 
 her heart ; the dreadful consciousness of 
 error embittered all the recollections of 
 the past ; love had been followed by dis- 
 guise, disguise by misery ; she had worn 
 concealment with the being who best 
 knew how to sooth and to solace ; and 
 now, if not forgotten, she at least writhed 
 beneath the pungent pangs of imagined 
 neglect. Often was she on the eve of 
 sinking at the feet of her brother, of ex- 

 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA 91 
 
 piating the past by confession and repent- 
 ance, of imploring his counsel and his pity : 
 but how censure the man she loved above 
 all of earth's mould? — how lessen the 
 pressure of her own imprudence, by cast- 
 ing the burden upon him ? " Oh no, Ban- 
 ner!" she would articulate, in the anguish 
 of her feelings, " I may die, but never will 
 I betray you : in the cold grave, the se- 
 cret, and the heart in which it harboured, 
 shall perish together." Then with a cou- 
 rage combating the natal weakness of 
 woman, would she plunge into occupa- 
 tion, would she fly to temporary resources, 
 visiting the sick and the aged, praying 
 with the afflicted, and striving to assimi- 
 late with the happy. 
 
 The last faint gleam of a winter's sun 
 was setting amid icicles and frost, when 
 Magdalene, half wistful, half reluctant, 
 ventured into the mossy walk o'erhung 
 with evergreens, the scene of parting and 
 of fond acknowledgment. A thronging 
 host of busy recollections crowded on her 
 brain ; she stood by the faded clump of
 
 92 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 hearts-ease — she trembled from emotion, 
 not cold — she felt nought but the remem- 
 brance of the little flower Banner had 
 craved upon his knees : one stunted wither- 
 ing blossom remained ; her eyes brighten- 
 ed at the view ; she snatched it as the 
 last relic of peace, and then she burst into 
 a flood of tears. 
 
 u Hearts-ease for me ! winter spares one 
 blossom for me ! " Was it the dear, the well- 
 remembered voice of her lover! Magda- 
 lene spoke not — moved not — shrieked not 
 — it sounded as from the tomb — it stole 
 over her as the astounding peal of hea- 
 ven's thunder: and when Banner, for Ban- 
 ner it was, sprung to her side, pale and 
 lifeless she fell into his arms. 
 
 What a moment, for love, so devoted, 
 and so tender ! cold, death-stricken, she 
 lay upon his bosom, like a blossom broken 
 in the meridian of its sweetness, her eyes 
 closed, and the extreme paleness of her 
 features, rendering them more touching 
 and more angelic. 
 
 Caution and policy vanished in the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 93 
 
 threat of danger; the count had hoped 
 alone to have seen Magdalene, to have 
 breathed into her ear the sigh of passion, 
 to have tarried unknown and unmarked 
 in a cottage hard by. Buoyant in a thou- 
 sand wild wishes and fancies, he had 
 flown beneath the cloak of disguise, to 
 snatch at the feet of his soul's idol, that 
 boon which from a parent he had craved 
 in vain: for alas! ambition had chilled 
 every anticipation of youthful fervent love, 
 had dared him, in the penalty of a parent's 
 curse, to wed the unknown portionless 
 sister of de Stiernhelm. 
 
 Wretched, indignant, outraged in every 
 feeling, he had fled from Denmark, he 
 had returned to Saverdsio, returned to 
 terrify, almost unto death, her he most 
 valued in life. Madly he called upon her 
 name — he strained her to his agonized 
 bosom — he pressed his burning lips to her 
 ice cold forehead — he besought her to 
 hear and to answer; but that ear was deaf 
 to the pleading voice of his complaint,
 
 94 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 those eyes were closed, even against an 
 image dear as the vital fount of her being. 
 In vain he chaffed her hands and temples; 
 in vain he sought the slightest pulsation 
 of the heart; all was cold and still, not 
 one fluctuation auguring ought of return- 
 ing animation. 
 
 Desperate, regardless of all in the shape 
 of policy, he raised her in his arms — he 
 bore her through the garden — and rushing 
 into the house, presented himself before 
 the alarmed and astonished curate. 
 
 De Stiernhelm dropped the page he was 
 perusing ; affection put to flight the placi- 
 dity of long habit, the boasted calm of 
 resignation ; he saw his sister, his favorite 
 sister, to all appearance dead, and the 
 feelings of the man prevailed. 
 
 It was a moment fraught with fate ; 
 tears, and groans, and bitter self-re- 
 proaches, burst from the tortured bosom 
 of Banner; he accused himself as the 
 murderer of Magdalene, and in the wild 
 anguish of the moment, all the tale of love
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 95 
 
 was 'revealed ; his appeal to his father, 
 the rejection of his suit, his hopes, his 
 struggles, his despair. 
 
 A flash like light broke upon the un- 
 suspecting mind of the curate, a solution 
 to every past mystery ; the pale cheek, 
 the broken spirit, the oft- breathed sigh of 
 Magdalene, spoke in the worm of con- 
 cealment ; he traced the mine of buried 
 care, yet his eye, not his lip, conveyed 
 reproach. 
 
 " Oh ! save her ! save her !" groaned 
 forth Banner, — " if she die, 1 am accurs- 
 ed for ever." 
 
 " Peace," implored de Stiernhelm, 
 pushing him hastily back ; "we are all 
 in the hands of heaven. Retire, my lord ; 
 suspended power revives — retire, if you 
 value her senses." 
 
 " No, no, I cannot — 1 will not leave 
 her/' exclaimed the count, casting himself 
 on his knees beside her ; " my presence 
 cannot terrify, my tears cannot harm — 
 Magdalene, love, look up ; 'tis I, your
 
 96 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 own faithful, your own devoted Ban- 
 ner, come to crave heartsease at your 
 hands." 
 
 Magdalene did look up, and a smile of 
 sweetness met the anxious glance of her 
 lover. 
 
 " Banner," she whispered, and the 
 softest blush of maiden bashfulness dap- 
 pled the snow of her cheek. 
 
 New cares, and new anxieties, lived in 
 the conscientious mind of the curate ; 
 through the long hours of a wakeful night, 
 terrifying crowds of opposing duties ba- 
 nished every propensity to sleep, and left 
 him the prey of aching apprehension. He 
 trembled, not for the conduct, but for 
 the safety of his gentle sister ; he knew 
 her frame too tender to sustain the con- 
 flicts of tortured feeling ; he saw her tot- 
 tering on the health-consuming brink of 
 comfortless, rayless suspense, her spirits 
 broken, her peace, her hopes, destroyed 
 by doubt and watchfulness, living on a 
 beam, as perishable, as beguiling, and as 

 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 97 
 
 evanescent, as the ignis -fatuus, luring 
 amid bogs and quagmires. 
 
 " We must pray for peace," sighed the 
 holy man, " for spiritual strength to aid 
 us in the warfare. The temptations of 
 this world are beguiling, the snares to 
 evil numerous : 'tis by faith unbroken, by 
 humbleness of heart, by piety unfeigned, 
 that we must fight the good fight, and 
 aspire to hereafter glory." 
 
 But though the cool and unimpas- 
 sioned dictates of religion and resignation 
 smoothed every difficulty in the rough 
 path of the good curate, though to him, 
 this life of tribulation, of fears, perplexi- 
 ties, and endurance, was but the pass to 
 eternity, far different were the feelings 
 and calculations of youth and love. Bliss 
 floated in light and balmy visions around 
 the pillowed head of Banner ; nought of 
 obstacle arose to dim the lustre of the 
 colouring : in the little church, at the foot 
 of the altar, the hand of de Stiernhelm 
 sanctified the union; Magdalene, lovely 
 vol. i. p
 
 98 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 as the fabled houries of a brighter world, 
 became his own, plighted in the sight of 
 men and angels. 
 
 He arose with heaven and joy in his 
 soul ; he sought her who fashioned every 
 dream of fancy : never did she look so 
 beauteous, for the varying tints of mo- 
 desty, united to the purest joy, gave an 
 almost supernatural brightness to the ex- 
 pression of her enchanting features; her 
 eyes were cast downwards, but the elo- 
 quent tears shining through their dark 
 lashes, declared how truly she sympa- 
 thized in all his feelings." 
 
 " We will part no more," he murmured 
 — " here, forgetful of all beside, will I live 
 and die." 
 
 " Your father," said Magdalene, tremb- 
 ling and blushing. 
 
 " Need but behold my Eve to pardon 
 the transgression," eagerly replied the 
 count. " I will bear you to his feet — I 
 will present you as my plea for disobe- 
 dience."
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 99 
 
 " Oh Banner ! " faltered Magdalene, 
 " your wishes, and your affection, deceive 
 you. Your father — " 
 
 " Will love you for your virtues," in- 
 terrupting her, " and bless me for the 
 daughter I bestow." 
 
 But though every opposing fear quickly 
 yielded to the persuasive arguments and 
 impassioned hopes of her lover — though 
 Magdalene consented to invest all of 
 conduct in the hands of her brother — the 
 stable virtue, and rigid honor of that bro- 
 ther, was not to be moved : like the rock 
 unbroken by the surges, he resisted the 
 flowings of tenderness, and the harsher 
 lash of reproach; he heard all that sophis- 
 try could mould in the shape of argument, 
 but his sentiments and his counsels re- 
 mained the same ; he could weep the ne- 
 cessity of opposition, but he could not 
 brave the horrors of self-reproach ; he 
 could mourn over the early grave of a dar- 
 ling sister, but he could not support that 
 sister in a flagrant violation of her duty. 
 f2
 
 JOO THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " No, no," he would exclaim, to the 
 frantic solicitations of the count, " we 
 must pass the ordeal uncontaminated ; 
 like pure gold in the crucible, the fire of 
 temptation may try, but not defile our 
 virtue. You must leave us, my lord, 
 leave us in the consciousness of integrity, 
 and heaven will sustain us in the conflict." 
 
 As he spoke, his eyes rested on the 
 death-wan cheek of Magdalene, and the 
 sob of human feeling arose almost to suf- 
 focation. 
 
 Banner marked the struggle — he 
 thought to triumph o'er the momentary 
 weakness. 
 
 " Kneel with me, Magdalene," he im- 
 plored ; in dust, in tears, let us soften this 
 man of stone." 
 
 But the courage of the curate rested on 
 eternity — his fortitude, and the strength 
 of his virtue, was neither to be sapped or 
 stormed — he tried to raise the suppliants 
 — he turned on them a look of resolution 
 tempered with benignity, but not once
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 101 
 
 did he swerve from the streight smooth 
 line of conduct, not once did he forget 
 the weighty cognizance of his station. 
 
 " Our own actions be the test whereby 
 we rise or fall," he articulated — " Banner, 
 you must quit Saverdsio ; duty, imperious 
 duty, demands it of you. You must re- 
 turn to Denmark ; by obedience, by sub- 
 mission, you must conciliate a parent's 
 favor." 
 
 ." And Magdalane," said the count. 
 
 " Magdalene will tarry here in my bo- 
 som," replied de Stiernhelm ; supported 
 by her own innocence, she will woo re- 
 turning peace, until it revive threefold and 
 for ever." 
 
 " And I," questioned Banner, in an ac- 
 cent and with a look of reproach. 
 
 " You too," firmly pronounced the cu- 
 rate, " in distance, and in occupation, will 
 live to own the first duty of a son, obe- 
 dience." 
 
 " Never! — never!" exclaimed the 
 count, in all the vehement fire of youth
 
 102 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and passion — " when I forget Magda- 
 lene — when I renounce Magdalene — 
 when I relinquish the hope of calling her 
 mine, may the vengeance of heaven over- 
 take me ! may — " 
 
 But the wild shriek of Magdalene 
 checked the graceless imprecation ; strug- 
 gling, panting, dying, she fell into the 
 arms of her brother, without life, and 
 without motion. 
 
 In an instant the courage of Banner 
 vanished; his violence had crushed a 
 being weaker than himself; he had terri- 
 fied, not converted; and now, subdued 
 and sorrowing, he shed over her tears of 
 contrition and bitter anguish. 
 
 To save her, to sooth her, was all his 
 aim ; he would yield himself to the guid- 
 ance of de Stiernhelm — he would act, he 
 would almost think through his counsel — 
 he would return to the home of his heri- 
 tage — he would strive, not to root out the 
 seeds of passion, but to move again the 
 obduracy of his father, to toil out a bles- 

 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. ] 03 
 
 sing through years of endurance and woe : 
 and ere again Magdalene revived to care 
 and consciousness, it was decided, that 
 early on the morrow the count was to 
 depart from Saverdsio.
 
 104 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Hope, 
 As the stem's nutritious sap, once blasted, 
 The lily dies* 
 
 rORa season, grateful for his tender- 
 ness, Magdalene strove to smile on the 
 efforts of her brother, strove to assume 
 the aspect of content, whilst within fes- 
 tered the rankling thorn of sorrow ; she 
 aided him in his duties of consolation and 
 charity, visited the sick, relieved the in- 
 digent, prayed by the broken-hearted, la- 
 bouring diligently to banish her own in- 
 dividual woes, to blunt the pangs of me- 
 mory, to attain the coveted end of forti- 
 tude and patience. 
 
 And de Stiernhelm was cheated into 
 quiescence and content ; he fancied the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 105 
 
 smile, at first borrowed, habitual; he fan- 
 cied her resigned, because his own feel- 
 ings assured him there was no sacrifice 
 too great in the cause of honour : — alas ! 
 he little dreamt, that like the canker in the 
 bud, preying, feasting on the heart, ere 
 yet it lose its brightness and its beauty, 
 suspense, apprehension, and anxiety, sap- 
 ping the vital strength, oft bends the 
 youthful and the lovely to the premature 
 shelter of the grave ; that nature, inca- 
 pable of resistance, yields the struggle, 
 because imagination, seizing the reins, 
 disappointment sheds its mildew on the 
 sanguine pictures of inexperience ! 
 
 Magdalene, for a season, harboured 
 hope ; she recalled the persevering fond- 
 ness of Banner, his protestations, his ex- 
 ertions, and her heart told her a father 
 could not be deaf to the pleadings of such 
 a son : but as weeks rolled upon weeks, 
 that cheating shadow faded, and again 
 she became the prey of listlessness and 
 dejection; her spirits fled, her energies
 
 106 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 drooped ; she forgot not to smile in the 
 presence of de Stiernhelm, but when alone 
 and unmarked, she yielded unresisting to 
 her cares, for 
 
 Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, 
 Makes the night morning, and the noontide night. 
 
 The arrival of Peterson and Ingleburge 
 at Saverdsio, for a brief hour imparted 
 something of interest to the feelings of 
 the hapless Magdalene; but soon the hec- 
 tic of her cheek faded, and her sunken 
 eye, and wasted form, spoke volumes to 
 the anxious heart of affection. 
 
 Ingleburge beheld her gentle sister 
 sinking into a premature grave, dying 
 without a murmur, without acknowledg- 
 ing aeomplaint; the slave of secret sor- 
 row, the early victim of inauspicious love. 
 
 " We must snatch her from this nursery 
 of melancholy," exclaimed the alarmed 
 Ingleburge, pouring all her fears, and all 
 her suspicions, into the bosom of her hus- 
 band ; " here, the monotony cf her life
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 107 
 
 consumes her; here, every tree, every 
 shrub, recalls the image of Banner. We 
 must take her with ns to Oernetz, and by 
 variety and amusement, try to extract the 
 rankling thorn." 
 
 " But how banish the fiend of her re- 
 pose?" asked Peterson — " how shut out 
 the beguiling vision which has so fatally 
 cozened her of peace and health ¥* 
 
 " We must act for the best — we must 
 pray for the best," said Ingleburge, " be- 
 yond, we must trust in heaven." 
 
 Swayed by the warm and united efforts 
 of affection, Magdalene, enriched with 
 the heartfelt blessing of her pious bro- 
 ther, exchanged the calm solitude of the 
 curacy for the no less picturesque shades 
 of Oernetz. But though reposing on the 
 borders of a broad bright lake, embosom- 
 ed in woods, and adorned with every va- 
 riety to rivet the eye and captivate the 
 sense, it possessed not the granite rocks, 
 the cone-topped hills, the pine forests, 
 and the wild cataracts of her own roman-
 
 108 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 tic home : the little church too was want- 
 ing, and above all, the mild voice, and 
 milder presence, of her pastor-brother. 
 
 The tender watchfulness of Ingleburge 
 imparted a calm to her feelings, yet still 
 was there a preying care within, a gan- 
 grene sapping health and strength. The 
 image of Banner mingled in every vary- 
 ing scene; upon the pellucid bosom of 
 the lake, on its rippling shores, on the en- 
 amelled plain, in the balmy woods, in the 
 softly-stealing breath of evening, in the 
 very radiance of the vaulted sky, his pro- 
 mises and his oft-breathed vows, like the 
 golden tissue of a brilliant dream, hung 
 o er the blank of reality : unsanctioned by 
 a father's blessing, de Stiernhelm had 
 pronounced the fiat of separation : Ban- 
 ner came not, and life was despoiled of 
 all its promises. 
 
 " 1 would you could forget the count," 
 said Ingleburge, starting at the half 
 breathed sigh of her sister. " Dearest 
 Magdalene, if he merited ought of ten-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 109 
 
 derness, he would not doom you thus to 
 pine alone." 
 
 Magdalene's wan cheek flushed to crim- 
 son. " Would you have him brave a pa- 
 rent's curse?" she reproachfully asked. 
 
 " No," replied Ingleburge, " neither 
 would I have him delve a virgin's grave. 
 Knowing the unbending ambition of his 
 proud father, he ought to have died ere 
 he rifled the peace of your bosom — he 
 ought to have fled ere he strewed poison 
 in your happy path." 
 
 "Do we all as we ought?" timidly ques- 
 tioned Magdalene— " think, my sister, 
 does fallible nature possess the right of 
 reprehension ?" 
 
 " Yes, in a case like the present," re- 
 joined Ingleburge. " He came soliciting 
 pity, and we bestowed it with prodigal 
 hand ; we bound up his wounds, we ad- 
 mitted him into the sanctuary of our 
 home, we forgot almost the instinctive 
 enmity of our different nations, we suc- 
 coured him as though he were a Swede ;
 
 110 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and now has he sown misery where he 
 ought to have lavished blessings— -now, 
 like a cruel blight, has he nipped all the 
 blossoms of a promising spring." 
 
 " Oh ! say not so," urged the weeping 
 Magdalene. " He has freighted his own 
 hopes of peace in the same bark ; and, if 
 the sport of adverse winds, if wrecked 
 and lost, surely the like compassion ought 
 to be administered to the like cost." 
 
 " There is no arguing with a captive 
 heart," said Ingleburge. " Dry up your 
 tears, my sweet sister, and look yourself, 
 if you would not have me hate him." 
 
 Magdalene forced a smile, but it was 
 a smile of melancholy meaning, for her 
 inward feelings told her sorrow was del- 
 ving fast her grave, and in such an event, 
 the words of Ingleburge had cast re- 
 proach on the unconscious Banner. 
 
 bi I shall die," she mentally mused, and 
 " the infirmities of a sickly nature, like 
 a mound of lead, will blister the fair fame 
 of him 1 love. Holy God ! Ingleburge
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. Ill 
 
 will accuse, and even my pious Magnus 
 will reprobate as he weeps." 
 
 The possibility was too harrowing for 
 the drooping spirit of Magdalene ; it was 
 steeping the barb of fate in gall, it was 
 heaping up horrors even beyond the tomb. 
 She laid her trembling hand on the arm 
 of Ingleburge— she looked up with pro- 
 phetic earnestness in her face. — 
 
 " My sister," she faltered, " it is not 
 Banner who gives me this fevered skin 
 and this wearing cough: remember, I in- 
 herit weakness from the death-struggle 
 of our mother : born mid the pangs of 
 dissolving nature, how could I count on 
 ought of strength ?" 
 
 ** What mean you?" questioned the 
 distressed Jngleburge. 
 
 " I mean," eagerly pursued Magdalene, 
 " that the sober grey of autumn awaits 
 net the tempest-crushed flower ; that re- 
 viving, as it were, from a parent's bier, 
 the seeds of disease tarried but the quick- 
 ening breath of cold cr accident."
 
 112 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " Banner, " interrupted Ingleburge, 
 snatching her with anguished impulse to 
 her heart. 
 
 " No, no, not Banner," said Magda- 
 lene ; " say, rather, the infirmity of my 
 own nature, the lack of constitutional 
 strength. Should I die, my sister," and 
 she raised her beautiful face gemmed with 
 the tears of sensibility, " attribute it not 
 to human means. Promise me," and she 
 slid from her arms on her knees, " dearest 
 Ingleburge, promise me, never in act or 
 word, to cast a reproach on Banner?" 
 
 " Alas! what is it you ask?" sobbed 
 Ingleburge, vainly attempting to raise her. 
 
 " Nought, but what justice can ac- 
 cord," solemnly pronounced Magdalene. 
 " Promise me, my sister," clasping her 
 hands in emphatic supplication, " when 
 the power to defend shall have passed 
 away — when I shall have being but in the 
 memory of those I love — never to attaint 
 his honour, never to impeach his huma- 
 nity?"
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 113 
 
 " All you ask — all you wish, I pro- 
 mise," faltered the weeping Ingleburge : 
 t* live for us, Magdalene, and the blessing 
 of heaven descend upon the head of 
 Banner!" 
 
 From this period, the watchful fears of 
 Ingleburge augmented every threat of 
 danger ; she marked the hectic flush, eb- 
 bing, floating on the cheek of Magdalene; 
 now brightening in her eyes, now fading 
 to tintless marble ; the tremulous vibra- 
 tion of nerve, the strength- wearing thrill 
 of sensibility and of feeling. 
 . " Suspense must kill her," she would 
 exclaim, to all the studied consolations of 
 Peterson. " My brother has judged un- 
 wisely : guided by the pious resignation 
 of his own forbearing spirit, in pronounc- 
 ing the doom of separation, he has de- 
 stroyed the life of Magdalene." 
 
 With a heart thus impressed, with a 
 mind thus misgiving, can it be wondered, 
 that when Banner, worn out by the per- 
 severing opposition of his father, sought
 
 114 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 again his only hopes of peace at the feet 
 of her he loved — when kneeling, he sup- 
 plicated for mercy and for favor — that 
 Ingleburge should become his warmest 
 advocate ; that she should combat all the 
 yielding struggles of Magdalene, and im- 
 portune and argue her into acquiescence I 
 
 " If there be crime," she would reply, 
 ardently embracing her trembling sister, 
 " be it on my head. Save yourself — 
 save Banner. Here, at Oernetz, you may 
 tarry, until returning nature holds out a 
 father's pardon." 
 
 " And my brother," said the timid, 
 half wavering Magdalene. 
 
 " Will bless the deed," eagerly rejoined 
 Banner, which scatters o'er this pale 
 cheek, the rose of peace and health. 
 Doubt it not, my angel friend ; fate, wea- 
 ry of tormenting, will yield the rich har- 
 vest of coming joy." 
 
 " Alas ! you are a visionary," sighed 
 Magdalene, " and like all visionaries 
 your colourings a?re deceptive,"
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 115 
 
 " Not those which rest on yon" ten- 
 derly whispered the count. " Your 
 matchless perfections will melt the stub- 
 born prejudice of my mistaken parent; 
 he will receive us, Magdalene, and chase 
 every record of unkindness. Grant me 
 but the sacred right of protector, and 
 where breathes the power which can de- 
 stroy the harmony of wedded love V 
 
 " In our own hearts," faltered the maid 
 — " in the conviction of disobedience. 
 Oh Banner! should you, even you, live 
 to prove the fallacy of your dependance 
 — to trace your ruin, the overthrow of ag- 
 grandisement, to my selfish acquiescence 
 —to feel— to ." 
 
 The count snatched her to his bosom, 
 and with a rapturous kiss, smothered 
 every prognostic of ill. 
 
 " You will be mine !" he exclaimed, 
 " mine, once and for ever ! mine, Mag- 
 dalene! mine, angel of my destiny, be- 
 yond the stretch of fate to separate ! Oh ! 
 for a long, long life, to evince the grati-
 
 116 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 tude of my feelings— to bask in the bliss 
 of loving and being beloved !" 
 
 " And shall we never repent V- asked 
 Magdalene, raising her burning cheek 
 from the bosom of her lover — " never rue 
 the precipitance which dares a step so 
 venturous." 
 
 " Never, never," emphatically pro- 
 nounced Banner. " If my father resist 
 this rose-bud blush, these dew-like tears, 
 in the wilds of your native mountains, 
 here in Dalecarlia, within sound of the 
 church-bell of Saverdsio, we will erect 
 our little Eden, nor think of a world be- 
 yond : — we will live for each other, nor 
 judge the purchased happiness too dear; 
 — we will smile at the rugged passes of 
 destiny ; — we will deem the rich man 
 poor in the boundless mine of individual 
 Iqve : dearest Magdalene, hearts-ease will 
 flourish in the cleft rocks of barrenness, 
 and nature will award us all that mind 
 can covet V 
 
 Magdalene was an enthusiast, and her
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MC-RA. 117 
 
 warm and ardent imagination caught at 
 the 'elysium pourtrayed, touched as it 
 were with the fairy- wand of enchantment, 
 with the brilliant ether of buoyant hope 
 and dazzled fancy. The mountain-sited 
 cottage, bosomed in thornless roses, rose 
 in beguiling imagery; the Dahl rippled 
 unobstructed ; the azure-tinted heavens 
 slept on the heath- clad hills ; not a breath 
 marred creation's blessedness, not an op- 
 posing barrier crowded on the trance of 
 time. She smiled in happy trusting con- 
 fidence : trammelled in the spell, her half 
 raised eyes were turned on her lover ; the 
 harsher obstacles of duty vanished, and 
 all of opposition ceased. Overpowered, 
 subdued, incapable of resistance or argu- 
 ment, unaided by her brother, she con- 
 sented to pledge the vow of acceptance; 
 away from Saverdsio, at the altar N 's foot, 
 unacknowledged, unblessed by a father's 
 sanction, to become the bride of Banner. 
 Quick waned the hours for thought and 
 calm reflection — Peterson, Ingleburge,
 
 118 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 the count, each alike chased the growth 
 of self-reproach ; yet Magdalene would 
 sometimes commune with her own heart, 
 and then would she shudder at the fate- 
 fraught promise she had given: some- 
 thing of dread of a presentiment of evil 
 crowded on her brightest prospects, even 
 midst the breath of passion, saddening 
 her cheek, and stealing the lustre of her 
 smile. 
 
 " If he should change — if time should 
 blunt the energy of affection — if, even in 
 thought, he should accuse her of selfish- 
 ness — if he should behold her as the ob- 
 stacle to riches and to elevation — " Ah ! 
 then indeed should I bow my head to 
 the dust," she would articulate ; " then, 
 broken, crushed, should I creep to the 
 grave for shelter." 
 
 Pale, trembling, half fainting, Ingle- 
 burge decked her in the marriage gar- 
 ment; her face tintless as her veil, her 
 heart spiritless as a mere victim : yet was 
 Banner the object of her soul's hope, of
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 119 
 
 her secret sigh, of her earth-born wishes : 
 but inconsistency is the life of man, and 
 situations, and circumstances, even in 
 moments of mightiest import, transport- 
 ing beyond the present, may bear us into 
 the wild regions of thought and feeling. 
 
 Tottering, gasping, Magdalene stood 
 at the step of the altar, her hand pressing 
 down the throbbings of her bosom, her 
 eyes mournfully bent upon the marble 
 ensignias of buried mortality. 
 
 A mingled, an inexplicable sensation 
 numbed every power of action, as the 
 grateful transports of exulting love, rose 
 upon the deep and solemn tones of the 
 officiating priest : the altar, the book, the 
 chapel itself, seemed to fade away ; the 
 very sun to die in the heavens ; Peterson, 
 Ingleburge, Banner himself, to assume 
 the white cold livery of death. Speech- 
 less, breathless, motionless, as the blood- 
 less effigy of a monumental vestal, she 
 stood, though the last prayer had ceased : 
 and when the count urged to exertion,
 
 120 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 *vhen he whispered the talismanic name 
 of husband, had not his arms received 
 her, she had fallen to the earth. 
 
 Like a martyred saint, more than the 
 bride of love and youth, Magdalene hung 
 upon the arm of Banner; and when borne 
 into the sacristy, when reviving under the 
 freshening breeze, a flood of hysteric 
 tears alone restored her to consciousness* 
 Alas ! the step was taken — the die was 
 cast: she was a wife, unknown to her 
 brother; a daughter, unsought and un- 
 approved : the whispering voice of con- 
 science accused of precipitance, and dis- 
 may and apprehension long clouded every 
 ray of bliss. 
 
 Months wore away in frequent yet vain 
 applications for pardon : Banner doted 
 on the partner of his soul's choice, yet he 
 pined for the paternal benediction; he 
 felt, even in the possession of Magdalene, 
 a vacuum, a void, which the soothing 
 promise of returning favor could alone 
 fill. Sometimes he thought of removing
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. T2 I 
 
 her to Denmark, of bearing her into the 
 presence of his father; but her gentleness, 
 her timidity, her drooping health, forbad 
 the venture : ill suited for hardship or 
 endurance, fragile, almost shadowy, the 
 slightest breath of unkindness threatened 
 the overthrow of life ; how then could he 
 brave a danger, whose faintest possibility, 
 whose slightest anticipation, seemed as 
 the wreck of every earthly hope. 
 
 " You must leave her here," said Ingle- 
 burge; " and whilst duty bears you to the 
 home of your heritage, we will tend our 
 sister, and minister to her comfort." 
 
 The eyes of Banner filled with tears. 
 " Would that the like forgiving spirit 
 habited the breast of my father as the 
 breast of de Stiernhelm !" he exclaimed ; 
 " would that the same breath of charity 
 lived alike in all ! Not an accent of cen- 
 sure, not a look of reproof, marked the 
 moment of disclosure: he deplored the 
 precipitance, he mourned the hardihood, 
 not in anger, but in pity." 
 
 VOL. I. g
 
 122 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " His mind is fashioned to his calling," 
 replied Ingleburge, glorying in the just 
 praises of her brother: "imbibing the 
 meek spirit of holiness, to others he is 
 ever gentle, to himself alone severe. Leave 
 her to us, my friend ; go with confidence 
 in your heart ; Magnus will teach her pa- 
 tience, and I will fan her into hope." 
 
 But though partially cheered by the as- 
 surances of affection, the speaking pres- 
 sure of the last embrace lived in the mind 
 of the husband : he recalled the tears, the 
 sobs, the regrets of Magdalene; and 
 though struggling with himself, he be- 
 came almost suffocated from excess of 
 emotion : her health so broken, her situ- 
 ation so precarious ; the promise of an 
 infant claimant on his love ; a cement, a 
 dear, an innocent pleader in a parent's 
 cause. 
 
 Thrice was he on the eve of returning, 
 for his heart flew back to Oernetz, and 
 rears, blinding tears, dimmed every power 
 of vision.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. I'lo 
 
 " For thee, and for thy babe, be this 
 bitter self-sacrifice, "he murmured : " again 
 spurned, again rejected, I return, Magda- 
 lene, to live and to die on thy bosom." 
 
 Dark, sullen, and inauspicious, as the 
 jarring tumult within, was the heavens 
 above, and the waves laving the base of 
 his own towers ; the last ray of brightness 
 had long ceased to gild the crags and 
 beetling steeps ; the valleys, and the shores 
 of the swollen lake, were alike wrapped 
 in shadow; hollow gusts whistled through 
 the age- worn cavities, and not a star, not 
 a glimpse of moonshine, varied the inky 
 firmament. Yet was the path familiar, 
 the footway firm : Banner, silent, and spi- 
 rit-sunk, threaded the mazy windings: 
 he had left his horse in the adjoining ham- 
 let, and alone and drooping, recalling the 
 smiling bowers of Oernetz, the look, the 
 voice of Magdalene, " sweet and soft as 
 saints removed to heaven," advanced to- 
 wards the closed portal of his father's de- 
 solate and dreary mansion. 
 g 2
 
 124 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 No note of joy spoke the return of its 
 heir, no sign of conciliation augured the 
 dawn of pardon ; a simple lodging was 
 vouchsafed, and the cold promise of a 
 personal interview. 
 
 Absorbed in his own peculiar feelings, 
 scarce conscious of the direction in which 
 he moved, he followed his wily guide; 
 nor when in a lone turret, hemmed in 
 by bars and stancheons, did he suspect 
 either treachery or violence. 
 
 " My father wills a penance for dis- 
 obedience," he sighed, casting himself 
 upon the hard bed; and though so coarse- 
 ly wooed, slumber, which flies the cyg- 
 net's down, steeped every sense and fa- 
 culty in forgetfulness. 
 
 He slept until the sun's bright rays 
 pierced through the loopholes of the 
 tower, until all of shade, vanishing from 
 this nether world, man and nature revi- 
 ved anew to glory. Mingling the safety 
 of his absent wife in the spontaneous 
 offering of 'thanksgiving*, refreshed and
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 125 
 
 invigorated, he hurried on his clothes, 
 anxious for the accorded interview : hope 
 glowed in his heart, and kindled in his 
 eyes. " Nature will plead her own cause," 
 he mused; " love will gift me with sub- 
 duing eloquence: not in this turret, my 
 Magdalene, but in a fathers heart shall I 
 see you lodged : like the sun, dissipating 
 the past gloom, his affection and his bles- 
 sing will enrich us all with peace and 
 
 joy!" 
 
 Alas ! he bodied but the sanguine pic- 
 tures of his own warm fancy ; he forgot 
 that ambition, rooting out the softer feel- 
 ings of the soul, establishes its base amid 
 violence, injustice, and persecution. 
 
 The entrance of the pilot who had 
 guided him to his chamber the preceding 
 night severed the pleasing association of 
 his ideas ; he looked up, and for the first 
 time, he shuddered at the dark and scowl- 
 ing visage which met his glance. It was 
 a face he had never before seen, shrunken, 
 sallow, and malignant, yet respect mark-
 
 1*20 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 ed his obeisance, and he stood unbonnet- 
 ted, as he tendered a folded paper to the 
 count. 
 
 u From my father," said Banner, taking 
 it with tremulous agitation. He opened 
 it, and he read : 
 
 " This day I depart for the isle of Born- 
 holm. If you would that I should credit 
 ought of your assurances of contrition, 
 confine yourself within the turret, nor 
 murmur, though my stay be lengthened 
 to a fortnight. Rodomski will minister 
 to your necessities." 
 
 " Rodomski," repeated Banner. 
 
 The man bowed. 
 
 " I would be alone," pursued the count, 
 sickening at the necessary delay : " yet 
 stay, I would question further. A fort- 
 night — a whole fortnight — so long, so so- 
 litary." 
 
 " Has my father already quitted the 
 castle I" 
 
 " With the first break of day my lord 
 departed," said the man.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF ?*IORA. 1*27 
 
 " And must I tarry here in privation 
 and in sorrow?" mused Banner, waving 
 away the attendant — M must I purchase 
 favor by the martyrdom of my deadest 
 feelings? Banished from thee, Magda- 
 lene, banished from the home of my hopes, 
 must I atone for transgression in this 
 death - dooming penance? If drooping, 
 sickening, I should lose thee ; if — merci- 
 ful heaven!" and with a hurried step he 
 paced the chamber, his feelings all tu- 
 mult, his spirits sinking, and one painful 
 gloomy image weighing heavy on his 
 mind. 
 
 The day wore away, and the night, un- 
 like the preceding, passed not in sleep ; 
 restless and wretched, conjuring a thou- 
 sand wild projects, if for a moment he 
 sunk to forgetfulness, it was to dream of 
 ghosts and charnel-houses, of death and 
 ruin, to labour for respiration, and to 
 awaken in despair. 
 
 In the morning, unrefreshed and fever- 
 ed, he would fain have wooed the balmy
 
 V28 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 breath of heaven, but Rodomski signifi- 
 cantly referred him to the written man- 
 date of his father — 
 
 Jf you would that I should credit ought 
 of your assurances of contrition, confine 
 yourself within the turret. 
 
 That sentence was as gates of brass, 
 as a massive chain to liberty ; he sigh- 
 ed, but he submitted to his spy and his 
 jailer. 
 
 Another week was expunged from time, 
 and Banner remained the miserable in- 
 mate of the turret, numbering the lagging 
 hours, and pining for the moment of eman- 
 cipation. 
 
 " My lord wills not the sacrifice of 
 health," said Rodomski, noting the dim 
 eye and faded cheek of his captive. 
 
 " My father wills that I here tarry his 
 return," observed Banner, " and the pri- 
 vation of exercise and air is nought in 
 competition with his favor." 
 
 " At night," proposed Rodomski, " we 
 may descend unseen to the coast, and
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 129 
 
 walk whole hours beneath the shadow of 
 the rocks and the hills. 
 
 " Unseen" repeated Banner, in a voice, 
 and with a look of reprehension. " It is 
 for the vile and the worthless to cower in 
 darkness, the upright dares the broad 
 bright glare of day." 
 
 A lowering sneer, betwixt malignity 
 and irony, curled the lip of Rodomski, 
 something of exultation lurked in his 
 eye, but it was the flash of a moment. 
 
 " My lord wishes not the household to 
 guess the durance of his son," he rejoined. 
 
 " Enough," exclaimed Banner, " I know 
 the pleasure of my father, and this turret 
 becomes my boundary." 
 
 At the close of the longest week, that 
 suspense, anxiety, and watchfulness e'er 
 protracted, with a heart reviving to hope, 
 and a spirit rallying amid indignity and 
 privation, Banner looked for the return of 
 his father, his pulse quickening at every 
 sound, his eye kindling at every approach- 
 ing footstep. " Tie comes— he gives me 
 g 5
 
 130 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 liberty — he gives me Magdalene !" he 
 would articulate, and then would he 
 groan, and writhe beneath the fatal blank 
 of disappointment. 
 
 The night closed in storm and horror ; 
 heavy clouds scudded on the face of 
 day ; large drops of rain pattered on the 
 battlements, and the wind, keen and hol- 
 low, howled amid the pine-forests and 
 beetling steeps. He stood with his hands 
 clasped, and his eyes raised to the star- 
 less heavens. " Even Rodomski has for- 
 gotten me;" he sighed as he turned, and 
 beheld each corner of the turret involved 
 in shade : the last flicker of the wood- 
 fire blazed ; it flashed for a moment, then 
 sunk into utter darkness : — it was like the 
 last gasp of mortal strength, the pass of 
 man's struggling spirit to eternity — Ban- 
 ner drooped his head upon his breast, 
 and for the instant yielded even to wo- 
 man's weakness. 
 
 The splash of oars suddenly roused 
 him into being ; ashamed of his tears, ral-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 131 
 
 lying back his fortitude, he looked up : 
 a broad stream of light, shining through 
 one of the loopholes, fell askaunt the 
 chamber: he heard voices below as 
 though in deep debate, and distinctly did 
 he distinguish the harsh rough tones of 
 Rodomski : quick followed the grap- 
 plings of the moorings as the boat hove 
 to shore, and the next instant footsteps 
 sounded on the stone stairs winding up 
 the turret. With one bound he reached 
 the doorway, anxious to woo, to dare his 
 destiny — not a stern relentless judge, but 
 a yielding father rising to his " mind's 
 eye" — a father, forgiving and weeping 
 o'er a son s apostasy. 
 
 Trembling, almost gasping, he listened 
 to each fast approaching foot-fall ; a faint 
 stream of light illumined the passage ; a 
 gaunt figure broke on the distance — alas ! 
 it was not his father, neither was it the 
 conciliating herald of a father's mercy : 
 his spirits drooped, he shrunk back in 
 dismay, for the yellow rays of the torch
 
 132 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 burnished the sombre features of Ro- 
 domski. 
 
 " In this life all is shadow and uncer- 
 tainty, all vexation and wailing, 1 ' exclaim- 
 ed Rodomski, following into the turret. 
 
 " What mean you?" demanded the 
 heart-struck Banner. 
 i . " We are here one hour without surety 
 for the next," pursued the wily moralizer, 
 " inflated lil^e air-bubbles, and broken 
 by straws." 
 
 " Explain, I beseech you, explain," 
 and horrors wild and incongruous crowd- 
 ed on the brain of Banner. 
 
 " The purposes of man are overthrown, 
 and all his powers defeated," observed 
 Rodomski ; " he lays down his plans ; 
 he—." 
 
 " No more — I charge you, no more. 
 Tell me of my father? — tell me of the 
 blow in store?" 
 
 " My lord the count is overtaken with 
 grievous malady," faltered Rodomski, 
 his eyes shrinking beneath the searching
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 133 
 
 glance of Banner ; " detained in the isle 
 of Bornholm, he now lies in the monas- 
 tery of St. Salvador." 
 
 Banner staggered back ; the voice of 
 his father seemed to breathe reproaches 
 from the grave ; his life's blood curdled ; 
 death damps oozed from every pore ; 
 gasping, almost fainting, he clung to the 
 wall, and for a season the officious zeal 
 of Rodomski was essayed in vain : at 
 length reviving beneath the night blast, 
 he wrestled with his inward feelings, and 
 with that desperate effort which braves 
 the worst, questioned of particulars. 
 
 'Twas then the close spun thread of 
 deception lured him in the toil — Rodom- 
 ski, with well feigned hesitation, spoke 
 of a messenger from Bornholm, of the 
 count, on a mission of conscience, visit- 
 ing the friary of St. Salvador, of being 
 stricken by disease, and how, midst the 
 acute pangs of sufferance, calling on the 
 name of his son. 
 
 " I will go," said Banner, starting and
 
 134 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 approaching the door; " every moment's 
 delay reproaches me with ingratitude." 
 
 " Not till morning, my lord," urged 
 Rodomski. " The messenger is weary, 
 and the heavens rayless ; besides, the rain 
 drifts heavy, and danger lurks amid the 
 shoals." 
 
 " At daybreak, then," said Banner, 
 and the night was given to prayer and 
 tears. 
 
 Ere yet " the breezy bosom'd east" 
 was streaked with radiance, the count 
 deserted his care-steeped pillow : wist- 
 fully he tarried the appearance of Ro- 
 domski, and when he descended from the 
 turret, the densed vapours of night, roll- 
 ing in murky columns, clung to the high- 
 est uplands. The valley was clothed in 
 brightness, and the moss-encrusted walls 
 of his hereditary domain, beetling in wild 
 irregularity, frowned o'er the broad blue 
 waters of the lake ; rocks rose above 
 rocks, and hills, crowned with pyramids 
 of verdure, crowding on each other, in
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 135 
 
 form of an amphitheatre, exhibited on the 
 vault of heaven, a sublime and majestic 
 profile. 
 
 It is not for us to embody the mourn- 
 ful reminiscences of the count as this 
 home-scene lay stretched before him ; as 
 his eyes measured the cradle of his in- 
 fancy, the haunts of his youth ; as his 
 thoughts flew back to former hours, and 
 the blessed calm, divorced from listless- 
 ness and care, glowed fresh and new : anxi- 
 ously, eagerly, almost wildly, did he lin- 
 ger o'er each projecting cliff, o'er each 
 age-rooted tree, o'er each well remem- 
 bered feature of the landscape — scenes 
 and years of remoteness floating in thick 
 visions, his respiration quickening, his 
 long repressed emotion labouring for vent: 
 almost convulsed, he raised his elapsed 
 hands to heaven, then, with a shuddering 
 sigh, turned from the desolate and gloomy 
 recognition, and the next instant followed 
 Rodomski into the boat. 
 
 The moorings were quick ungrapplcd,
 
 136 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and the stranger, or messenger, from 
 Bornholm, aided by Rodomski, plying 
 the splashing paddles, she scudded swift- 
 ly from shore. Many a romantic glen, 
 and teeming valley, shone in morn's early 
 sunshine : bold and grotesque cliffs hung 
 pendent o'er the lake, clothed in verdure, 
 and contrasting its azure brightness ; ac- 
 clivity towering above acclivity, rearing 
 their black bare peaks to the skies, and 
 cowering in savage wild magnificence. 
 The count thought not of nature or of 
 nature's bulwarks — he thought alone of 
 his father, sick and suffering, within a 
 religious cell. With eager haste he sub- 
 mitted to the guidance of Rodomski, 
 quitting the boat, and journeying through 
 forests and wildernesses ; without a sus- 
 picion, and without a murmur, traversing 
 lone denies and deep ravines, the bed of 
 many a foaming cataract, fed by the 
 springs from the mountains. 
 
 Uncheered, unroused from his own ab- 
 sorptions, save by the casual observa-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 137 
 
 tions of Rodomski, for the messenger 
 from Bornholm, silent and gloomy, spoke 
 of nought beyond the distance and the 
 intricacy of the track, they crossed an 
 acute angle of Zealand, and taking ship 
 at Elsinore, borne on the feathered surf 
 of the Baltic, soon anchored in the har- 
 bour of Ronne. 
 
 Bold and shaggy, like huddled masses 
 of huge and shapeless stones, the isle of 
 Bornholm rose midst the lingering tints 
 of radiance : long ranges of romantic per- 
 pendicular acclivities, stretching them- 
 selves on either side, their conic pin- 
 nacles mingling with the clouds, their 
 dark stupendous steeps clothed with the 
 growth of ages ; lichen and minium, bright 
 as verdant bronze, covering the rocks, 
 and close mantling the stunted trunks of 
 many a tree, which time had sapped and 
 humbled. 
 
 Anxious, by his zeal and tenderness, 
 to steal the favor of his father, Banner 
 negatived every proposal to tarry the
 
 138 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 night at Rcrme ; and though the orb of 
 day trembled on his transit, conducted 
 by his sullen guide, he dared the rocky 
 wilds bosoming the monastery. Soon 
 losing sight of the busy haunts of men, 
 the travellers plunged into glens and 
 tangled breaks, where murky and dark, 
 
 " The hoary waste, 
 Abrupt, aud deep, 
 Awakes to solemn thought j" 
 
 for though the light, in flickering tints of 
 gold and purple, lingered on the moun- 
 tain summits, the valleys were involved 
 in shade. Perched like an eagle's nest 
 upon a giant pinnacle of flinty rock, the 
 walls of St. Salvador bulged o'er the bed 
 of the Baltic : so wild, so lone, so sub- 
 limely picturesque, so wrapped in the 
 misty ether of awful grandeur, that its 
 belfry, its coigns, and its towers, nod- 
 ding o'er the feathery wave, seemed to 
 sleep twice-told upon its bosom : not a 
 tree dotted the surface; not a shrub 
 checkered the outline; sterile and barren,
 
 T ]g£ FESTIVAL OF MORA. 139 
 
 ' it seemed as a spot cut off from hitman 
 intercourse, devoted to the worship of 
 God, through the mortification of the 
 senses. 
 
 Toiling up the steep and almost per- 
 pendicular ascent, the heavy gate un- 
 closed to the claim of admittance, and 
 the count, quickly ushered amid 
 
 " Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves," 
 
 anxiously questioned of his father. 
 
 The porter cast on him a glance of re- 
 pellant apathy ; all the better feelings of 
 man seemed dead within him ; he could 
 not, or he would not, allay the torture of 
 solicitude, and simply directing to the 
 parlour, he announced the monks as be- 
 ing engaged in the vesper service. 
 
 A long, long hour passed in silence and 
 in gloom: impatience, almost amounting 
 to torture, irritating the worn spirit of 
 Banner, and conjuring death and the an- 
 nihilation of every hope: even Magda- 
 lene was forgotten in the fearful conflict : 
 a father's dying curse lay like a mound of
 
 140 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 lead upon his heart ; and when the abbot 
 stood before him, he sprung to his side, 
 without the power to mould a single in- 
 quiry. 
 
 44 This agitation savours too much of 
 passion," said the monk, in accents of 
 reproof; " all of flesh, my son, should be 
 doffed at the foot of our rock." 
 
 44 Affection, holy father, baffles the cold 
 policy of forms and seasons," faltered 
 Banner; " affection " 
 
 44 Affection for clay, for mere dirt and 
 ashes, augurs a lingering rivet to the sha- 
 dow of terrestrial nothings," interrupted 
 the man of God; 44 reflection and religion 
 must purge the mind from such idolatry, 
 ere grace spring in the heart." 
 
 44 This is a fearful prelude," articulated 
 the count, struggling with his feelings — 
 4C I pray you, tell me of my father, and 
 give the future to exordium and menace ?" 
 
 44 The future is wrapped in shade," said 
 the abbot sternly; 44 the present is scarce 
 our own."
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 141 
 
 " Then aid me in the call of duty," im- 
 plored Banner; " suffer me, alive, or 
 dead, to visit the couch of my father." 
 
 " Dead, heaven forefend ! he parted 
 hence in strength and vigour." 
 " My father," exclaimed Banner. 
 " Why look so strange and doubtful?" 
 questioned the monk. " The count your 
 father, lives to labour for his honour's 
 health, to rescue his noble blood from 
 outrage." 
 
 Banner started — he awoke as one from 
 a strange wild vision of the night — and 
 though his lips uttered no sound, he rivet- 
 ed his eyes, full of reproach and meaning, 
 upon the unvarying and statue-like fea- 
 tures of the superior of the monastery of 
 St. Salvador : a dreadful truth, a terrify- 
 ing consciousness flashed upon his brain; 
 inveigled, ravished from hope and bliss, 
 his father had indeed adjudged a sum- 
 mary vengeance. 
 
 " You stand accused of wilful disobe- 
 dience, of persevering rebellion to a fa-
 
 142 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 ther s will," exclaimed the abbot ; " and 
 committed to our safeguard and correc- 
 tion, we must labour to infuse a better 
 spirit. And now to rest, my son, and 
 peace and purer thoughts be with you !" 
 With a heart struggling, with every feel- 
 ing rent, with a mind torn and wild as 
 the death-dooming tempest, the wretched 
 husband of the tender Magdalene, be- 
 came the tenant of a cold bleak cell, 
 lighted by one solitary casement, and 
 washed by the waves of the Baltic. The 
 long night through did he muse almost to 
 madness; now melting into tears, now 
 pacing his narrow boundary; now ac- 
 cusing his father of injustice, himself of 
 credulity ; now climbing to the casement, 
 and gazing on the commingling sea and 
 heavens. It was an epoch in his destiny, 
 clrear, blank, and spiritless : day rose 
 upon day, week rolled upon week, yet 
 no change, neither vestige of change, 
 fanned the fast dying embers of hope ; Jiis 
 life was foredoomed to misery; the hand
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. I43 
 
 of a father aimed the death-stroke, and 
 his youth was set in clouds. 
 
 In vain he appealed to the frozen heart 
 of his rigid jailer ; he had warred against 
 control, and as such he had left no clause 
 for grace: subordination was the letter 
 and spirit of monachal rule, how then 
 could the renegade to authority be upheld 
 or sanctioned ? 
 
 In vain he urged, in vain he strove to 
 melt the inward man ; his tears and his 
 wild prayers, his threats and his adjura- 
 tions, were alike unheeded ; as well might 
 he have argued with the winds, or essayed 
 to move the flinty base of his prison. 
 Once, and only once, had he heard from 
 his father : the treacherous Rodomski 
 was the bearer of the dispatch, and liberty 
 was offered on the sole condition of im- 
 mediately espousing his cousin, the lady 
 Christina. 
 
 He turned an eye of flame on the mes- 
 senger, and with a mind stanch in ho- 
 nor, with feelings unwavering, returned
 
 144 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 a written acknowledgment of his mar- 
 riage. 
 
 In silence and suspense, bereaved of 
 every consolation, cast on the torture of 
 the mind, months passed away in a pe- 
 nance almost too keen for reason : — he 
 pictured the doubts, the anguish, the de- 
 spair of Magdalene : sometimes, midst 
 the hollow murmur of the blast, he would 
 start erect upon his wretched pallet — he 
 would apostrophize her spirit, as though 
 she flitted on the wind, as though she 
 rode on the tempest — then sinking back, 
 he would dissolve into tears, or writhe in 
 the temporary wildness of frenzy. 
 
 One night, as he lay in perturbed slum- 
 ber, he beheld Magdalene floating on the 
 billow, her cheek pillowed by the wave, 
 her hand grasping the emblem of eternity ; 
 a halo of glory shone around her, and 
 her dress was as the silver tissue of the 
 moonbeams. Her eyes were fixed upon 
 him, and she smiled as she beckoned 
 him from the casement. Hope gave him
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 145 
 
 wings — love fanned him to exertion — the 
 grated bars yielded to his pressure — he 
 snatched at a rainbow ray — it sustained 
 him for a moment, then snapped, and in 
 his headlong fall, in his nervous start, the 
 airy dream of fancy vanished — he saw 
 himself in the same cell — he heard the 
 same mournful lash of the waves breaking 
 among the distant shallows. The moon 
 rose in clouds, and in a sickly ray shone 
 full upon the casement. 
 
 Was it the ray which beckoned him to 
 freedom ? The thought was electricity — 
 he sprung from his bed — he dropped on 
 his knees — he prayed for grace and par- 
 don — then, with one bound, mounted to 
 the casement, and shook with giant grasp 
 the iron stancheon. 
 
 It yielded — he heard it vibrate on the 
 rock, and fall into the flood. For a mo- 
 ment he paused irresolute; he saw the 
 hardihood of the design; perhaps death 
 in the leap — perhaps liberty and Magda- 
 lene. The distance was precipitous; the 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 moon shone on the bulging rock, and a 
 few scattered tufts of briars and aqueous 
 plants offered a precarious footing. A 
 silver sheet danced on the eddying wave; 
 no blast scattered the feathery surf, no 
 sound arose to scare or to intimidate : the 
 fathers of St. Salvador, close wrapped in 
 the bonds of sleep, were recruiting strength 
 for new penances and new inflictions. 
 
 " For liberty !" he ejaculated — " for all 
 that man holds dear! wife — child — " A 
 tremulous emotion ran through his whole 
 frame — God of mercy! sustain me — sup- 
 port me ! Magdalene, this — this for thee !" 
 and forcing himself through the casement, 
 he stood tottering on a ridge of granite, 
 clinging with one hand to a patch of stunt- 
 ed bushes, and measuring with anxious 
 eyes the next venturous leap. 
 
 Perilous, almost death-fraught, was the 
 enterprise; now clinging to jutting points 
 of the cliff; now, with terrifying agility, 
 springing on the crags below, alighting on 
 kdges, green and slippery with the foam
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 147 
 
 of the ocean, and braving passes known 
 but to the curlew's flight. 
 
 The flood gathered below deep and 
 threatening, foaming an impenetrable bar- 
 rier save to the plunge of desperation — 
 Banner paused but for breath — he marked 
 the shore round the sharp angle of the 
 rock, and springing from his temporary 
 footing, breasted the wave, and gained 
 the base of St. Salvador. 
 
 Wet, dripping, exhausted, he cast a 
 glance of exultation on the dark and 
 frowning towers, then, humbled in grati- 
 tude, beneath its lengthened shadow, he 
 cast himself upon the earth, and in pious 
 praise, poured out the fullness of his soul. 
 
 Gaining fresh energy in this fervent ho- 
 mage, he arose to vigour and exertion : 
 safety reigned not within the precincts of 
 the monastery, scarce in Bornholm ; and 
 with a mind thrown on its own resources, 
 with a spirit re-strung with hope quicken- 
 ing every pulse in his worn and harassed 
 frame, he proceeded hastily along the peb- 
 h2
 
 J 48 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 bled beach, lighted by partial glimpses 
 of moonshine, and sheltered by huge and 
 beetling cliffs ; starting and shrinking at 
 every coming sound, smiling at his own 
 terrors, conjuring pursuit ere yet escape 
 had been discovered, labouring for free- 
 dom, picturing love and bliss as a bright 
 haven from the storms of fate : and ere 
 " morning trembled with the beam of the 
 east," borne in the light bark of an indus- 
 trious fisherman, he beheld the flinty base 
 of Bornholm, its rocks, and its bulwarks, 
 receding; — he scudded swiftly across the 
 narrow arm of the Baltic, and landed on 
 the opposite shores of Sweden. 
 
 Vain would be the effort to paint the 
 rapid changes of an ardent fancy, the 
 hopes and fears which alternately buoyed 
 and depressed the warm heart of Banner, 
 in his long and toilsome progress into Da- 
 lecarlia ! Months of silence and suffering 
 had passed, since, rich in expectation, he 
 had quitted his little eden, in the full con- 
 viction of a speedy return : what changes
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 149 
 
 might have occurred— -what events might 
 have transpired? Yet nought of woe would 
 he suffer his mind to embody ; it was re- 
 ward after misery, it was bliss after endu- 
 rance — Magdalene, fostering her infant, 
 weeping his absence, confident in his af- 
 fection, praying for his safety — Magdalene, 
 wondering, shuddering at his delay, with- 
 out once impeaching his heart or his faith. 
 
 Fairy-beams flitted in every fancy, 
 bright as the iris-arch in an April sky : 
 the first moment of enthralment — the 
 weeping, the soul-thrilling image of sym- 
 pathy and beauty — the smile, the look of 
 Magdalene — and then her love, her tender- 
 ness, subduing even the rigid scruples in- 
 fused by de Stiernhelm — her half reluc- 
 tant, half yielding acquiescence — her 
 stolen marriage. 
 
 Holy God! how did that short-lived 
 communion, that pure, that sweet, that 
 blessed foretaste of heaven, glow on ima- 
 gination, associating scenes and circum- 
 stances, fanciful and unearthly, sportive 
 and versatile, as the etherial flash of sum-
 
 150 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 mer lightning ! Such alas ! is man, the 
 slave of his own wishes, the victim of his 
 own feelings ! 
 
 Roused almost to the dizzy height of 
 assured felicity, although the brightness 
 of day vanished, and the gathering shades 
 of night fast thickened into gloom, Ban- 
 ner, hailing some well remembered scenes, 
 some deep impressed images, resolved to 
 visit the nearer curacy of Saverdsio, and 
 submitting to the prudent guidance of de 
 Stiernhelm to break his safe return to 
 Magdalene. Removed from Oernetz, she 
 might be there to sweeten freedom, to 
 chase the blank of past oppression, to 
 lure him back to joy. The mere thought, 
 the simple possibility, plumed the wings 
 of exertion: again Magdalene, sweet as 
 in his vision at Bornholm, beckoning him 
 onwards ; her voice sounding in the breeze, 
 her first bright look of mercy, glowing o'er 
 every shelving steep, o'er every venturous 
 footing. 
 
 A dense cloud, long scowling o'er the 
 landscape, dispersed in fleecy vapour, as
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 151 
 
 he descended into the valley ; and the 
 moon, riding in splendor, piercing the 
 darkened canopy, spread a silver sheet 
 o'er the little church of Saverdsio. 
 
 Tremulous with emotion, the very 
 throbbings of his heart audible, in the still- 
 ness of night, Banner leaped the paling. 
 
 The burial-ground was a nearer track 
 to the curacy; and as he hurried along 
 the consecrated path, every mound speak- 
 ing the dust of the departed, in glancing 
 o'er the spot inhuming the parents of Mag- 
 dalene, his eyes fell upon a new erected 
 stone, dazzling in parian whiteness. 
 
 A shudder, cold and death-like, pierced 
 from his limbs to his heart — and yet he 
 dared the blast of annihilation — he sprung 
 to the turf-clad sanctuary of mortality- 
 he read : 
 
 " Magdalene, 
 
 The wife of 
 
 Eric Banner. 
 
 A mother! 
 Unconscious of a mother's name, 
 Escaped the storms of earth, she seeks 
 ltcpose in heaven !"
 
 152 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Death ! Death ! Death ! Hope's blight ! Love's grave ! 
 
 Such is life ! 
 Dizzy to-day on Fortune's whirling wheel : 
 To-morrow at its base. 
 
 JL HE dews fell thick and murky ere 
 Banner raised his stricken head from the 
 grave of Magdalene, ere conviction, flash- 
 ing on his bewildered senses, confirmed 
 the reality of his loss. Not a tear cooled 
 his burning brain, not a sigh burst from 
 his labouring heart : cut off from hope 
 and blessedness, a strange revulsion 
 numbed all his feelings; he cast a de- 
 spairing glance on heaven, and spent, 
 exhausted, care-worn, again stretched 
 himself on the narrow mound. 
 
 The moon sunk amid clouds and sha-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 153 
 
 dows ; the earth was wrapped in gloom ; 
 a chilling wind arose, and sighed among 
 the palm-trees ; but all alike was unheed- 
 ed : hour after hour wore away ; he felt 
 not the damp — he heard not the night- 
 breeze. 
 
 A voice, low and agitated, a hand, tre- 
 mulous and cold, roused him from the 
 stupor of grief — he raised his heavy eyes : 
 — it was the heart- *vrung de Stiernhelm, 
 come with the first gleam of morning, to 
 weep o'er the buried dust of a darling 
 sister. 
 
 The glance, the recognition, the place, 
 the hour, banished all of self-command : 
 the curate burst into a passion of tears, 
 nor until he beheld the bereaved widower, 
 stretched lifeless at his feet, did he rally 
 back exertion. 
 
 Days wore away ere Banner regain- 
 ed the powers of his mind, ere, with- 
 out the start of madness, he could 
 meet the brother of Magdalene : all of 
 this world's hope lay buried with her 
 H 5
 
 154 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 he loved ; and not even the infant Xa- 
 vier, the dear price of a mother's ex- 
 istence, baptized in tears, and reared in 
 sorrow, was beheld without bursts of 
 anguish. Sometimes he would fondle 
 him — he would hang over him with ach- 
 ing transport, with pangs too keen to hold 
 with reason ; then would he shut himself 
 away from every living being, praying for 
 death, and yielding to distraction, refu- 
 sing all of consolation, and invoking the 
 freed spirit of her so prized and lost. 
 
 In vain de Stiernhelm smothered his 
 own griefs — in vain he preached of resig- 
 nation, of pious faith, of christain hope — 
 m vain he strove to lure the bleeding spi- 
 rit to eternity, to bind the bruised reed, 
 and temporize the wild and graceless pa- 
 roxysms of despair: passion, rebellious 
 and stormy, spurned at the bitter chas- 
 tening, and long did his efforts encounter 
 nought save the irritability of impatience. 
 
 Unschooled in adversity, Banner writh- 
 ed beneath this death-blow to his hopes;
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 155 
 
 he felt himself marked out by misfortune, 
 weighed down by calamity; alone, be- 
 reaved, the victim alike of man and fate, 
 he forgot in the immediate pressure of his 
 own ills, 
 
 How many drink the cup 
 Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 
 Of misery 
 
 he forgot all save her whose presence was 
 the illumining sun of his felicity ; her who 
 now slept in the " dark and narrow house ;" 
 ¥/ho never more could " come forth in 
 her beauty ;" never more could " move 
 in the steps of her loveliness." 
 
 The good curate listened to the recital 
 of his imprisonment, his wrongs, and his 
 endurance, with a sensation, an ebullition 
 of feeling, warring against the sworn for- 
 bearance and quietude of the priesthood ; 
 his reason, his honour, and his humanity, 
 condemned the venal interference of the 
 abbot of St. Salvador, evidently bribed 
 by wealth and power to act a tyrannous 
 and dastard part : but not once did he
 
 156 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 suffer his lips to betray the conviction of 
 his soul ; and although conscious that the 
 life of his hapless sister was sacrificed 
 through a barbarous policy, he remem- 
 bered the sacred obligations existing be- 
 tween son and father, and he strove ra- 
 ther to sooth than to irritate. He lin- 
 gered not over the heart-rending grief of 
 Magdalene in the absence and silence of 
 him she loved — the gradual progress of 
 suspense, tearing, torturing her tender 
 frame — her tears and her lamentations ; 
 her heavy struggles for patience; her 
 prayers for submission to the Divine will ; 
 her nights of tears, her days of wailing ; 
 her almost superhuman efforts to subdue 
 the storm within, to conquer all of earth, 
 and fit her spirit for eternity. 
 
 " She laboured with no common zeal," 
 sighed de Stiernhelm, " and she attained 
 what she coveted, fortitude, patience, and 
 resignation; she looked to a world be- 
 yond the skies ; she built her faith upon 
 the rock which passeth not away."
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 157 
 
 Banner sat with his face buried in his 
 hands — he spoke not, but the fast flow- 
 ing tears, trickling through his fingers, 
 betrayed the excess of his emotion. 
 
 " There are circumstances to aggra- 
 vate, and remembrances to soften the 
 loss of those who have been," pursued 
 the curate — " Magdalene died in youth, 
 but she died in innocence ; she died at 
 peace with all the world, forgiveness, and 
 charity, and blessings, warm upon her 
 lips." 
 
 " At Oernetz," sobbed Banner. 
 
 " No, here, in the home of her infancy, 
 in the chamber endeared by your remem- 
 brance. At her own desire, we brought 
 her to Saverdsio, long before the hour of 
 her travail — Ingleburge supported her to 
 the last — She lived to bless her boy — to 
 — to — Her spirit fled in a sigh, without a 
 struggle, without a groan; — she looked as 
 though in sleep, sweetly smiling, calm and 
 serene as the pictured host of heaven !" 
 
 Banner started from his seat— -he
 
 158 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 grasped the arm of the curate — he looked 
 wistfully in his face — "You saw her die," 
 he said — " you saw her pure soul wing 
 to the realms of blessedness." 
 
 " 1 closed her eyes," solemnly pro- 
 nounced de Stiernhelm : " the office I 
 had fondly hoped she would have per- 
 formed for me." 
 
 Mournful and deep was the pause ; 
 gasping down a sob, " Magdalene is laid 
 in ' the place of our appointed rest' be- 
 fore me," he continued. " Heaven is all- 
 sufficient, and man, blind and weak, in 
 the boasted strength of his wisdom." 
 
 " Did she leave no remembrance for 
 me ?" questioned the afflicted widower — 
 " did she doom me to this vale of tears, 
 without one token of lingering love ?" 
 
 " She thought to hail you in the starry 
 sky," replied the curate ; "for her un- 
 shaken confidence in your faith confirm- 
 ed the melancholy conviction of your 
 death. She consigned her imagined or- 
 phan to Ingleburge in infancy — to myself
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 159 
 
 in youth. She called him Xavier, be- 
 cause it was the name of your father: she 
 hoped in years to come, he might snatch 
 the withheld blessing, and rescue a mo- 
 ther's name from obloquy and reproach." 
 
 11 And it shall be rescued — that blessed 
 name shall be rescued," exclaimed Ban- 
 ner, yielding to the native impetuosity of 
 his feelings ; " pure and chaste, its excel- 
 lence, and its innocence, shall be pro- 
 claimed, before men, and before angels. 
 But proceed ; tell me my Magdalene's last 
 wish, her slightest desire, and by my soul's 
 hope of re-union, scrupulously shall all 
 be fulfilled." 
 
 " Her latest wish lingered with her child," 
 resumed de Stiernhelm : " nature rallied 
 at his feeble cry : she saw him pillowed 
 on the bosom of Ingleburge, and fain 
 would she have lived for his helplessness. 
 " Love him as a part of Magdalene," she 
 faltered ; and then she turned to me — 
 " Bury him in these mountains — direct 
 him in the right path, my brother — teach
 
 160 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 him to honor his father's memory, to re- 
 verence his grandsire's name — yet hide 
 him from the world ; in this happy home, 
 in this virtuous sanctuary; nor suffer pride, 
 or vain ambition, too soon to lure him 
 from your counsels." 
 
 " Her wish — her dying wish," murmur- 
 ed Banner. 
 
 "It lingered in her eye long after the 
 powers of speech were fled," solemnly 
 pursued the curate : " and when, on my 
 knees, I bound myself to fulfil the trust ; 
 when I took the unconscious cherub, and 
 sealed my vow upon his forehead, a smile, 
 a halo of brightness, shone around her 
 features. — She never lost it — she wore it 
 in her coffin — it descended with her into 
 the earth " 
 
 " And if in heaven the freed spirit be 
 sensible of ought below," fervently pro- 
 nounced Banner — " in heaven, my Mag- 
 dalene, be the smile perpetuated, the halo 
 unclouded ! A father ratifies the gift — a 
 father consigns the precious relic, to the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 1(51 
 
 honoured guide, tby experience and thy 
 heart selected." 
 
 It was a moment of all-conquering feel- 
 ing, of all-subduing nature; tears and 
 sobs alone spoke the communion, as with 
 one impulse they fell into each other's 
 arms. 
 
 Under the maternal eye of his aunt, the 
 infancy of Xavier passed in health and 
 sportiveness : and whilst Banner, restored 
 through the death of the innocent cause 
 of discord, to the honours of his heritage, 
 and the favor of his parent, sojourned in 
 Denmark — without care, and without sor- 
 row, cradled in the lap of indulgence, 
 his little son basked in the early sunshine 
 of happiness and ease. Unlike his absent 
 father, remembrance of the past held no 
 draft upon the enjoyment of the present; 
 for though the mourning widower of Mag- 
 dalene, mingled in the tumults and stress 
 of the world, amid courts and politics, 
 grandeur and heart-chilling state, often 
 did her bright form float on his day-
 
 162 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 dreams — often did his thoughts " return 
 to the lonely sunbeam of his love." 
 
 Xavier, intent on his studies, and spur- 
 red by the emulating fire of affection and 
 reverence for his venerable instructor, at 
 Saverdsio, was passing through the neces- 
 sary gradations of early initiation, when 
 the halcyon calm of peace vanished, and 
 Sweden, in the death of Suanto Sturius, 
 was again torn by parties and factions ; 
 when the convention of the Estates at 
 Abroga, summoned to elect a new ad- 
 ministrator, scattered anew the seeds of 
 dissatisfaction, jealousy, and national dis- 
 gust. 
 
 Again, instigated by self-interest, the 
 claims of the king of Denmark, founded 
 on the union of Calmar, was strongly 
 urged by the designing heads of the 
 church, and opposed as warmly, by the 
 nobility, the deputies of the provinces, the 
 lay-senators, and consuls of Stockholm. 
 
 The fire of party ran to a height threat- 
 ening universal anarchy ; but such was
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 163 
 
 the mortal aversion of the Swedes to the 
 encroaching subtility of Danish interest, 
 that zeal and vigour, counteracting every 
 opposition, the plurality of voices invested 
 prince Steno, the youthful son of Suanto 
 Sturius, in all the dignity of supreme 
 power. 
 
 But though the raging storm was con- 
 lined within narrow limits, far and wide 
 around the vortex, the agitated waves long 
 feel the influence of the counter-currents ; 
 and even Dalecarlia, the farthest extre- 
 mity of Sweden, imbibed the spirit of 
 contending party: rumours gathered in 
 quick succession; and the truth-murder- 
 ing snowball of report, extended its mil- 
 dew even to the calm retirement of the 
 curacy. 
 
 De Stiernhelm beheld with dread the 
 close of an era of peace ; he mourned for 
 humanity, in the death of Suanto Sturius; 
 for his reason and experience told him, 
 the factions of power must ever involve 
 the safety and the happiness of a commit
 
 164 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 nity. The turbulent and impolitic spirit 
 of the church dignitaries still leant to the 
 influence of Denmark, and a state, torn 
 by contending interests, subject to the 
 volcanic bursts of party, promised but 
 little of prosperity. The new administra- 
 tor too lacked the sapience of experience; 
 he was young, ardent, dazzled with com- 
 mand, hurried away by impulse, brave 
 even to rashness, spurning the check-rein 
 of counsel, and sanguine in all his own 
 strength : — how could a head so weak 
 counteract the machiavelian plottings of 
 confederacy? — how combat the arch de- 
 signs of malignity and skill? The curate 
 shuddered at his own conclusions ; he saw 
 the blood-red imagery of war fast gather- 
 ing over the fortunes of his country, and 
 Sweden once more the theatre of devasta- 
 tion and horror. 
 
 Soon followed the death of John the 
 second, king of Denmark ; and ere yet 
 the long truce existing between the two 
 kingdoms expired, the investment of his
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 165 
 
 son, Christiern the second, in all the dig- 
 nity of his regal state. 
 
 Xavier joined in the groan of his pas- 
 tor-uncle, in hearing the advancement of 
 Trolle to the archbishoprick of Upsal ; 
 the descendant of a family ever studious 
 to promote the interest of Denmark. 
 Nought but the delusions of extreme 
 youth could have ventured a consent so 
 hazardous ; but the administrator, proud 
 in his own conceit, and elated with pros- 
 perity, had remained deaf to all the warn- 
 ings of prudence ; and receiving the pal- 
 lium from pope Leo the tenth, Trolle 
 was consecrated at Rome. The heart, 
 by nature hard, is not to be won by gen- 
 tleness : like unto shadows, scudding 
 over the margin of a lake, kindness lives 
 not beyond the instant. The ingratitude 
 of the archbishop betrayed itself almost 
 in the moment of elevation : wedded to 
 the interest of Denmark, murmurs and 
 dissatisfaction soon broke into open re- 
 bellion : he opened a treaty with king
 
 166 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Christiern, headed his suffragans, armed 
 all his vassals, and fortified his strong 
 holds. 
 
 But who, acquainted with the history 
 of Sweden, knows not the gradations 
 which led to her debasement ? The rash 
 intemperance of the unfortunate Steno — 
 the treachery of her primate — the defal- 
 cation of her clergy — the cruel, the blood- 
 thirsty strides of the depopulating Chris- 
 tiern — the struggles for supremacy, and 
 the universal groan of freedom ! 
 
 During these fatal storms, tearing, rend- 
 ing her vitals, Xavier, between Saverdsio 
 and Oernetz, beneath the mild and tem- 
 pered judgment of de Stiernhelm, and 
 the harsh and headlong prejudices of 
 Ingleburge, imbibed a patriotic feeling, a 
 love for the dearer interests of his coun- 
 try, which wedded him to all her grie- 
 vances and all her wrongs. He saw, in 
 the coveted usurpation of Denmark, in 
 the mad grasp for domination, a total 
 overthrow of prosperiiy, a bold, an un-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 167 
 
 licensed, a cruel stretch of power, tramp- 
 ling upon law and justice ; a relentless 
 thirst of conquest, annihilating all the 
 better principles of man ; for human 
 energy ever droops beneath the growth of 
 tyranny, and all the noble impulses of na- 
 ture expire upon the blazing pile of ar- 
 bitrary rule. 
 
 The passions of Peterson were confin- 
 ed to his own interest ; he moved in the 
 world's most common track : — self was 
 the predominant principle within him ; 
 and often would he smile at the warmth of 
 what he styled prejudices, dictating the 
 hopes, and colouring the fears of Ingle- 
 burge. Secure in his own possessions, 
 he floated down the stream of custom, 
 content, in the common acceptation of 
 the world, to curry favor by submission, 
 to bow in adoration to the rising sun. 
 
 But whilst Xavier, bursting into life 
 and vigor, was thus, mentally, wedding 
 his interests, and anchoring his wishes 
 on the country of his mother ; whilst bo-
 
 168 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 soming an instinctive hatred of oppres- 
 sion, he heard of the wily interference of 
 Christiern in the deadly feuds of Trolle — 
 his father had become the husband of his 
 cousin, the lady Christina ; and his grand- 
 father, the rentless persecutor of the hap- 
 less Magdalene, had paid the great debt 
 entailed upon all who breathe. 
 
 " May heaven forgive him!" piously 
 pronounced de Stiernhelm, his eyes in- 
 voluntarily wandering from the open 
 casement, and seeking that quarter of the 
 church-yard in which reposed the sacred 
 dust of his once blooming happy sister — 
 " May heaven accept the atonement of a 
 late repentance ! for without repentance, 
 that man could not die." 
 
 " Amen !" ejaculated Xavier, and every 
 spark of intuitive rancour, of cold anti- 
 pathy, imbibed in the oft-wept story, 
 and on the humble grave of his injured 
 mother, faded from his heart and from 
 his thoughts : in the true letter of for- 
 giveness, he joined in the voluntary
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 169 
 
 masses for the repose of the soul of the 
 departed — masses offered up in the little 
 church of Saverdsio, and lasting testa- 
 ments of the meek humility and christian 
 spirit of its self-sacrificing curate. 
 
 " He forgives — he prays for the being 
 who aimed the death-blow," mused Xa- 
 vier, gazing on the illumined eye upraised 
 in worship and in holiness — " In his own 
 example, he heaps up fire, on the relent- 
 less, and the hard of heart. Blessed Vir- 
 gin! grant me grace to tread in the like 
 footing — cleanse me from the impurities 
 of malevolence and biting malice, that 
 humbly shadowing his brighter virtues, 
 upheld in the race which is set before me, 
 we may " meet to be partakers of the in- 
 heritance of the saints in light !" 
 
 But once had Banner visited Dale- 
 carlia since the astounding consciousness 
 of his widowhood, — since the fatal hour 
 when buoyant hope expired on the grave 
 of Magdalene; and that once was rather 
 the penance of duty, than the freewill of- 
 
 VOL. I. i
 
 170 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 feriug of the mind. He pined to behold 
 the tender pledge she had left behind, to 
 weep over the precious price of a mo- 
 ther's existence : in youth he could not 
 summons his little son to Denmark, be- 
 cause the dying wish of his sainted wife 
 had consigned him to the guardianship 
 of her brother — and how oppose the wish 
 of the angel he so justly deplored. 
 
 Stung, tortured with the festering thorn 
 of memory, he visited Saverdsio, although 
 the very name roused up the ghost of 
 buried happiness ; he traced the cherub- 
 smile of the lost Magdalene, playing, ho- 
 vering o'er the health-dappled counte- 
 nance of Xavier, then scarcely seven years 
 of age ; and tearing himself away, leaving 
 the trace of his remembrance, living, glow- 
 ing like a bright vision on the fast- ex- 
 panding faculties of his honor's heir, he 
 returned to Denmark — he mingled in the 
 parade and bustle of a court: and though 
 he soon attained the habitual smile of 
 courtesy, though wedded to the heiress
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 171 
 
 of splendor and of rank, though great 
 among the sons of men, and happy, 
 because prosperous, in the eyes of the 
 unthinking multitude — often, pressing a 
 sleepless pillow, would he recall " the 
 days of other years," and sigh at the rain- 
 bow-ray of felicity, which alas! had dawn- 
 ed but to cozen. 
 
 A stranger to the glittering gyves of 
 courtly thraldom, to the imperious tie 
 which shackles the dependants of princes, 
 Xavier often wondered and deplored his 
 father's seeming desertion; often wept the 
 fearful blank of absence and of silence. 
 Treasuring the dream of a moment, he 
 would recall his form, his features, his 
 words, his air, his very dress, with sacred 
 and filial reverence : it was not ambition 
 which spurred him to the wish of a nearer 
 and dearer intercourse ; it was nature — 
 nature, which told him, he had a father, 
 worthy of homage and of love. Some- 
 times, the spirit of dissatisfaction would 
 prevail, and even the accusation of on- 
 i 2
 
 172 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 kindness pass his lips: but ever would the 
 good curate silence the rising murmur, 
 impressing the bounden duty of submis- 
 sion to authority, and descanting on the 
 necessity of its early and conscientious 
 practice. 
 
 " The count, your father, acts upon 
 principles which at this distance we can- 
 not judge," he would argue; " doubtless, 
 wisdom and prudence are both on his 
 side. Live ever with the fear of God be- 
 fore your eyes, and tarry his forthcoming 
 pleasure." 
 
 But all of individual feeling became ab- 
 sorbed in the more pressing and giant 
 strides of public danger: the storm, long 
 gathering, burst, and the Danish capture 
 of a Swedish vessel, laden with arms, at 
 the mouth of the Trave, was the signal of 
 a disastrous and bloody war. With fire 
 and sword, king Christiern invaded Swe- 
 den: Stockholm was besieged, and the 
 whole kingdom became the scene of war- 
 fare and desolation. Quick followed the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 173 
 
 eventful battle near Bogesund — the fall 
 of the administrator — the total discomfi- 
 ture of the Swedish forces — and the ge- 
 neral and entire reduction of the king- 
 dom. A triumphant army scovvered the 
 provinces, and those who refused sub- 
 mission to the Danish yoke, were wan- 
 tonly murdered, or dispersed, without a 
 home, and without a resting-place. One 
 general groan, one universal horror, para- 
 lyzed the land: the dove of peace fled, 
 but she returned not the third day with 
 the heart-binding symbol of the olive- 
 branch ; alas ! no — the chain of slavery 
 was forged, spirit and power sunk aghast, 
 and all of opposition, all of rallying hos- 
 tility, expired beneath the scathing flame 
 of persecution. 
 
 It was nearly the commencement of the 
 first winter, subsequent to the death of the 
 royal Steno, when the earth was glazed as 
 a mirror, and the trees, encrusted witli 
 hoar-frost, sparkled like diamonds in the 
 rays of the sun, that Xavier, with bis gun
 
 174 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 in his hand, hurried away by the ardour 
 of the chase, wandered far beyond his 
 usual haunts, amid the rocks and forests 
 of his native mountains. 
 
 As he stood for a moment, glowing in 
 rude health, and musing on the path to 
 pursue, gazing on the wild crags and steeps 
 around him, and worshipping the invisible 
 Creator in the stupendous grandeur of the 
 creation, a deep and anguished groan, 
 extorted by mental struggles rather than 
 bodily pain, attracted his attention, to- 
 wards a kind of excavation, or low cavern, 
 tunnelling the base of the point upon 
 which he stood. 
 
 Impulse, the master-spring of benefi- 
 cence and integrity, led with an out- 
 stretched hand and a pitying heart to suc- 
 cour and assure ; but a low murmuring 
 checked him on the instant, and distinctly 
 he heard — " Charity — charity! Oh God 
 preserve my senses. In the lair of the 
 wolf, in the nest of the vulture, rather thau 
 with man."
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 175 
 
 With one bound, Xavier stood at the 
 side of the wretched complainant, his look 
 of philanthropy, his smile of benevolence, 
 bearing more of angelic than mortal mis- 
 sion ; yet a smothered cry broke from the 
 lips of the stranger, and turning fearfully 
 away, he shrunk deeper into the cavern. 
 
 " Be not alarmed," implored Xavier, 
 throwing down his gun, and closely fol- 
 lowing — " I would lure you into warmth 
 and comfort — I would lead you from this 
 dark and inhospitable spot — I would — " 
 
 " It will do to die in," interrupted the 
 stranger; and numbed, chilled, almost 
 unto death, he cast himself upon the 
 earth." 
 
 " Oh, no, no !" eagerly exclaimed Xa- 
 vier; " life, the gift of an omnipresent 
 God, must not be idly squandered, must 
 not be improvidently lost : it is a precious 
 talent, consigned to our keeping; a loan, 
 a benefice, for which we must account 
 hereafter." 
 
 " Be it on the head of my persecutors, '
 
 170 TFIE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 faintly murmured the stranger, and the 
 groan which followed, seemed as the 
 parting struggle of the spirit. 
 
 " I cannot leave you here," pursued 
 Xavier, seizing his arm, and endeavouring 
 to raise him. " Unfortunate man, know 
 you not, in a season like the present, to 
 sleep is to die V 
 
 " I fear not death," said the stranger, 
 wildly — " I fear to be baited like a wild 
 beast, to be dragged amid the shouts and 
 the scoffs of the rabble — I would die here 
 — I would perish from the race of men : 
 in self-defence, even tyranny may assign 
 a grave for my loathsome body." 
 
 " Oh, wretched, wretched Sweden I" 
 groaned Xavier, scarcely conscious of 
 what he uttered. 
 
 The tone, the manner, seemed as the 
 touchstone to the heart of the stranger ; 
 he started up — he tottered towards the 
 broad bright rays of the sun — he raised 
 the tattered gabardine enveloping his 
 chilled limbs, and revealed an under gar-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. J 77 
 
 merit, composed of the soft and silken 
 texture of luxury. 
 
 " Behold my crime," he exclaimed — 
 " behold the colour of my transgression. 
 You would be my preserver — you mourn 
 the fall of Sweden : come, consecrate the 
 bonds of service; come, curse with me, all 
 born, all bearing the arms of Denmark." 
 
 Xavier thought of his father, and he 
 shrunk back, aghast and horror-struck. 
 
 " Think of the debasement of our coun- 
 try, "continued the stranger; " think of the 
 chains, the ignominy of subjection ; think 
 of the blood — the tears — the sweat — the 
 — the — " suddenly pausing — " Young 
 man, kneel with me first, and curse — " 
 
 " I cannot curse," faltered Xavier. 
 
 The stranger started back — he folded 
 his arms in cold dignity — " I have be- 
 trayed myself," he exclaimed — " I stand 
 at your mercy : a price is set upon my 
 head : my life — more than my life, is in 
 your keeping." 
 
 In silence and in wonder, Xavier gazed 
 i 5
 
 178 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 upon the manly features of the stranger; 
 he traced neither the flush of anger, or 
 the pusillanimity of fear; be beheld a 
 countenance, firm in fortitude, resigned, 
 heroic, spite of the storm which wrecked 
 the world, content to rise or fall in the 
 general ruin, but not to debase the cha- 
 racter of man, not to descend to entreaty 
 or palliative. 
 
 Yielding to the momentary impulse of 
 feeling, he bent his knee — " Hear me 
 call for curses on the traitor who betrays 
 the unfortunate," he solemnly pronoun- 
 ced : then rising, and forcing a smile — 
 ! ' The times — the actions of men warrant 
 suspicion," he pursued. " Stranger, com- 
 mit yourself to my guidance, and may 
 heaven deal with me as I acquit my trust." 
 
 The stranger caught the extended hand 
 of Xavier ; he held it in a grasp of iron ; 
 a slight convulsion passed over his fea- 
 tures, and he stood for many moments, 
 silent and irresolute. 
 
 " And yourself," he at length replied ;
 
 THE FESTTVAL OF MORA. 179 
 
 " generous youth, know you not, that 
 succour to an ex-noble entails death ?" 
 
 " Neglect of a positive duty entails 
 worse than death," firmly observed Xa- 
 vier. " Follow me, sir, and I pledge 
 protection and shelter." 
 
 " But Christiern," said the unknown. 
 " Even here, his emissaries pursue with 
 fire and sword : have you none, whose 
 safety may be involved, whose hopes 
 may be wrecked in my ruin ?" 
 
 " None," exultingly rejoined Xavier, 
 " who would not joyfully anchor their 
 dependance in the bark of the destitute 
 and guiltless. Fear not ; follow me, and 
 I promise you defence and concealment." 
 
 He led from the cavern, and he sup- 
 ported, with gentleness and perseve- 
 rance, the tottering steps of his compa- 
 nion ; for misery and endurance had 
 bleached his cheek, and extinguished the 
 fire of his eye. He was not stricken in 
 years, but he was stricken in sorrow ; he 
 looked like one who bosoms the mine of
 
 180 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 grief, without complaint, and without a 
 murmur. 
 
 Piercing into the deepest interstices of 
 the mountain passes, Xavier conducted 
 to the curacy of Saverdsio, and there, 
 sanctioned by his revered uncle, he 
 breathed again the assurance of security 
 and shelter. 
 
 " We are not surrounded by spies 
 here," said de Stiernhelm, extending his 
 hand with the warm greeting of hospita- 
 lity : " confident in each other, in this 
 peaceful retreat, misfortune ensures a 
 sanctuary." 
 
 " For a few hours," faintly articulated 
 the stranger. 
 
 " For weeks, for months," eagerly re- 
 plied the curate ; u we measure not our 
 benefits here, content to hope a harvest 
 hereafter." 
 
 " Generous friend ! but your servants — 
 your dependants ?" 
 
 " We are all one family," gratefully pur- 
 sued de Stiernhelm : " our servants are
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 181 
 
 united to us from principle, and in their 
 faith we may trust our lives." 
 
 " A patriarch! a blessed messenger of 
 charity and peace !" faltered the stranger, 
 and he folded his arms, and bent his 
 head in deep abstraction. 
 
 Xavier, spell- bound, stood watching 
 each fugitive impression of feeling; he 
 traced the inward combat of the soul ; 
 sometimes the frenzied start of lingering 
 passion, but oftener, deep grief, awakened 
 by remembrance. 
 
 " 1 fear, he gently observed, moving 
 anxiously to the side of his dejected 
 guest, " more than self bodies the storm 
 within." 
 
 The stranger turned inquisitively to- 
 wards him. 
 
 " Perhaps resumed the youth, " my 
 home may recall your home. If within 
 our reach — if suspense aggravate the 
 blank of concealment — if perseverance, if 
 resolution, if exertion — if — if — " 
 
 The stranger snatched his hand, and 
 burst into tears.
 
 182 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " You read what I would say," conti- 
 nued the pitying Xavier: " perhaps there 
 are others who pine and droop in incer- 
 titude." 
 
 " Yes, one — one tortured aching heart,' 
 sobbed out the stranger. " Oh God! my 
 child, my darling child!" and then he 
 stopped abruptly, his lips trembled, and 
 his silence evidently proceeded from 
 strong emotion. 
 
 " If I could bind that stricken heart," 
 said Xavier — " if I could pour oil into 
 that wounded bosom — if " 
 
 " What, involve you in my calamities 
 — drag you into the vortex of my ruin ? 
 because you have been kind, and good, 
 and beneficent, and noble, play with your 
 feelings, and encroach on your philan- 
 thropy?" 
 
 " And yet," sighed Xavier, " if my 
 uncle was a wanderer — if necessity drove 
 him amid wilds and forests — I should 
 bless the hand which shortened my hour 
 of suspense." 
 
 " And she will bless you — and God
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 183 
 
 will bless you — and her wretched father 
 blesses you !" exclaimed the stranger. 
 
 " His own approving conscience be his 
 best blessing," fervently pronounced the 
 curate. 
 
 " Suffer me then to reap the blessing," 
 eagerly importuned Xavier: " dear sir, 
 invest me with the power of laying up 
 the rich store of hereafter consciousness. 
 If you have a child — if that child craves 
 the knowledge of your safety — direct me 
 to her hiding-place ?" 
 
 " If" wildly repeated the unknown — 
 " if — saints and martyrs !" and he cast 
 an anguished glance on heaven. 
 
 " I would not probe your wound," said 
 Xavier; " rather would I instil confi- 
 dence. Fear not to trust me ; though 
 green in years, I lack not courage, nor 
 resolution, nor fortitude, to combat fa- 
 tigue or danger. Grant me but a clue, 
 and if you judge fitting, even at midnight 
 will I start on the enterprise." 
 
 " I will start," said the stranger,
 
 184 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 thoughtfully ; " under the cover of night, 
 refreshed and strengthened by your hos- 
 pitality, I will fly to solace my child." 
 
 " Not so," exclaimed the curate. " Be- 
 set with perils, hemmed in by enemies, 
 we cannot suffer you to brave your fate." 
 
 " My fate rests in the hands of heaven," 
 solemnly pronounced the stranger, and 
 again burying his face upon his breast, 
 he sunk into profound thought. 
 
 11 Speak for me — plead for me, dear, 
 kind uncle," urged Xavier; " bid him 
 not measure resolution, by my smooth 
 chin, by " 
 
 " Alas! you mistake me," interrupted 
 the stranger — " I cannot doubt the intre- 
 pidity of my brave deliverer, but I would 
 fain shield him from the jaundiced eye 
 of suspicion, from the goading lash of 
 tyrannic power." 
 
 " I read neither danger or venture in 
 the mission," observed de Stiernhelm, 
 " even though it lie in distance. Anchor- 
 ed on the favor of Omnipotence, my voice,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 185 
 
 and his own heart, will speed him on the 
 kindly office." 
 
 Xavier thanked him with a glance — 
 the stranger breathed a heavy sigh. 
 
 " Go then, dear youth," he said, after 
 an agitating pause, " and the blessing of 
 an oppressed and spirit-broken man rest 
 on you!" 
 
 " But where?" questioned Xavier, 
 breathless with eager haste. 
 
 " To the village of Rustgoden," re- 
 plied the stranger: " ask for the dwell- 
 ing of Peter Witskey : they will point out 
 a lowly cottage, scarce sheltered from the 
 biting blast, and exposed to all the dire 
 contrasts of prosperity. There, should 
 you see a girl — a very child, timid, and 
 bashful, and blooming, whisper in her ear, 
 Ladislaus lives — and you will return laden 
 with her gratitude." 
 
 " And why not bear her hither?" ques- 
 tioned de Stiernhelm. " In this seclusion, 
 we have peace, and a welcome for all." 
 
 " It would but excite suspicion," re-
 
 186 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 turned Ladislaus: " besides, she is in safe 
 hands : Witskey is the brother of her fos- 
 ter-mother ; and the good Hetha would 
 die rather than relinquish her charge. 
 Only say that I live, and hope will pic- 
 ture the rest." 
 
 " Not name your hiding-place?" asked 
 Xavier, " nor breathe ought of your re- 
 turn?" 
 
 " Oh no ! Say that I am in humane, in 
 honourable hands — bid Sigrida trust in 
 God — and when the murdering hosts of 
 Denmark shall have retreated from the 
 provinces, then again shall she see me at 
 Rustgoden." 
 
 " Again," repeated the curate; " then 
 Rustgoden has been your hiding-place." 
 
 " Rustgoden has been my hiding- 
 place," mournfully rejoined Ladislaus. 
 " At the name of Otho Crumpien, I fled, 
 because I would neither entail ruin on 
 tyie thatch which sheltered me, or inevit- 
 able destruction on my only child. Alone, 
 spiritless, shrinking at every shadow, 1
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 187 
 
 sought the mountain heights : three nights 
 and days did I wander, without food and 
 without hope, cowering amid crags and 
 forests, chilled by the inclemency of the 
 air, heart- chilled by the obduracy of my 
 own species." 
 
 - " Alas ! man is man's bitterest enemy," 
 sighed de Stiernhelm; " he persecutes 
 without mercy ; he afflicts even unto 
 death." 
 
 " And yet he boasts of his philan- 
 thropy," remarked Ladislaus ; " as the 
 murderer, sickening at the sight of blood, 
 he bandies his feelings even at the stake." 
 
 " An enigma, a creature of inconsis- 
 tency," observed the curate; " a strange 
 compound of all that is noble, and all 
 that is base ; made up of virtues, passions, 
 extravagancies; needing the check-rein 
 of reason, yet spurning her control ; con- 
 scious of the infirmities of nature, yet ad- 
 hesive to his own errors." 
 
 " But my Sigrida," said Ladislaus. 
 
 Xavier sprung upon his feet. ''*■! am
 
 188 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 ready, dear sir. I will depart this very 
 instant, and muse, as I journey, on a 
 disquisition which has puzzled the pro- 
 foundest philosophy." 
 
 The curate smiled. "Go, my son: 
 but midst all the elaborate researches of 
 science, remember, man, unless aided 
 from above, unless quickened by the re- 
 generating spirit of holiness, is at best 
 weak and insufficient; assailed by the 
 fleshly corruptions of his own heart, he 
 may sow, but he cannot reap, he may 
 plan, but he cannot ripen to perfection : 
 — remember, a pious spirit, a humble 
 mind, was Abel's most acceptable of- 
 fering." 
 
 The keen and biting breath of winter 
 whistled among the leafless boughs, and 
 many an icicle hung pendent from the 
 granite cliffs, when Xavier first hailed the 
 smoke spiring from the scattered hamlet 
 of Rustgoden. 
 
 He glanced around, but he traced no 
 indication of violence or outrage; he
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 189 
 
 heard no murmur of complaint : lie beheld 
 a wildly diversified country, dotted, as his 
 own, with forests, hills, and valleys ; wa- 
 tered with lakes and rivulets : but not a 
 Dane, or the blackening vestige of Da- 
 nish fury, despoiled the picture. The 
 peasants, closely encircling the blazing 
 hearth, were weaving linen, spinning 
 thread, or carding flax ; some converting 
 hog's bristles, and bark of trees, into ropes ; 
 others, carolling national airs, and en- 
 couraging habitual cheerfulness, spite of 
 surrounding anarchy. 
 
 To his enquiry for the dwelling of Peter 
 Witskey, he was directed to a low hut at 
 the extremity of the village. It stood in 
 a little garden, sheltered by a clump of 
 beech-trees, and girded by a brawling 
 brook, now half silenced by the congeal- 
 ing breath of winter. 
 
 His gentle rap for admission was quick- 
 ly acknowledged by a voice from within ; 
 and when he said his business was urgent, 
 the door was carefully and cautiously un-
 
 190 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 closed. A woman, pale and haggard, 
 with eyes red and swollen, presented 
 herself. 
 
 " Whom do you seek?" she demanded, 
 viewing him with an eye of suspicion and 
 curiosity. 
 
 " I seek one Hetha, the sister of Peter 
 Witskey," said Xavier. 
 
 " I am Hetha," replied the woman. 
 
 " I would speak to your little charge — 
 to Sigrida," urged Xavier. 
 
 The woman started — her hand trem- 
 bled, and her cheek flushed crimson. 
 
 " I would whisper the safety of Ladi- 
 slaus." The name was as a spell, a 
 watchword, to the interior of the dwell- 
 ing — Hetha beckoned onwards, and Xa- 
 vier, in the next instant, stood in the pre- 
 sence of Sigrida. 
 
 She was alone and lonely, kneeling in 
 one dark corner of the chamber; her hand 
 grasping a rosary ; her heart full of hope 
 and reliance. Xavier paused involun- 
 tarily : there was a something to honor,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 191 
 
 almost to worship, in the angel image be- 
 fore him; so light, so lovely, so sylph- 
 like: and when she arose — when she turn- 
 ed upon him her full-orbed eyes — when 
 apprehension and wonder chased the ro- 
 seate stream from her cheeks and from 
 her lips, he gazed upon her as a fairy vi- 
 sion of the imagination, almost too bright 
 for reality. 
 
 " Alas! my mother," she murmured. 
 The dame stepped eagerly to her side. 
 
 " Fear not — a friend ! a harbinger of 
 glad tidings !" 
 
 " My father," pronounced the trembling 
 girl. 
 
 " JLatlislaus lives" exclaimed Xavier; 
 and in the lightning-glance which Sigrida 
 cast on heaven, he deciphered softness 
 united with dignity, firmness with afflic- 
 tion, gratitude with adoration ! 
 
 That glance, that sweet, that versatile 
 countenance, burnished with the first 
 bloom of almost infant beauty, lived in his 
 thoughts, and hovered oer the lone path- 

 
 192 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 way, when at daybreak he sat out for 
 Saverdsio. He was laden with remem- 
 brances and with blessings, yet the stranger 
 was known but as Ladislaus, for not once 
 did indiscretion or incaution drop the veil 
 of concealment. 
 
 A week passed beneath the roof of the 
 curacy, and the threatened incursion of 
 the Danish soldiers died away ; all of op- 
 position yielded to the iron gripe of ne- 
 cessity, and throughout the land, spirit, 
 as well as privileges, seemed curbed by 
 despotism. 
 
 Dejected, and inwardly spurning at a 
 bondage he dared not outwardly resist, 
 Ladislaus, carefully avoiding every human 
 haunt, returned to Rustgoden. He jour- 
 neyed alone, because Xavier wished not to 
 break upon the sacred emotions of parent 
 and child ; but he bore with him the pro- 
 mise of a forthcoming visit ; and in little 
 more than a fortnight, sanctioned by the 
 approval of de Stiernhelm, Xavier, pre- 
 pared to perform that promise.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 193 
 
 Often, as he threaded the same mazy 
 windings, did the vision of Sigrida, armed 
 in the like supreme loveliness, in the like 
 thrilling sensibility, as when she beamed 
 upon him under the humble thatch of Wit- 
 skey, chase every thought of distance or 
 fatigue. At Saverdsio, at Fahlun, at 
 Oernetz, he had seen many maids rich in 
 native innocence and beauty ; but never 
 had he seen one so fair, or one so interest- 
 ing ; one so bright in the magic witchery 
 of attraction: artless, sportive, free as 
 mountain ether, seductive, tender, and en- 
 trancing! If his young heart was filled 
 with the picture — if his sanguine imagina- 
 tion, was forcibly, irrepressibly struck — 
 how much deeper did the impression sink, 
 when Sigrida, the creature of impulse, 
 bathed in tears of gratitude, fell sobbing 
 at his feet; when snatching his outstretch- 
 ed hand, she pressed it to her rosy lips, 
 and throwing back the redundant curls 
 of her glossy hair, cast on him, a look, a 
 smile, of eloquence and feeling ! 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " The preserver of my father !" she ar- 
 ticulated — " the friend, the benefactor, 
 whose name I couple with my father's, in 
 prayer, and in praise !" 
 
 Short and flitting were the few days 
 which Xavier passed beneath the roof of 
 Ladislaus — flitting, but not to be effaced : 
 each hour, each conversation, each inci- 
 dent, awakened the modest graces of Si- 
 grida ; she beheld him, she watched him, 
 with a delight, pure as her own mind, 
 founded on the ardent gratitude of her 
 nature, and the incalculable benefit she 
 owed him. He beheld her with an emo- 
 tion before unknown, with a sensation of 
 pleasure and admiration, which despoiled 
 the moment of parting of all its sunshine, 
 and threw a sombre tint upon the colour- 
 ing of fancy. Often would he recall to 
 memory, her looks, her words, her man- 
 ner; sometimes, playful as infancy; some- 
 times, tender as opening love — and then 
 her regret at parting— and then her eager 
 desire for his return.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. VJ5 
 
 " Ah ! if she were not influenced by 
 similar feelings, and similar hopes to my 
 own, wherefore such earnestness — where- 
 fore such anticipation ?" It was a beguil- 
 ing question, flattering and dangerous to 
 self-love ; a question, upon which his 
 youthful imagination dwelt, until he almost 
 persuaded himself it was more than chance 
 which led to the rescue of Ladislaus. 
 
 From this period, an intercourse so 
 happily began, ripened into intimacy — 
 Sigrida reminded de Stiernhelm of the 
 angel purity of Magdalene — When at the 
 curacy, she would tend him in his mis- 
 sions of charity ; she would listen to his 
 calm persuasive voice, and wing, in the 
 fervor of his orisons, her thoughts and her 
 hopes to heaven. All heart, all feeling, she 
 would aid Xavier in plucking away every 
 exuberant weed which invaded the earthy 
 bed of his mother, and then weep that dis- 
 tance precluded the like office to her own. 
 
 " Fate and circumstances forbid the 
 filial calling," she would articulate. kt But 
 k 2
 
 196 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 though our graves be delved so far asun- 
 der — though we sink to rest amid a land 
 of strangers, we shall meet hereafter, for 
 the stretch of a whole globe is as nought 
 in the plans of immensity." 
 
 She never spoke of her mother, but as 
 a saint, who having fulfilled her duties on 
 earth, was called to an inheritance in 
 heaven ; never referred to past splendor, 
 or early happiness : it seemed as though 
 an adamantine curtain closed upon all 
 previous to her sojourn at Rustgoden. 
 She liked not to talk of the subjugation 
 of her wretched country ; she felt its 
 wrongs, but she echoed not its groans ; 
 her pure and open nature spurned at re- 
 serve, yet did she live ever with a secret 
 deep hid in her heart. " Were I to be- 
 tray my rank, I might involve the safety 
 of my benefactors," said her father, in 
 stronger argument of his wished-for con- 
 cealment : " as the humble and unknown 
 Ladislaus, de Stiernhelm may yield me a 
 shelter ; but as the zealous servant of the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 107 
 
 late administrator, as one of the nobles, 
 whose whole race the policy of Christiern 
 would exterminate, I involve him in the 
 like ebon die of my own fortunes." 
 
 Sigrida acquiesced in the prudent cau- 
 tions of her father — " I will strive to be 
 careful," she replied, " nor suffer my mind 
 to dwell upon scenes of existing desola- 
 tion : the past shall be as a dream ; the 
 present, a rich draft upon my gratitude, 
 in your preservation; the future, bright, 
 as health, and a contented spirit can 
 make it." 
 
 Ladislaus shook his head and sighed. 
 " Not for myself, heaven can bear me wit- 
 ness, not for myself, but for my country, 
 and next to my country, for thee, my 
 child," he exclaimed, " does my heart 
 weep blood, and my soul mourn the ab- 
 jectness of my fortune. For my coun- 
 try, persecuted, outraged, her freedom 
 fled, her glory humbled, her sensibility 
 crushed, her spirit exterminated; — for 
 thee, destined to obscuritv, like the flower
 
 198 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 in the desert, blooming, and dying un- 
 prized." 
 
 " Say not so, my father," implored Si- 
 grid a, casting her arms around his neck, 
 and burying her fair face in his bosom. 
 " The flower of the desert, diffuses its 
 rich perfume ; the bees sip its sweets — 
 the breeze of heaven rejects not its odours : 
 oh no! it embalms its own little circle, 
 nor is it to be less prized, because its cir- 
 cle is unknown." 
 
 Sinking into quietude and external sub- 
 mission, sacrificing to necessity, a vigo- 
 rous mind, and a freeborn spirit, Ladis- 
 laus removed his " household gods" to a 
 deeper solitude, to a dwelling, almost iso- 
 lated, within sight of the spiring smoke of 
 Rustgoden, yet buried amid forests and 
 picturesque wilds. There, shrinking from 
 all of intercourse, save with the inmates 
 of the curacy of Saverdsio, assuming the 
 coarse drab of the peasantry, and toiling 
 to deck nature in the garb of taste, he 
 almost forgot his sorrows and his perse-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 199 
 
 eutions : he tried to concentrate his bles- 
 sings in home : and whilst he traced fresh 
 comforts springing around him; whilst, in 
 the sportive smile, and frolic glance, of 
 the blooming Sigrida, he hailed the native 
 ebullitions of heart-ease and content, he 
 shut out the past from memory, chasing 
 it as a dark and boding vision of the night. 
 But the sojourns of Xavier beneath his 
 roof, the frequent discoveries of heroism 
 and ardour which confidential intercourse 
 elicited, sometimes would outstrip the 
 cold and measured rules of policy — some- 
 times touched on the sensitive nerve of 
 ever-thrilling patriotism — on the acute and 
 tender fibre of the soul's best spring — 
 Ladislaus would lay aside his caution, 
 and forgetful of her tyrants and her 
 wrongs, her bonds and her indignities, 
 almost dream back the freedom of Swe- 
 den, and the resuscitation of her glory.
 
 200 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA, 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Trial bears not the mould of hate : 
 Rather, the weakening, the resolving charm, 
 Weaning from sense, it saps each hold on life, 
 Fitting the soul for immortality ! 
 
 IT is not for us to mould the glowing 
 visions hovering around the couch of 
 youth and beauty; light, fantastic images, 
 like May borne on the zephyr, languish- 
 ing midst rose-buds, steeped in ambrosial 
 dews! 
 
 Sigrida arose as the first broad beam of 
 day glared through the casement : still 
 were the pine-capped hills clad in snow ; 
 but the storm of the evening had passed 
 away, and the azure of the heavens, clear 
 and radiant, contrasted the earth's un- 
 varying white. As she eagerly glanced 
 around, she tracked the print of foot- 
 steps down the garden, and lost them
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 201 
 
 round a jutting point of rock, in the op- 
 posite direction to Rustgoden. 
 
 "Surely, surely, he would not steal away 
 without bidding adieu," she exclaimed, 
 her heart taking the alarm, and her whole 
 thoughts resting on Xavier. " If he has, 
 never — " she paused and blushed, for she 
 heard his well known voice in the pas- 
 sage, and the next instant, he was whist 
 ling the little air she had chanted the 
 preceding evening. 
 
 " Methinks he is very merry," mused 
 Sigrida, " considering he is on the eve of 
 departure : but doubtless, he feels it not 
 as I do ; for he can hunt, and shoot, and 
 go to Oernetz, whilst I can only walk 
 from my spinning-wheel to the window, 
 and from the window to my spinning- 
 wheel again. I wish — I wish — alack ! 1 
 know not what I wish — " and ashamed 
 of her own petulence, she chased away 
 the rising tear, and bent her knee, not 
 only in thanksgiving for the blessing of a 
 new day, but to pray for a meeker spirit, 
 k 5
 
 
 202 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and a more contented mind : she prayed 
 too, for the destitute and unhappy ; and 
 she thought of the stranger, and recalled 
 his look and his words — Then indeed am 
 I prayed for — until every seltish consi- 
 deration fading, left her alive to sym- 
 pathy and feeling. 
 
 A thousand vague and shapeless ideas 
 flitted upon fancy : the turbulence of the 
 times — the enslaved debasement of Swe- 
 den ; her scattered heroes, and her expa- 
 triated nobles, warranted every wild im- 
 probability, every romantic flight, of a 
 mind fraught with enthusiasm. The port 
 of dignity shone beneath the humble guise 
 of the stranger ; his bow was the bow of 
 graciousness, his smile the smile of con- 
 descension ; he was youthful — he was 
 preeminently handsome — gifted with elo- 
 quence, with an eye of fire, with an 
 energy, with an emphasis, to chain every 
 sense captive; and Sigrida almost pic- 
 tured him a champion, armed with the 
 lightning of fate, and rising midst the ruins 
 of his country.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 203 
 
 Glowing with the ardour of her own 
 thoughts, she joined the breakfast-board ; 
 and- though she listened to the observa- 
 tions of her father, and smiled on the 
 assiduities of Xavier, at every floating 
 sound, her eyes involuntarily sought the 
 door, eager to hail the entrance of the 
 stranger. He came not, and surprise 
 succeeded expectation. 
 
 " Tis strange," said Sigrida, thought- 
 fully. " To judge by his looks last-night, 
 the cygnet's down could not lure him to 
 forgetfulness." 
 
 " What though I tap at his door, and 
 remind of the hour?" proposed Xavier,. 
 rising from his seat: but Ladislaus check- 
 ed the movement. 
 
 " Fatigue may lengthen the slumbers 
 of repose," he replied, " and forgetfulness 
 lull the gnawings of inquietude : 'tis pity 
 to awaken to reality, where rest is only 
 known in sleep." 
 
 " But how to account for the delay," 
 rejoined Sigrida — " how divest the mind
 
 204 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 of anxiety and fear. The day so bright, 
 and its earliest beams falling full upon 
 the chamber. I am sure even happiness 
 could not sleep through such a burst of 
 radiance. Besides, when we separated 
 for the night, he varied from red to white, 
 and his whole frame shook with the pres- 
 sure of his feelings. Indeed, indeed, my 
 dear father, he must be ill." 
 
 " I hope not," said Xavier. 
 
 " The heart of woman, prone to ten- 
 derness and compassion," remarked La- 
 dislaus, " taxes her own sensibility with 
 the appalling terrors of imagination." As 
 he spoke, he walked to the window, and 
 distinguishing the print of footsteps in 
 the snow, turned hastily round. 
 
 " Where is Witskey ? Have you seen 
 him, this morning, love ?" 
 
 " I saw him as I quitted my chamber," 
 replied Sigrida. 
 
 " And Hetha?" 
 
 " Hetha too has given me my morn- 
 ing's blessing." 

 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 205 
 
 " What, both at home ?" pursued La- 
 dislaus, again turning to the casement — 
 " are you sure they are both at home?" 
 
 " Yes, my father; Hetha, and Wit- 
 skey ; all, and every one of our house- 
 hold;" and she smiled at the enume- 
 ration. 
 
 " And yet I track footsteps in depar- 
 ture, but none in return," exclaimed La- 
 dislaus. 
 
 " In departure," echoed Sigrida and 
 Xavier, and they sprung with one impulse 
 to his side. 
 
 " Ah ! I marked those very footsteps 
 when I first quitted my pillow," said Si- 
 grida, " and believing them yours, Xa- 
 vier, I felt quite angry, for I fancied you 
 had stolen a march to Saverdsio." 
 
 " How could you think so ? — how pic- 
 ture such an improbability ? — how fancy 
 me so graceless, or even so improvident? 
 What, go without my breakfast — go with- 
 out one remembrance from you ?" 
 
 His voice sunk to a whisper, and it
 
 206 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 was the accompanying look, more than 
 the words, which covered her fair cheek 
 with blushes. 
 
 " The footsteps commence at the back 
 gate," thoughtfully observed Ladislaus, 
 " nor do I lose them until far beyond the 
 garden." 
 
 " Perhaps the footsteps of the stranger," 
 said Xavier. 
 
 " If so ; if he has fled in silence and 
 in secrecy,'' exclaimed Sigrida, " I shall 
 indeed believe him what he appeared in 
 my dream — a hero in disguise — a patriot, 
 labouring for the good of his country P 
 
 " In your dream — did you dream of 
 the stranger?" reproachfully questioned 
 Xavier. 
 
 " Yes, I dreamt he was other than he 
 appeared. I saw him, as we all saw him 
 last night, worn down, and broken, in 
 spirit and in body — I saw confusion, and 
 ruin, and dismay around; signs of slavery, 
 and groans of bondage: the moon hid in 
 clouds — the sky starless — and the three
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 207 
 
 passant lions of Denmark, trampling on 
 the three golden crowns of Sweden. I 
 saw them mount, and stand upon the 
 neck of the very stranger who came to 
 our cottage last night, forcing, and bend- 
 ing him almost to the earth. Suddenly 
 he broke from the thraldom ; with one 
 desperate bound he snapped the rivets of 
 his ponderous chain; it fell with a horrid 
 crash — it crumbled — it vanished into 
 
 dust. Swift as light, I saw " 
 
 " Child," interrupted Ladislaus, " whi- 
 ther would your vision carry you ?" 
 
 ." To emancipation, to happiness, dear- 
 est father. It was an heavenward dream I 
 it arose in darkness and woe; it closed in 
 brightness and glory! I saw the stranger 
 cleared from the gripe of the Danish lions, 
 his face shining like light, his sword like 
 flames of fire. One by one, he rescued 
 the crowns of our country : and when I 
 saw the glittering treasure binding his 
 own imperial brow ; when I heard him 
 pronounce, Liberty, liberty to Sweden !
 
 208 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 I awoke, and almost wept to find that 
 liberty ideal." 
 
 " Ideal," repeated Ladislaus, breathing 
 a heavy sigh ; " ideal, baseless, empty ; 
 a name, a mere sound, annihilated, lost, 
 beyond the effort of man to redeem pr to 
 rescue." 
 
 " Not so," exclaimed Xavier, losing 
 sight of the dream and of the stranger ; 
 " not annihilated, not totally unredeem- 
 able. Oppression, and violence, and 
 power, hem us in ; but tyranny is an ac- 
 tive goad to emancipation, severity a 
 quickening breath to exertion : man may 
 submit to the shadow of oppression ; 
 but when he feels the real, the weighty 
 substance, gnaw into his soul, he will 
 strive, he will labour for freedom, al- 
 though the effort produce death." 
 
 " And yet," rejoined Ladislaus, " we 
 see thousands bend their necks to the 
 yoke ; we see a land shackled in disgrace- 
 ful bondage, the spirit, the energy, the 
 vigour of a whole nation, broken and de-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 209 
 
 stroyed : — scarce a family mourning not 
 the massacre of its representative, yet all 
 alike humble, submissive, couching at the 
 feet of Christiern." 
 
 " Dearest father," exclaimed Sigrida, 
 her eyes emanating the enthusiasm of her 
 feelings, " if you could have seen the 
 stranger, as in my dream last- night, 
 trampling on slavery, grappling with the 
 Danish lions, acting the patriot, looking 
 the hero, dignified, firm, towering, mighty 
 in arms and in daring, the regalia of Swe- 
 den, like planets in the firmament, spark- 
 ling on his capacious brow — oh ! if you 
 could have seen him, casting off all guise, 
 all " 
 
 " Perhaps," interrupted Ladislaus, " we 
 shall see him no more" — and conquering 
 all of reluctance or hesitation, he repaired 
 to the chamber of the stranger. 
 
 He knocked in vain for admittance — 
 he listened in vain for a responding voice 
 —all was silent and still : he raised the 
 latch — he pushed open the door : the
 
 210 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 chamber was vacant ; the pillow had 
 been pressed, but the bed, no longer re- 
 taining the vestige of animal warmth, had 
 evidently been deserted with the first 
 blush of returning day. 
 
 " Strange !" mused Ladislaus, glanc- 
 ing eagerly around ; his eyes fell on a 
 written paper, and the next instant he 
 held the solution in his hand. 
 
 " The being your benevolence pre- 
 served last-night, has nought but thanks 
 and blessings to ofTer, for fortune has 
 waned to its lowest ebb. Should he live, 
 you shall hear of him hereafter ; — should 
 he die, the remembrance of your hospi- 
 tality, will throb in the latest pulse of the 
 
 heart of 
 
 a true Swede" 
 
 " A true Swede !" repeated Ladislaus, 
 hastening back to the breakfast-room — 
 " a mourning, bleeding patriot, suspected, 
 because unknown. Saints and martyrs ! 
 could I have guessed — could I have 
 dreamt — could I have developed — could 
 I ."
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 211 
 
 " The hero of my last-night's vision !" 
 ejaculated Sigrida, dropping the paper, 
 and her features fading and flushing with 
 the wild fluctuation of her feelings. 
 
 " So low in fortune, so destitute in re- 
 sources," remarked Xavier — " without a 
 guide — without an aim — ." 
 
 " Who can say so?" interrupted Ladis- 
 laus. " The aim of the patriot, is the 
 well-being of his country; her advance- 
 ment, his dearest good ; her glory, his 
 dying asperation." 
 
 " But how benefit his country V 3 asked 
 Xavier — " alone and helpless, how rally 
 the heart of the feeble? — how instigate 
 the arm of the brave feeble ?" 
 
 He turned — he addressed Ladislaus ; 
 but Ladislaus stood abstracted, lost, the 
 fire of heroism kindling on his brow r , spite 
 of his garb of peace, and his studied prac - 
 tice of neutrality. 
 
 " Alas !" sighed Sigrida, her tender na- 
 ture alive but to personal danger and 
 threatened suffering, " what perils must
 
 212 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 be encounter ! what horrors must he 
 brave ! To wander again through deserts 
 and wildernesses : perhaps, at night- fall, 
 to find no shelter; no, not even a shed, to 
 ward off the drifting snow, and biting 
 blast!" 
 
 There was a something so sad, so 
 mournful in the reflection, that tears flood- 
 ed her eyes : it reminded her of the lone 
 wanderings of her father, when flying 
 from men, he sought refuge, amid the 
 crags and solitudes of the mountains ; 
 when, in a season alike inclement, perish- 
 ing with cold and privation, he was spared 
 to her through the timely succour of Xa- 
 vier: — and as she raised her clasped 
 hands in pious invocation, as she recall- 
 ed that momentous period, " Power su- 
 preme," she articulated, " who in mercy 
 temperest the wind to the shorn lamb, 
 look down upon him — pity him — support 
 him!" 
 
 Xavier beheld her in doubtful won- 
 der, but he traced nought save compas-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 213 
 
 sion, save tender tremulous feeling, in her 
 pallid cheek and quivering lip ; no sign 
 of lurking interest, no symptom of power- 
 fully excited admiration ; nought save the 
 thrilling impulse of sensibility, vibrating 
 on the finer nerves of woman's nature : he 
 saw her weeping the sufferings of man- 
 kind, praying the amelioration of human 
 woe : and as he caught her eye, as he 
 imbibed the ray of her philanthropy, he 
 sprung to the side of Ladislaus. 
 
 " Dearest sir, what if I track the foot- 
 steps of the wanderer, and lure him back 
 to this shelter?" 
 
 Ladislaus started into being — he press- 
 ed his hand to his forehead, as though to 
 rally his scattered intellects, then after 
 the pause of a moment : "If I thought 
 so," he exclaimed — " if I thought human 
 exertion could cast light on the seeming 
 mystery — I too would follow him through 
 every pass of Dalecarlia." 
 
 " Let us together make the effort," 
 urged Xavier : strength and perseverance
 
 214 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 will soon recover the advantages of a few 
 hours: what though he quitted at the 
 earliest dawn of day ; a stranger to our 
 forests, and our wilds, he may wander 
 long and wearily, and yet clear nought 
 of distance. His footsteps, deep tracked 
 in the snow, will be our sure guide. 
 Come, my friend, let us adventure, and 
 success will crown our efforts !" 
 
 " Alas ! I doubt it," said Sigrida. * The 
 snow fast melts beneath the rays of the 
 sun, and beyond the reach of the moun- 
 tain shadows, all trace has surely va- 
 nished." 
 
 " Let us hasten then," implored Xa- 
 vier, reading approbation in the mild eyes 
 of her he loved, and forgetting, in the 
 eagerness of pursuit, his projected return 
 to Saverdsio. Ladislaus needed no se- 
 cond bidding ; alike urgent, he embraced 
 a visionary ray, an ideal fantasy : it was 
 not bigotry ; it was enthusiasm, arising in 
 the colour of the times, in the pressure of 
 local ill. He augured nought from the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 215 
 
 strange wild dream of Sigrida ; but he 
 pictured the possibility of a concealed pa- 
 triot, of a being, like himself, bosoming the 
 wrongs of Sweden, and labouring for her 
 emancipation, pining again to see her 
 rise among the nations, cleansed from the 
 stain of reproach, and freed from the cor- 
 roding iron of slavery. 
 
 Zealous, and eager in the pursuit, they 
 carefully tracked the foot-prints, until 
 clearing the jutting point of rock that 
 terminated the wild defile embosoming 
 the cottage, they lost all further trace of 
 the stranger, in the broad bright beams ot 
 an unobscured sun. The flaky snow still 
 clung to the granite steeps, glittering, and 
 bright, and spreading, like festoons of 
 diamonds, over the thickly scattered trees 
 and bushes; but the plains, and the wind- 
 ing pathways, had in part lost their co- 
 vering, and the late trickling rills, thawed 
 and swollen, rolled from the uplands. 
 
 Alike anxious in a pursuit, savouring 
 of humanity as well as national feeling,
 
 216 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 the two friends separated among the lone 
 passes of the picturesque heights, and di- 
 verging into opposite directions, pierced 
 each tangled brake, and venturous foot- 
 way : but after an eager and unavailing 
 search of several hours, they met again 
 dispirited, and unrequited, at the cottage. 
 
 " I feared it would be so," exclaimed 
 Sigrida, hastening to meet them at the 
 garden-gate. " Alack! he could not guess 
 who harboured him, or he would not have 
 ventured further." 
 
 " I almost wish," saidXavier, thought- 
 fully, " we had spoken with less reserve. 
 If we had only hinted disgust of Danish 
 rapacity, he might have thrown off the 
 cloak." 
 
 " Strange, that we could not read dis- 
 guise," pursued Sigrida. " I remember 
 now, he slunk into the darkest corner of 
 the chamber ; and when I would despoil 
 him of his dripping garment, he drew 
 the black bandage further over his eye. 
 Dear father, who can he be ? — can you
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 217 
 
 recall no patriot, of whom he reminds 
 
 your 
 
 " All whose images I can recall, have 
 passed away," sighed Ladislaus ; " for 
 the tyrannous sword of Christiern has de- 
 populated the land." 
 
 " But may not one have escaped ? ? 
 eagerly questioned Sigrida — " may not 
 one live, to avenge, and to redeem ?" 
 
 " One," repeated Ladislaus ; " foolish 
 girl, what could one achieve among my- 
 riads?" 
 
 " A little spark may blow into a great 
 flame," remarked Sigrida : " and though 
 power belongs to numbers, right some- 
 times conquers might." 
 
 " You are a mere visionary, my child, 
 teeming with wild hopes, and wilder 
 fancies." 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Sigrida, " yet I 
 shall never forget the wild fancy of my 
 last-night's dream — The stranger bursting 
 into glory — the three crowns of Sweden, 
 triumphing over the lions of Denmark !" 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 As she spoke, she archly glanced at 
 her father, and traced thought and care 
 upon his brow ; his hand lay spread upon 
 his breast, and his every feature, bespoke 
 a heart, aching for the bleeding wounds 
 of ruthless oppression, for the inert, the 
 unresisting slavery of his fellow country- 
 men. Xavier too stood beside him ; but 
 not drooping with the like despondence, 
 not the slave of morbid dejection: his 
 eyes had kindled into flame; his soul had 
 caught the illuminating ray of Sigrida's 
 magic vision; his cheeks were flushed 
 with vivid crimson: he loved his country; 
 he deplored her injuries ; he forgot the 
 natural claim which Denmark held upon 
 his feelings ; he thought but of her ty* 
 ranny, and her usurpation, and fired with 
 deathless ardour, catching the soul-en- 
 trancing thrill of patriotism, he felt at the 
 moment, it would be glory to avenge her 
 cause, to free her from her galling yoke, 
 or perish midst her ruins. 
 
 Long after he had bid adieu to Sigrida
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 21,9 
 
 — long after he had lost sight of Rust- 
 goden — the same flame consumed, the 
 same passion inspired him: divorced, by 
 habit and long absence, from the in- 
 fluence of his father, he felt bigoted to 
 the country of his mother. It was in 
 Sweden, he had first drawn breath ; in 
 Sweden, that he attained the benefits of 
 instruction and example; that his mind 
 had received the early bias of virtue, 
 and his principles, that reverence for her 
 rights, privileges, and immunities, which 
 the spirited vigour of Suanto Sturius had 
 ensured : how then could he feel less than 
 rancour, against a government, cruel, un- 
 just, and despotic; a government, tramp- 
 ling on every law of honor and of faith, 
 forging the rivets of slavery, and wading 
 through seas of blood ? Even love faded 
 from the outline his imagination pictured ; 
 even the magic smile of beauty yielded 
 to the one great view of public good ; he 
 beheld, as in the dream of Sigrida, the 
 unknown stranger, bursting into a na- 
 l 2
 
 220 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 tional avenger; tyranny and injustice 
 laying prostrate at his feet, and victo- 
 rious patriotism, and general prosperity, 
 smiling in the overthrow. 
 
 " Would that my father were ought 
 than a Dane !" he exclaimed ; " would 
 that in siding against the foes of Sweden, 
 I rebelled not against nature ! But alas ! 
 he has sworn fealty to Christiern : per- 
 haps from habit, perhaps from self-inte- 
 rest, perhaps from inclination ; — oh no ! 
 it cannot be from inclination ; for he is 
 just, and kind, and benevolent ! But he 
 is a Dane," shuddering, " and my apos- 
 tacy savours of crime and disobedience." 
 
 Such were the reflections, which sad- 
 dening his features, banished his usual 
 smile of content and peace, as he entered 
 the quiet home of his infancy : he heard 
 the voice of gratulation ; he returned the 
 paternal embrace of affection : but when 
 he looked up, he saw the naturally pale 
 cheeks of his revered preceptor, bleached 
 beyond their ordinary wanness ; his lips
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 221 
 
 tremulous, and tears surcharging* his 
 sunken eyes. 
 
 " Dearest uncle, what am 1 to learn?" 
 questioned Xavier, alarmed at an appear- 
 ance so unusual. " Have you heard 
 ought from Oernetz ? — ought threatening* 
 the safety of our friends ?" 
 
 " No — Ingleburge, and Peterson, and 
 all our friends are well," replied the 
 curate. 
 
 " Then why this emotion? — why these 
 tears? You turn away your face — Dearest 
 uncle, in pity tell me what am I to learn?" 
 
 "You are to learn that T am not quite 
 a stoic," rejoined de Stiernhelm, attempt- 
 ing to smile ; " and that old as I am, and 
 creeping as I am to the end of my pilgri- 
 mage, I cannot relinquish my comforts, 
 without something like a murmur." 
 
 " What comforts ?" implored Xavier. 
 " Alas! has Christiern extended here his 
 cruelty ? — has he swept his besom of de- 
 struction o'er this unoffending quarter of 
 peace ?"
 
 222 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " No, no, my son ; 'tis individual pri- 
 vation, not public grievance, I deplore : 
 'tis confined to selfish sorrow, weeping 
 o'er the anticipation of a desolate home."' 
 
 Explain, explain, dear sir?" urged Xa- 
 vier, and he stood, with an eye fixed, and 
 an attention nearly breathless. 
 
 The curate took his hand. " Beloved 
 son of my hopes !" he murmured ; then 
 chasing a tear, and rallying back some- 
 thing of composure — " Often, at a dis- 
 tance, have we talked of parting, with re- 
 signation and calmness," he pursued ; 
 but the reality, in a season like the pre- 
 sent, awakens apprehension and dismay." 
 
 " Parting," repeated Xavier, his thoughts 
 flying back to love and to Sigrida, and 
 every bright glow of health fading from 
 his countenance. 
 
 " The count, your father, true to the 
 dying request of Magdalene, has left you 
 until now in retirement and inaction," 
 said the curate : " he craves your pre- 
 sence ; and but for public duties, would
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 223 
 
 himself have been the bearer of his 
 "wishes." 
 
 " In Denmark?" asked Xavier. 
 
 " In Jutland," replied de Stiernhelm, 
 " at the castle of Calo, of which he is th© 
 governor." 
 
 " The castle of Calo," repeated Xa- 
 vier, " the state prison of my unhappy 
 countrymen ;" and his shudder iced every 
 limb. 
 
 The curate turned aside his face — his 
 heart throbbed high with the like sensa- 
 tions, but he wished to veil them in the 
 guise of acquiescence. Combating a heavy 
 sigh, " You must strive to root out pre- 
 judice," he observed; "to wrestle with 
 your feelings, until you bind them in sub- 
 jection." 
 
 " In opposition to my duty?" demand- 
 ed Xavier. 
 
 " Your duty," answered de Stiernhelm, 
 " is obedience to your father." 
 
 " In opposition to my conscience ?" 
 again interrogated the youth.
 
 224 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " The path of obedience, I pray God," 
 solemnly pronounced the curate, " may 
 never war against your conscience." 
 
 " But should my father, weakly sub- 
 missive to the tyrant will of his regal 
 master," questioned Xavier, " forget the 
 claims of Sweden on his heart — should 
 prejudice blind him to her wrongs and 
 her sacrifices — should he strive to wean 
 me from the country of my birth and of my 
 hopes — shrinking from the ordeal, may I 
 fly from Denmark, without impeaching 
 my innocence and my honour?" 
 
 " Or may you never quit it !" piously 
 exclaimed de Stiernhelm. 
 
 " And may I," eagerly rejoined Xa- 
 vier, " thus banished, thus shut out from 
 temporal dignity, fly back to peace and 
 to you?" 
 
 The curate could not speak — his heart 
 was too full — he could only extend his 
 arms, and for many moments, alike ab- 
 sorbed, Xavier hung sobbing on his neck. 
 Soon recovering self-exertion and reflec-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 225 
 
 tion, chasing away the tears of fond emo- 
 tion, and rallying back all the powers of 
 his mind, Xavier heard that a messenger 
 had that morning arrived at Saverdsio ; 
 and receiving a packet from the tremulous 
 hand of de Stiernhelm, he retired to his 
 own chamber, to peruse the wishes and 
 the orders of his father. 
 
 A painful and a solemn feeling pressed 
 upon his heart ; it was not affection, but 
 it was reverence for the sacred claim 
 which henceforth was to direct his actions. 
 The person was unknown, but the name 
 of father thrilled through every nerve, and 
 every faint impression of infancy, glowed 
 fresh and bright upon his feelings : he 
 could almost see his father stretched upon 
 the grave of his mother — almost hear the 
 groan of his despair, when de Stiernhelm 
 roused him from his lonely vigil ; when, 
 in the disastrous night of his return to the 
 curacy, after his venturous escape from 
 his cloister-prison, he found all his hopes, 
 and all his dreams of felicity blighted. 
 l 5
 
 226 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 That solitary mourner — that spirit-broken 
 widower of Magdalene — could he be the 
 emissary of injustice? could he be the 
 passive tool of power ? could he be the 
 agent of Christiern ? 
 
 Oh no, no! Xavier felt it impossible, 
 and he opened the packet, with confi- 
 dence, and with homage. 
 
 Banner wrote from the heart and to 
 the heart; in every line the warm effu- 
 sions of parental tenderness glowed. He 
 spoke of de Stiernhelm with gratitude — 
 of the memory of Magdalene with rever- 
 ence — of his trust and hopes in the affec- 
 tion and obedience of his son : and then 
 he deplored the necessity which had so 
 long estranged them from each other, and 
 wooed him to his arms in all the pathos 
 of genuine feeling. 
 
 " The period named by her whose spirit 
 I pray to rejoin in heaven," he wrote, " is 
 passed away. Under the influence that 
 I had preceded her to the realms of bless- 
 edness, my Magdalene consigned the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 227 
 
 years of your infancy to the tender care 
 and guidance of her sister — the sager 
 season of instruction to her brother, con- 
 fident of his abilities, and reposing on his 
 almost paternal love : and now, that you 
 are springing into puberty, now, that the 
 world beckons you into action, having 
 religiously observed the dying mandate of 
 your angel mother, fain would I claim 
 you to myself. Come then, my son, my 
 beloved son : forget that we are as stran- 
 gers to each other : come, with confi- 
 dence, and with trust, to a father, who, 
 however externally devoted to other du- 
 ties, and other calls — never has ceased 
 to turn to you in affection, never has lost 
 sight of the brief hours, of his first, his 
 brightest felicity. To offer thanks and 
 gratitude to our near kinsman, would be 
 vain and inefficient : — the brother of 
 Magdalene, will ever be the cherished 
 brother of my soul : 'tis in his path I 
 would wish you to tread ; 'tis from his 
 example I would wish you to model your
 
 228 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 future actions. Dear, virtuous, exem- 
 plary de Stiernhelm ! I too would fulfil 
 my duties, as thou hast fulfilled thy du- 
 ties — I too would live, as thou hast lived 
 — I too would die, as thou wilt die — 
 honoured and beloved !" 
 
 Xavier paused — this tribute to the ex- 
 cellence of his revered uncle, filled his 
 heart, and flooded his eyes. ts My fa- 
 ther does indeed know him," he mur- 
 mured — " does indeed appreciate his in- 
 tegrity and his worth. Ah ! surely then, 
 with a mind so alive to discrimination, my 
 father will not strive to wean me from 
 allegiance to Sweden, will not seek to 
 subvert my principles, or mislead my 
 judgment. Oh no ! such a father must 
 be honoured !" and he returned to the 
 letter with gratitude and trust. 
 
 " Circumstances, and imperious duty," 
 wrote the count, " forbid my desired visit 
 to Dalecarlia. I had anticipated the me- 
 lancholy gratification of beholding Sa- 
 verdsio — Oernetz — those places so dear
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 229 
 
 to memory, so deservedly beloved ; of 
 embracing, once more, the brother and 
 the sister of my Magdalene — of claiming 
 you, my son, at their hands. But in this 
 world man is liable to disappointment ; 
 the sport of casualty, his plans are, as 
 himself, shadowy and unstable ; however 
 the boast of authority and power, he pos- 
 sesses neither the one or the other over 
 his own actions. My allegiance to the 
 king my master, chains me at the seat of 
 my government in Jutland. In times 
 like the present, I cannot quit my post. 
 Hasten then, my son, to the castle of 
 Calo. The name of Banner will be a 
 passport alike in Sweden as in Denmark ; 
 it will speed you without hazard, through 
 towns and provinces, securing respect, 
 and warranting safety : it will soften the 
 gripe of rapacity, and open a passage 
 through the heart of force. Come then, 
 dear son of my hopes, come, and receive 
 the blessing of your affectionate father, 
 
 Eric Banner."
 
 230 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 There are spirits dark and fitful ; 
 There are minds cringing, sycophantic, base ; 
 There are men, who to sack the aim of wealth, 
 Would damn a world. 
 
 J3L AVI ER read and re-read the letter: 
 time had been, when such a summons 
 had been joy to his hopes, had been the 
 ultimate end of his wishes : but now his 
 spirit sickened at the contemplation, and 
 every feeling of his nature warred at the 
 decree. To see his father — to know his 
 father — diligently to strive for his love 
 and his confidence, was a dear, a seduc- 
 tive beacon; to be acknowledged, to be 
 beloved, to be embraced by the widower 
 of Magdalene — the honored source of his 
 being, the cherished parent whose sorrows 
 he had so often wept — what tie could rise
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 231 
 
 in competition — what claim could be half 
 so precious ? But quick rose the prejudice 
 of early habit, instituting him the gover- 
 nor of Calo, the subject, the servant of 
 Christiern. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! the name of Banner 
 swells the tyrants of Sweden," groaned 
 Xavier, dropping the letter, and burying 
 his face in his spread hands. " Oh, my 
 father ! I would have toiled for thee, en- 
 dured for thee, laboured out my youth 
 and my strength ; but this clash of my prin- 
 ciples, this vital aim at my honour, is 
 more bitter far than death — I cannot for- 
 swear my country — I cannot own alle- 
 giance to the accursed author of her de- 
 gradation. Holy God ! Sweden and my 
 father in opposite scales !" The shudder, 
 the wild horror, was almost mortal; it 
 was a conflict too fierce to hold with rea- 
 son; every limb shook, and every dis- 
 torted feature, assumed the ghastly co- 
 louring of the grave. 
 
 A fearful, an appalling cry roused him
 
 232 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 into being ; it was de Stiernhelm, who, 
 terrified and feeble, fell upon his neck, his 
 grey hairs shadowing his wrinkled brows, 
 his eyes surcharged with tears, and every 
 heart-speaking lineament betraying the 
 torture of affection. 
 
 " I dreamt not this," he sobbed out — 
 "my son, my son, wherefore this struggle?" 
 and then he said no more, for the sorrows 
 of Xavier found vent, and he wept like a 
 child upon his bosom. 
 
 « Forgive me, my more than father," 
 he faltered — " I am weak, when I ought 
 to be strong — I am powerless, when all 
 my powers are most wanting." 
 
 "Is it for me?" asked the curate; 
 " dear boy, lives it in the threat of sepa- 
 ration ?" 
 
 " It lives in the call of duty," sighed 
 Xavier. " Oh, my friend ! think of the 
 coming strife, and wonder not, that my 
 fortitude and my spirit bleed in the con- 
 templation." 
 
 '? What strife ?" asked de Stiernhelm—
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 233 
 
 " what dreaded struggle conjures a blank 
 so profound ?" 
 
 " Can you ask?" said Xavier pointing 
 to that passage in the letter of the count — 
 My allegiance to the king my master, chains 
 me at the seat of my government in Jutland" 
 
 " I read no solution here," exclaimed 
 the curate. " Your noble father holds a 
 high office under the government of Chris- 
 tiern — wherefore should it militate against 
 your peace ?" 
 
 Xavier gazed on him in silent wonder, 
 then drawing nearer, and placing his cold 
 hand upon his arm, " Can I," he demand- 
 ed, " honor the enemy of my country?" 
 
 " If Banner be as when last we parted," 
 feelingly pronounced de Stiernhelm — 
 " he may be honored — he may be reve- 
 renced — he must be loved." 
 
 " Thank heaven!" ejaculated the youth. 
 " Oh! if he were a Swede, his praise would 
 be glory !" 
 
 " The praise of human excellence must 
 be glory," solemnly rejoined the curate.
 
 234 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " The virtues of your father credited your 
 mother's choice : even the prejudiced In- 
 gleburge found in him nought to censure." 
 
 " But the castle of Calo is one of the 
 state-prisons of our incarcerated country- 
 men," thoughtfully remarked Xavier — " I 
 would ought save my father had been the 
 governor!" 
 
 " If I know ought of your father's na- 
 ture," eagerly pursued the curate, " his 
 government has been the seat of gentle- 
 ness and humanity; no unjust severity 
 has extorted the sigh of complaint, no 
 stretch of arbitrary rule has embittered the 
 privation of liberty : if I know him — and 
 surely I must know the once-worshipped 
 husband of my Magdalene — his study 
 has been to soften human ills, to assuage 
 the rankling pang of injustice and abused 
 power." 
 
 " Perhaps to lighten misery !" exclaim- 
 ed Xavier, catching, bosoming the bright 
 ray which seemed to beam from heaven; 
 " perhaps to file away the iron of perse-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 235 
 
 cation, to lighten the dark keep of com- 
 fortless despair. I too may aid Sweden 
 in an hostile land — I too may woo her 
 nobles to spirit and to enterprise !" 
 
 " Enthusiasm braces the nerves of phi- 
 lanthropy," observed de Stiernhelm : " in 
 a just cause, 'tis an invigorating spring, 
 healthful to spirit and to virtue ; but it 
 must be temporized, else will it sweep all 
 in one universal wreck." 
 
 " Oh ! on such a mission," resumed 
 Xavier, heedless of the check-rein of af- 
 fection, and yielding to the buoyant im- 
 pulse of his own warm wishes, "joyfully 
 would I hasten to the farthest limitation 
 of the globe, enduring all of fatigue and 
 hazard, braving all of distance and of 
 danger ; to shorten one rivet in our chain 
 of slavery, joyfully would " 
 
 " I fear you are too zealous, too ardent, 
 to be left to your own guidance," inter- 
 rupted the curate. " Remember, dear 
 boy, in the dizzy flights of patriotism, on 
 the wild wing of speculating enterprise,
 
 236 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 anarchy must not be borne into your fa- 
 ther's government : ever must you bear 
 in mind his fealty to Denmark, nor, 
 through a mistaken bias, involve the 
 dearer interests of his fame." 
 
 " Fear me not," energetically pronoun- 
 ced the youth ; my father's honour, my 
 father's fame, is a pledge more precious 
 than existence — a pledge, not to be com- 
 pounded for even by the overthrow of 
 Christiern." 
 
 " I trust not — 1 hope not," said the 
 curate ; " for though Sweden, the birth- 
 place of your mother, be loved, your for- 
 tune and your honors be of Denmark." 
 
 Xavier sighed ; his early prejudices re- 
 vived ; but he harboured them untold, for 
 his reason admitted the injustice of that 
 habitual rancour which had gendered in 
 the lessons of Ingleburge. De Stiern- 
 helm sighed also, for too late he felt the 
 error of his judgment ; the sad, the inju- 
 dicious bias, which seizing on all the 
 warm feelings of youth, had bound the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 237 
 
 son almost in enmity to the father ; had 
 divorced their better interests, and an- 
 chored them on different callings. Alas ! 
 it was too late to eradicate the poison, 
 but the venom poison might be counteract- 
 ed, the far-spreading mischief restrained 
 
 " Xavier," implored the curate, read- 
 ing the thoughts and struggles passing 
 within, " think of me in distance; muse 
 upon my words, bosom my admonitions : 
 the spirit of your mother would plead for 
 the authority of your father : even when 
 the bleak black towers of Calo rise be- 
 fore your eyes, cherish him with reve- 
 rence, confound him not with the ene- 
 mies of Sweden." 
 
 " I will strive," said Xavier, mourn- 
 fully — " I will think of his tenderness to 
 my mother, of all his virtues, of all his 
 known worth. But he must not tax me 
 beyond my strength ; he must not think 
 to woo me against the interests of my 
 country." 
 
 " Fear it not," rejoined de Stiernhelm :
 
 238 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " deciphering your national bias, he will 
 not ask you to unsheath your sword 
 against your conscience." 
 
 " Rather, far rather would I die," ener- 
 getically pronounced Xavier, " than add 
 one link to the chain of her bitter wrongs : 
 however, my strange, my capricious des- 
 tiny may wed me to Denmark, Sweden 
 will live in the latest pulse of my 
 heart." 
 
 " Enough — enough," said de Stiern- 
 helm. " Now let me warn you against 
 the prejudices of our mistaken Ingle- 
 burge. You must visit Oernetz — you 
 must bid her adieu. But at the name of 
 Denmark, should she forget the sacred 
 claims of nature, tell her that you go to 
 crave a blessing — not from the governor 
 of Calo— but from a father, honoured and 
 beloved ; from the chosen husband of our 
 sainted Magdalene." 
 
 " And Rustgoden," said Xavier, hesi- 
 tatingly ; " dear sir, may 1 not bear my 
 adieu to our friends ?"
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 239 
 
 " Yes, and return again to Saverdsio," 
 replied the curate, " for I would covet the 
 last embrace — I may be selfish, but I 
 would not spare it even to our sweet 
 Sigrida." 
 
 Xavier's whole soul lighted in his eyes ; 
 his face flushed crimson ; a thrilling, a 
 wild sensation quickened the pulse at his 
 heart; never, even in thought, had he 
 touched the downy cheek of the maid, 
 and his uncle spoke of an embrace, with 
 a quietude, a composure, ah, how foreign 
 to love ! 
 
 " To-morrow," pursued de Stiernhelm, 
 heedless of his emotion, " you may de- 
 part for Oernetz, and from thence to 
 Rustgoden : and mark ye, say to Ladis- 
 laus, that his presence will soon be cha- 
 rity, for the curacy is about to lose its 
 chief charm ; and say to Sigrida too, if an 
 old man can recompense the desertion of 
 a young one, I would fain sue her favor." 
 
 " Desertion,' echoed Xavier, and tears 
 unfeigned sprung to his eyes.
 
 240 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " Say absence," quickly rejoined de 
 Stiernhelm, rallying every vestige of 
 cheerfulness ; " you are fastidious, my 
 dear boy, and stickle upon terms." 
 
 Xavier pressed the hand of his uncle. 
 " I shall indeed feel happy in the con- 
 sciousness of such a circle," he exclaim- 
 ed, entering into his motives : " when 
 journeying in distance, however I may 
 be missed, home will not be lonely." 
 
 But this hinted-at visit of Sigrida to 
 the curacy, lived in the brain of the un- 
 conscious lover long after his head had 
 wooed the pillow of forgetfulness ; her 
 rambles amid the wilds of his native 
 mountains — her studied cares for the 
 comforts of the good de Stiernhelm — her 
 homage of his character — her almost filial 
 reverence of his virtues. " Alas! and in 
 my mind's eye shall I alone behold thee, 
 Sigrida," he murmured : " in the church- 
 yard, upon the grave of my dear mother, 
 thou must alone pluck away the weeds, 
 alone weep upon the turf." He remem-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 241 
 
 bered that she had once aided him in the 
 mournful office, and tears of tenderness 
 and gratitude flooded his cheeks ; he re- 
 called her looks, her attitude ; the melt- 
 ing tone of her voice, when whispering 
 consolation, she pointed to the vault 
 above, bidding him hail the enskied and 
 sainted spirit of her whose deeds on earth 
 were blameless. 
 
 * And wilt thou think of me?" he mused 
 — " Dearest, dearest Sigrida, wilt thou 
 mourn me when far away ? — wilt thou 
 credit me with sorrow and regret in this 
 self-sacrifice? 
 
 Long and heavy were the hours of 
 night ; darkness shrouded the face of the 
 heavens, and not one single ray checker- 
 ed the deep blank of his chamber. The 
 wakeful slave of perturbation, vainly he 
 smoothed his pillow; the thorn of dis- 
 satisfaction was thickly scattered, and 
 busy anticipations, and wild and shape- 
 less ills, heavy trials, and aching endu- 
 rance, crouded on each other ; inquietude 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and apprehension hung boding on his 
 spirits, and not until the flaky grey of 
 morning spread o'er the uplands, did he 
 once partake of the " divine oblivion of 
 low-thoughted ease." Short was the in- 
 dulgence: a foot- fall in the passage broke 
 the silken fetters : his door was slowly 
 opened, and he beheld his uncle, as 
 wakeful, and as restless as himself. 
 
 " I cannot sleep," said de Stiernhelm, 
 cautiously advancing; " and my busy 
 brain has been fraught with projects for 
 your happiness. I have pictured you in 
 various situations, my dear boy, and my 
 hopes and my expectations have alike 
 followed you in all." 
 
 " May they never, never leave me!" 
 ardently exclaimed Xavier, grasping the 
 fever-scorched hand of the curate — " my 
 best, my surest guides to honor, may they 
 lighten all my paths, and strengthen all 
 my ways !" 
 
 " They will be with you, even unto 
 death," solemnly pronounced de Stiern- 

 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 243 
 
 helm ; " for my soul is anchored on your 
 prosperity and well doing. I lose sight 
 of you in confidence ; for though trials, 
 numerous and varied, await you in the 
 scenes you are about to visit — though I 
 may not have fitted you, for the states- 
 man, or the warrior, your principles are 
 my boast and my glory !" 
 
 " And why not the warrior?" asked 
 Xavier, stealing a sidelong glance at his 
 uncle. 
 
 " Because you have been reared in the 
 bosom of peace," replied the curate ; " you 
 have heard of the tempests of the world, 
 but you have never mourned the wreck." 
 
 " Oh yes! I have mourned — I do mourn 
 the misery of my fellow countrymen," 
 eagerly rejoined Xavier. " Dearest uncle, 
 how little do you know my heart, if you 
 guess it cold and uninterested ! The wreck 
 of Sweden, is the wreck of every one of 
 her sons." 
 
 " I could wish you to think less of ex- 
 isting policy," remarked de Stiernhelm ; 
 m 2
 
 244 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 " to sink the art, and chicanery, and 
 hidden wheels of human government, in 
 the home-claims of individual interest." 
 
 "Then must I cease to think," said 
 Xavier, with a bitter sigh; " tyranny, 
 strained to its climax, defies the mind to 
 forgetfulness." 
 
 " You mistake me, dear boy, not for- 
 getfulness, but acquiescence." 
 
 " What own ourselves slaves," exclaim- 
 ed Xavier — " bow to the imperious tyrant 
 who lords it over our lives — bend our 
 necks to the iron yoke of Denmark? Holy 
 heaven! not to be the governor of all Jut- 
 land, not to be the acknowledged fa- 
 vorite of the triple-crowned Nero, would 
 I sink, so degraded, so low. But for my 
 father — " and his voice trembled, and his 
 cheek grew pale — " I would grasp the 
 sword of retributive vengeance, and dim 
 the burnish of its blade in the vital blood 
 of Christiern — I would crave at his hands, 
 the persons of our valiant hostages ; of 
 Ericson, Sigonis, Ryning; of "
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 245 
 
 " You terrify me, Xavier," interrupted 
 the curate. " These fearful gusts of pas- 
 sion, augur a spirit of no common daring : 
 alas ! how in absence can 1 allay anxiety, 
 when I know you borne on the wild wing 
 of your own impetuosity ?" 
 
 " Your pardon, dearest sir," implored 
 Xavier. " 'Tis the only theme which 
 hurries me beyond self. I could bear 
 the smart of individual wrong; but so 
 much injustice, so much persecution, so 
 much blood, stirs every bosomed spring 
 of patriotism." 
 
 " 'Tis the theme on which I would most 
 impress the necessity of forbearance," 
 anxiously resumed de Stiernhelm ; " the 
 theme which threatens interest and safety. 
 When far away, should it be started, re- 
 member me; and where you cannot ac- 
 cord, be silent : it may cost a momentary 
 effort, but the love and the blessing of a 
 parent be the recompence." 
 
 " If my father be as. my heart would 
 fain picture," said Xavier, " prejudice
 
 240 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 cannot harden him to conviction; he may 
 be born the subject, but he cannot be the 
 agent of Christiern." 
 
 " The mind of man is versatile and un- 
 stable," replied the curate, " subject to 
 casualties, and imbibing often the colour 
 of local circumstances : the same actions, 
 through different perceptions, bear often 
 a contrary bias ; the motives wear a con- 
 trasting colouring, the results are weighed 
 by a different standard." 
 
 " Yet is crime, crime," exclaimed Xa- 
 vier, " be the powers of sophistry what 
 they may." 
 
 " Alas ! and it will prove so," pursued 
 de Stiernhelm, " when all human power 
 shall have ceased : the regal purple, may, 
 upon earth, varnish the actions of princes ; 
 but above, where the potentate classes 
 with the beggar, there lies no distinction, 
 no clause." 
 
 " And here, even here," rejoined Xa- 
 vier, " in life, in every- day existence, the 
 diadem cannot ease the heart-ache ; the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 247 
 
 servile flattery of sycophants, cannot 
 ward the accusing pang, or give serenity 
 to the parting hour. Christiern — can 
 Christiern think of eternity, and not shud- 
 der at the inky die of his own deeds ? — 
 can he reflect on his deep, wide system 
 of persecution, and not writhe beneath 
 the load of his own enormities ?" 
 
 " His hour of reflection has not yet 
 dawned," said the curate; " hurried away 
 by the frenzy of passion, forgetful of his 
 own mortality, he thinks not of hereafter 
 reckoning. The mighty talent committed 
 to his keeping, he wields as the thunder 
 of wrath, rather than the balmy spring of 
 gentleness : blind and self-confiding, he 
 dares the curses of his fellow-men, regard- 
 less that the breath of kings, alike hangs 
 on the hair-fibre of time and fate. But 
 I would fain have the name of Christiern 
 banished our converse of your father: 
 trust me, there exists no similarity to 
 couple them with each other. Years 
 have transpired, since confidence placed
 
 248 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 me at the same board with Banner ; but 
 from the known integrity of his heart, 
 from the rectitude of his principles, I can 
 confide you to his keeping, content to im- 
 press on your mind the duty of obedience. 
 Depart then, my son, in the firm convic- 
 tion of his worth ; honour him, as he de- 
 serves to be honoured — love him, as his 
 actions claim the fealty of the heart." 
 
 Enriched with the blessing of his pas- 
 tor-uncle, yet full of thought and care, 
 Xavier journeyed towards Oernetz. A 
 meridian sun shone bright in the heavens, 
 when he reached the wooded borders of 
 the lake ; yet lost to its picturesque beau- 
 ties, to the contrasts of light and shade, 
 to the dazzling varieties of the hoar-frost 
 hanging pendent from the branches, he 
 struck into a winding path, nor paused 
 until beneath the roof of the sister of his 
 lost mother. 
 
 A thousand questions crowded upon 
 each other — Ingleburge wept in the full- 
 ness of her joy. She loved him as her
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 249 
 
 own son: in infancy, she had adminis- 
 tered to his helplessness, and hailed the 
 first smile of tender recognition ; she had 
 often pillowed his head on her own bo- 
 som, and garnered in him the hoard of 
 love she had borne Magdalene : how 
 then could she hear of his departure, and 
 for Denmark too, without a shudder icing 
 her whole frame? — how, without every 
 prejudice of her nature, rising in arms at 
 the sound. 
 
 Again did Banner become as obnoxi- 
 ous, as when at the first announcement 
 of his name, she had stolen a glance at 
 her trembling sister ; again did he threat- 
 en to deprive her of the being she most 
 loved — and again did her hatred of Den- 
 mark revive in all its bitterness. 
 
 " Can Magnus part with you in such a 
 season?" she asked — " can he lend you 
 to a cause which grinds our country's 
 best hopes, and mounts upon her ruin ?" 
 
 " The cause of Sweden will ever be 
 most precious to my heart," replied Xa- 
 m 5
 
 250 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 vier. " I may sojourn in Jutland, but in 
 Sweden alone, in this my native land, will 
 all my interests be anchored." 
 
 " Why then brave the threats and the 
 bribery of Christiern?" quickly rejoined 
 Ingleburge — " why expose yourself to the 
 subtle foe who works our overthrow ? — 
 why so willingly fly the haunts of your 
 youthful years, and abandon friends who 
 so fervently love you ?" 
 
 " The wishes of my father, must not, 
 cannot be neglected," said Xavier; he 
 requires my presence, and opposition 
 would not only be weak, but wicked. 
 Scrupulously regardful of the dying in- 
 junctions of my dear mother, he has left 
 me in peaceful seclusion until now." 
 
 " And, now," reproachfully observed 
 Ingleburge, " he would turn your strength 
 and your sword against the country you 
 ought to cherish ; he would invite you 
 into the viper-nest of our foes, to poison 
 your integrity, and mislead your heart." 
 
 " My father — this of my father," ex-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 251 
 
 claimed Xavier, and the rush of wounded 
 feeling flushed his cheek to crimson. 
 
 " Your father is the adherent of the 
 tyrant Christiern," resumed Ingleburge, 
 " and as such, must dare the lash of every 
 true-born Swede. Dearly as I love you, 
 Xavier, rather would I see your eyes of 
 fire closed, your face faded to clay — ra- 
 ther would I know you the silent tenant 
 of your mother's resting-place, than 
 crowned with the hateful symbols of Da- 
 nish grandeur — rather ." 
 
 " You are wrong — you are hurried 
 away by weak and senseless prejudice,"' 
 interrupted Peterson, who till now had 
 been silently observant of all that passed! 
 " Tis well, Ingleburge, you live in a cor- 
 ner, shut away from public intercourse, 
 else might your political jaundice, your 
 mad adherence to a fallen state, mar our 
 comforts and our lives. What more, than 
 liberty and property, did we enjoy under 
 the administration of prince Steno ? The 
 king of Denmark now grasps the reins,
 
 252 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and the like indulgence, and the like 
 favors, are our own." 
 
 "And Sweden," questioned Ingleburge, 
 " her rights and her indemnities, her 
 hopes and her honours, her nobles and 
 her senators, her possessions and her 
 charters, her ." 
 
 " We must be bounded by a home- 
 view," again interrupted the selfish Peter- 
 son ; " we must be content to tread in 
 the every-day path of our fellow men. It 
 is not a season for heroism — " and he 
 forced a laugh, as he turned to his indig- 
 nant nephew. 
 
 Xavier spoke not, but he felt cold, dis- 
 gusted, heart-struck. Ingleburge cast on 
 her husband a glance of withering con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " My feelings, and my views, are less 
 circumscribed," she replied : — " /would 
 seek happiness in the welfare of thou- 
 sands — / would know prosperity but in 
 the glory of my country. It is not the 
 paltry bribe of self-security, which can
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 253 
 
 wed me to her tyrants, or silence me to 
 her wrongs." 
 
 " Pity," remarked Peterson, " that such 
 sentiments own not the form and prowess 
 of a hero ! Marry, my good wife, but thou 
 would be a host in a bankrupt cause." 
 
 " Tis a cause too sacred for banter," 
 mournfully resumed Ingleburge ; "a 
 cause, which ought to chain the heart, 
 which ought to rivet the soul of every 
 Swede. What is self? — what the incon- 
 sequential claim of individual welfare, 
 compared to the freedom of a whole 
 nation ? — what the paltry lure of interest, 
 to the redemption of our liberty, to the 
 salvation of our laws V 9 
 
 " The martyrs of old were mere suck- 
 lings," ironically remarked Peterson : 
 " such heroism would bear to the stake." 
 
 " I would," eagerly rejoined Ingle- 
 burge, her still beautiful features glowing 
 with the vigour of her mind, " that it 
 could show itself in more than words! 
 Called into action, chosen a humble
 
 254 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 agent in the rescue of my country, such 
 a cause would nerve my woman's heart 
 even unto death !" 
 
 " Tis well," said Peterson, " the fire 
 spreads not from your bosom to mine : 
 such sentiments, or even the shadow of 
 such sentiments, breathed within the hear- 
 ing of Crumpein, would doom a whole 
 race to the scaffold. In truth, Ingle- 
 burge, I could wish you to curb, such 
 wild, such dreaming fooleries : however 
 harmless from a woman's lips, it is not the 
 season to give them being." 
 
 " They will die with me," exclaimed 
 Ingleburge ; and as she quitted the cham- 
 ber, her eye seemed to say, " How could 
 I pledge my faith, to a being, so oppo- 
 site, so dead to all the better feelings of 
 my nature ? — how trust to him my honor? 
 — how swear him fealty unto death !" 
 
 Long after Xavier had bid adieu to 
 Oernetz, did he muse upon the contrast- 
 ing characters, of the politic Peterson, 
 and the patriotic Ingleburge ; upon the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 255 
 
 selfish caution of the one, and the mag- 
 nanimity of the other ; characters, as op- 
 posite, as the meridian glory of the hea- 
 vens to the ebon die of midnight. 
 
 " And yet destiny couples them in one 
 link," he sighed ; " marriage forges the 
 bond, which human sympathies cannot 
 warrant. Oh ! may the sun of my liberty 
 set in a brighter atmosphere ! Should 1 
 e'er assume the name of husband — should 
 I be so favoured, so blessed, may one 
 hope, one wish, one impulse, live in our 
 hearts ! one spontaneous spring of love 
 and concord !" 
 
 The form, the radiant image of Sigrida, 
 her look of gentleness, her smile of con- 
 ciliation, glowing on memory, thrilled 
 through every pulse of his being; it quick- 
 ened the throbbings of his heart ; it burnt 
 in his very temples : and yet he augured 
 not love ; he pictured not the tyranny of 
 passion. Sigrida was the fairest and the 
 best of created beings ; but he fancied, 
 that he could bid her adieu, that in dis-
 
 256 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 tance, he could think upon her virtues, 
 with the like equanimity, the like regret, 
 the like placid feeling, which ever accom- 
 panied the remembrance of her father.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 257 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 In paradise the devil came, 
 Blighting and nipping every bud of bliss j. 
 Yet man on earth takes safety to himself, 
 As though of wisdom infinite. 
 
 JL HE heroic Ingleburge, together with 
 the cold and speculative lord of Oernetz, 
 faded like mists before the sunbeams, as 
 the distant smoke of Rustgoden, spiring 
 in mid- air, met the searching glance of 
 Xavier. Each pace, each instant, rea- 
 lized the oft-recalled beauties of many a 
 mental vision ; each spot, each turning, 
 each tangled brake, and wooded defile, 
 teemed with fond remembrance: the rich 
 burnish of passion glowed in every cor- 
 ner; the vivid tissue of love, shed a se- 
 ductive, a brilliant colouring. 
 
 It was the close of a day of unclouded 
 splendour; "the bright-haired sun was
 
 258 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 making a golden set," and the vermeil 
 bosom of the west was tinged with flaky 
 streaks of radiance: earth and sky caught 
 the dying blaze, and every distant pin- 
 nacle, and every jutting steep, borrowed 
 the redundant glory. 
 
 Xavier paused even upon the brow of 
 the descent leading to the dwelling of 
 Ladislaus ; his excursive eye wandered 
 o'er the picturesque outline ; and from 
 the creation, his heart, his whole spirit, 
 rose to the Creator. It was a scene of 
 commingling beauty; no breath ruffling 
 the placid calm, although the air was chill 
 and piercing: hills, and rocks, and wood- 
 ed steeps, crowded upon each other; 
 varying shades, and contrasting tints: 
 the violet cones of the larch, the scarlet 
 clustres of the sorb- apple, dappling the 
 emerald green of the mosses ; solemn firs, 
 bursting into festoons of vivid verdure, 
 and shooting from their far-spreading ex- 
 tremities, yellow tufts of stamina, shining, 
 and glistening, like the fairy lamp of the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 259 
 
 glow-worm! He sighed as he recalled 
 the mandate which must so soon shut 
 him from this scene of peace ; and then 
 he strove to dwell upon the outraged 
 rights of his country, upon the total de- 
 spoliation of her hopes and her resources, 
 upon the die of slavery, which darkening 
 the present, shrouded in despair all pro- 
 mise of the future. But Sigrida mocked 
 the effort: " white as the driven snow; 
 sweet as the breathing gale; like the 
 fair spirit of heaven in the midst of 
 his shadowy mist," Sigrida seemed to 
 hover around ; seemed, as a vision of 
 bliss, to enwrap his thoughts and his 
 senses ; her auburne hair floating on the 
 breeze; her eye of fire melting into 
 softness.. 
 
 " Well might she chide my delay," he 
 exclaimed, " could she but guess my tar- 
 rying — " and with an elastic step he ad- 
 vanced, and speedily crossed the little 
 brook skirting the garden ; with one 
 bound he cleared the wicket, and sound-
 
 260 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 less as fabled fear, approached the close 
 shut casement. 
 
 " Will joy speak in the surprise?" he 
 mentally asked, peeping anxiously into 
 the chamber — " will my return be hailed 
 with the smile of gladness ?" 
 
 Sigrida was seated alone ; her work 
 lay scattered on the table ; one white hand 
 pillowed her cheek : she wore more than 
 her usual interest, for a cast of care sad- 
 dened her features ; she raised her eyes 
 at the suddenly intercepting shadow, and 
 he heard her wild and fearful shriek, as 
 she started from her seat. 
 
 " Tis I — 'tis your own friend — 'tis Xa- 
 vier," he exclaimed, hurrying to the en- 
 trance. The next moment he was in her 
 presence — Her hand was extended, but 
 no beam of joy greeted him, for she was 
 pale, trembling, and sobbing. Regret 
 and self-reproach hung upon the lips of 
 Xavier \ — he stood with her hand clasped 
 in his. 
 
 " Dearest Sigrida," he implored, " be
 
 TJHE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 261 
 
 calm, be pacified. Why do I see you 
 thus agitated ?" 
 
 " How — how could you terrify me so V 
 sobbed Sigrida. " I thought — I feared — 
 1— T ." 
 
 " What could you think? — what could 
 you fear ?" demanded the youth. 
 
 " I feared that it were other than a 
 friend," faltered the maid ; that the man 
 — the — the — " she paused, timid and 
 blushing. 
 
 " What man?" questioned Xavier, new 
 fears, new sensations, rushing on his 
 feelings. 
 
 " A silly weak man," replied Sigrida, 
 " whom I once met in Rustgoden, who 
 has since sought me even in our own 
 garden." 
 
 " Silly — weak," repeated Xavier — "how 
 judge you of his weakness ?" 
 
 " He calls me a daughter of the sky — 
 an angel — nay, all that is profane and 
 wicked," said the artless girl. 
 
 " And is that all the proof of his weak-
 
 262 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 ness V rejoined Xavier, his own eyes 
 beaming a fire which crimsoned the face 
 of the maid. 
 
 " I hope he is weak then, or else he 
 must be very, very wicked," she pursued. 
 
 " Is it wicked to glorify the works of 
 the Creator?" ardently demanded Xa- 
 vier — " to admire the beauties of his la- 
 vish pencil — to adore the bright perfec- 
 tions of his unerring hand ?" 
 
 " Oh no ! it is but just homage," ex- 
 claimed Sigrida ; " it is the heart's best 
 acknowledgment for favor and for boun- 
 ty. I never see the Baltic — I never hear 
 the roar of its waves — I never trace its 
 feathered surf, curling, foaming, sparkling 
 in the sunbeams, but my soul feels wrapt 
 in adoration, my spirit tranced in re- 
 verence !" 
 
 Why then tax the stranger with ido- 
 latry?" interrogated Xavier, ardently pe- 
 rusing her animated features. 
 
 " Dearest Xavier, what similarity can 
 exist ? — what resemblance can be traced ?
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 263 
 
 The mighty ocean, the creation, the fir- 
 mament, all proclaiming the wonder- 
 working hand of the Divinity, demand 
 our homage, rivet our ." 
 
 " And human excellence — is not hu- 
 man excellence the work of the Divinity 
 also ?" interrupted Xavier. " Sweet, love- 
 ly Sigrida, a mind, a disposition, pure, 
 unspotted, a heart devoid of guile, alike 
 rivets, alike demands our homage." 
 
 Amazement and mild reproof spoke in 
 the glance of her eye ; she drew away 
 her hand, as gravely she replied, " I 
 thought flattery and unmeaning compli- 
 ment was banished Saverdsio; but though 
 shut out from the world, the world's fol- 
 lies, and the world's practices, reach even 
 here." 
 
 " You mistake me — you wrong me," 
 energetically pronounced Xavier : " as 
 well may you tax my revered uncle with 
 the art of flattery ; for he too, Sigrida, 
 loves virtue, and possesses sufficient dis- 
 crimination to mark her genuine excel-
 
 1 
 
 264 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 lence. But, my gentle friend, tell me of 
 this man? I would fain know all his 
 presumption. What thinks — what says 
 your father?" 
 
 " I have not even hinted it to my 
 father." 
 
 " Is that right? — is that consistent with 
 your general candour ?" reproachfully 
 questioned Xavier. 
 
 Sigrida burst into tears. " Do not — 
 do not condemn me," she implored — " I 
 have been very unhappy — I would have 
 given the world to have seen Mr. de 
 Stiernhelm ; but I dared not, I could not 
 tell my father." 
 
 " I cannot guess a preventive," said 
 Xavier, gravely. 
 
 " Oh yes! you must see it, as I see it," 
 eagerly rejoined the maid. " Had he 
 been one of our own miners, or one 
 wearing the peasant-garb of lowliness, I 
 would have flown to my dear father, and 
 told him all." 
 
 " What did he wear ? — how did he
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 265 
 
 look ?" urged Xavier, fresh interest ga- 
 thering every moment. 
 
 " He looked fierce and formidable ; 
 and no one could tell whence he came ; 
 for Hetha, who felt as sore frightened as 
 myself, went in the evening to Rustgoden 
 on purpose to question. I feel surrounded 
 by danger — I feel threatened with un- 
 guessed-at ill — I cannot help thinking," 
 and she lowered her voice to a whis- 
 per, " that he is a cruel, hateful, lurking 
 Dane." 
 
 Xavier felt the speech pierce deep to 
 his heart, yet struggling with his feelings — 
 " 1 can still trace no cause for conceal- 
 ment from your father," he observed. 
 
 " Oh ! but I can trace more than cause, 
 I can trace madness in the disclosure. 
 My father has the spirit of a lion ; and 
 should we exasperate this Dane, think, 
 dearest Xavier — " and an ice-shudder 
 robbed her cheek of its bloom — " think 
 of the fearful deadly consequence; think 
 of the lawless rule of power; think of 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 26*(i THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Stockholm ; think of the waste of inno- 
 cent blood." 
 
 " But when did you last see this man? 
 — this intruder ?" interrogated Xavier, 
 after a pause of thought. 
 
 " I saw him only yesterday, and he 
 seemed lurking round our dwelling, as 
 though he had mischief in his head." 
 
 " 1 would I too could see him — I would 
 accost him — I would question him, al- 
 though he were Christiern himself." 
 
 "And draw ruin on us all," said Sigrida. 
 
 " Not on you, Sigrida — " trembling and 
 almost inarticulate — " rather, far rather 
 would I die." 
 
 The thrilling tone of his voice, the deep 
 sigh which swelled his bosom, met a re- 
 sponsive feeling; her fair face was de- 
 luged in tears, yet she turned not away, she 
 hid not the dangerous softness. Scarcely 
 conscious of the movement, Xavier threw 
 himself at her side ; he clasped her hand 
 in his, and her head, for many moments, 
 reclined upon his shoulder.
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 267 
 
 " 1 am very weak, very foolish," she 
 sobbed out, striving to rally back compo- 
 sure : " but this little incident has put to 
 flight all my courage, and made me as 
 timid and as fearful as when — " she hesi- 
 tated, paused, then bending her lip close 
 to his ear — " I wish," she continued, 
 " my dear father would put away that 
 sword : if he would only bury it in the 
 graden, or hide it till safer times." 
 
 " Your father," said Xavier, " attaches 
 too religious a reverence for that sword 
 to treat it so uncourtly. Remember, its 
 rust is the blood of his enemies, and he 
 hugs in it the precious record of past 
 glory." 
 
 " Alas ! I never think of it without 
 trembling," rejoined Sigrida. " Was 
 Christiern, or any of Christiern's emis- 
 saries, to suspect ought of that sword, 
 our dwelling would be fired, and not one 
 stone left standing upon another." 
 
 " But the sword, and this terror, have 
 nought to do with the stranger," remarked 
 n2
 
 268 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 Xavier. " I pray you, Sigrida, be minute 
 and circumstantial : tell me, from first to 
 last, how he looked, and what he said ?" 
 " It was the self- same day that you re- 
 turned to Saverdsio," said Sigrida, " after 
 the mysterious flight of the warrior we 
 had sheltered in the snow-storm. The 
 sun shining so bright and so cheerful, 1 
 tied on my cloak, and went to Rust- 
 goden, to visit the bed-ridden mother of 
 a poor destitute family. Just as I had 
 descended the hill, and reached the large 
 clump of birch-trees at the entrance of 
 the village, I saw a tall, fierce, soldier- 
 like looking stranger, turning and facing 
 me. With one glance, I found he be- 
 longed not to our hamlet, and then I 
 would have passed on, but stopping, he 
 asked if Rustgoden lay not before him ? 
 Well, he persecuted me with a thousand 
 questions, continuing to walk by my side, 
 and often crimsoning my cheeks with 
 vexation, at his fulsome compliments, and 
 disagreeable looks : he "
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 269 
 
 " Why did you not bid him quit, and 
 follow you at his peril?" interrupted 
 Xavier. 
 
 " How could I?" asked Sigrida — "away 
 from my own home, and quite alone, quite 
 defenceless." 
 
 " Not a single inhabitant in the whole 
 village," said the youth, " who would not 
 have defended you from such an uncour- 
 teous knave." 
 
 "You are unkind, Xavier; you give 
 my motive but little credit : alas ! I was 
 too frightened to crave succour, for the 
 wind, blowing on one side the long cloak 
 of the stranger, revealed a belt stuck full 
 of deadly weapons, and a uniform be- 
 speaking him in the service of Denmark." 
 
 " Of Denmark," echoed Xavier, grasp- 
 ing involuntarily the arm of Sigrida. 
 
 " Yes, of Denmark," pursued the maid ; 
 " and turning death-sick, I thought I 
 must have fallen on the earth, for the life 
 of my father seemed threatened. I am 
 sure he read my terrors, for when my
 
 270 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 blood iced, he smiled, and asked me why 
 I trembled ? and then he talked of our 
 own mountains, spoke of hiding-corners 
 and lurking traitors, artfully questioned 
 of the Danish interest, and strove to worm 
 out, whether, in Rustgoden, all hearts 
 wef*e staunch and loyal to the cause of 
 Denmark." 
 
 " What could you say? — what did you 
 say?" anxiously interrogated Xavier. 
 
 " I remembered the oft-impressed cau- 
 tions of my dear father," replied Sigrida; 
 " and I told him, I was but a poor pea- 
 sant girl, and that I knew nought beyond 
 the every-day duties of my own house- 
 hold." 
 
 " What then did he say?" 
 
 " Why then," hesitating and blushing, 
 " he again flew into a thousand rhapso- 
 dies ; said I was an agel — that he dreamt 
 not such a blossom flowered among rocks 
 and wildernesses — that — that " 
 
 " That what?" urged Xavier. 
 
 " Oh ! no more — no more," implored
 
 THE FESTIVAL GF MORA. 271 
 
 Sigrida, bending her burning face upon 
 her bosom — " I pray you, have done with 
 such folly : be content^ that I shame for 
 — that I hate him — and do let us consult 
 now upon what is best to be done." 
 
 " Nay, I must first hear all," gravely 
 rejoined the youth, " however it may 
 sting, however it may wound me." 
 
 * Wound you," artlessly repeated Si- 
 grida — " dear Xavier, how can it wound 
 you?" 
 
 Xavier gazed upon her for a moment, 
 steadfastly, yet tenderly ; his heart throb- 
 bed high ; his sensations were inexplicable 
 to himself. 
 
 " If I was beset by peril, if I was 
 surrounded by snares," he at length fal- 
 tered, " would not you, as a dear, a 
 trusted, a warm friend, tremble for my 
 safety?" 
 
 " Perils! snares! Blessed Mary! how 
 you conjure ills! why you are even worse 
 than Hetha." 
 
 " Hetha's feelings are nothing to my
 
 272 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 feelings," said Xavier, in a voice, and with 
 a look of depression. 
 
 " And yet Hetha has known me from 
 the hour of my birth." 
 
 Xavier only sighed. 
 
 " Do body your fears," implored the 
 innocent girl, drawing close to his side, 
 and placing her white soft hand upon his 
 — do tell me what else is necessary be- 
 side discretion ?" 
 
 " A father's counsel," exclaimed Xa- 
 vier, sighing yet heavier than before. 
 
 " Know you not," solemnly pronounced 
 Sigrida, " that my father was the friend 
 of the late administrator? — that in the 
 fatal battle of Bogesund, he was with him 
 when he died? — that flying for life, he 
 veils beneath the assumed name of La- 
 dislaus, the great " 
 
 " Hold!" interrupted the youth — " be- 
 tray not a father's secret. I must not — I 
 will not even dream his rank, until will- 
 ingly he commits it to my keeping." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," resumed Si-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 273 
 
 grida, after a pause of thought. " I have 
 heard my father say, it was too dangerous 
 a communication to be consigned to the 
 ear of friendship, lest involving others in 
 his own wreck, he should destroy where 
 he ought to save. 'Tis political, 'tis pru- 
 dent, 'tis wisely judged : knowing my fa- 
 ther but as Ladislaus, vou cannot be con- 
 founded in the crime of his past struggles." 
 
 " But this formidable stranger," ex- 
 claimed Xavier, again reverting to the 
 point from which they had digressed. 
 
 " Must I repeat all his nonsense?" ask- 
 ed Sigrida, casting her beautiful eyes on 
 the ground. 
 
 " Or else, how weigh the danger? — 
 how guard against the evil? Believe me, 
 my gentle friend," placing his arm around 
 her waist, " if I were your own brother, 
 your honour, and your safety, could not 
 be more precious. Tell me then, the ex- 
 tent of presumption, that reporting all at 
 Saverdsio, we may be guided by the wis- 
 dom of my good uncle ?" 
 
 N 5
 
 274 THE FESTIVAL OP MORA. 
 
 " First promise me, never to hint it to 
 my clear father. Oh ! if through me, he 
 were to be discovered, he were to be re- 
 cognised, remorse and endless misery 
 would be my portion." 
 
 " Fear me not — doubt me not-— all you 
 can wish, I promise. Now, dearest Si- 
 grida, your confidence." 
 
 " The man asked me if I were a native 
 of Rustgoden V hesitatingly resumed Si- 
 grida; " then followed the name of my 
 parents, the size of my family, my pur- 
 suits, my occupations? and all at once, 
 fixing his great eyes upon my face, 
 whether any stranger had recently vi- 
 sited the village ? Assuming surprise 
 and ignorance, I asked what stranger? 
 and in my turn learned, that a glorious 
 patriot, a brave and persecuted warrior, 
 had found shelter beneath our roof. I 
 thought of my dream, of the three crowns 
 of Sweden surmounting the Danish lions, 
 and my heart beat, and my feelings almost 
 betrayed me. Well, parrying all his ques- 
 tions, and keeping a strict guard upon
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 275 
 
 my fears, we parted at the door of the 
 cottage of the sick dame, and I tarried 
 there, God forgive me! questioning of her 
 ailments, but more to get quit of the 
 stranger : and when I thought he was far 
 from Rustgoden, then I- " 
 
 " Surely, surely," interrupted Xavier, 
 " you attempted not to return alone ¥ 
 
 " Where could I seek a guard?" asked 
 Sigrida, " the men all working in the 
 mines, and one little timid girl watching 
 by the bed-side of the invalid. I did re- 
 turn alone, but I scarce touched the earth, 
 so light, so swift, so soundless were my 
 movements ; yet when 1 reached that fatal 
 clump of birch- trees, the same dark figure 
 was cowering beneath their shadow/' 
 
 " Doubtless, he was tarrying a second 
 glimpse," observed Xavier, reading all 
 solution of the mystery in the exquisite 
 loveliness of her form and features. 
 
 " He was standing, wrapped up in his 
 cloak, with his arms folded, and his face 
 turned towards the village," pursued Si-
 
 270 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 grid a : " and he looked so gigantic, and 
 so terrific, that eager to escape, I struck 
 out of the path, thinking to ascend the 
 hill by one of the kine- tracks." 
 
 " And he followed, and he supported 
 you in your toil," said Xavier, in a tone 
 of such bitterness, that Sigrida fearfully 
 started ; surprised, and doubtful, she view- 
 ed him for a moment in silence, then with 
 a sigh resumed : " He would have sup- 
 ported, but I shrunk aghast, for — " and a 
 bright vermillion glowed upon her cheek — 
 "as soon would I have wooed the coil of 
 the cockatrice, as the arm of one who had 
 aided in the slavery of Sweden." 
 
 " Dear, heroic girl !" murmured Xavier, 
 and every vestige of bitterness fled. 
 
 " How could you suspect it otherwise?" 
 reproachfully asked the maid. " Know 
 you not, my friend, that wedded to the 
 country which gave me being, the daugh- 
 ter of one of her bravest champions, the 
 proudest, the dearest wish of my heart, 
 is her prosperity and her honor? that
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 277 
 
 anchoring every hope on her re- d awning- 
 glory, I " 
 
 11 Forgive me — forgive me," implored 
 Xavier. " I know not why, Sigrida, but 
 the presumption of this bold man, makes 
 me unjust even to you." 
 
 " Sigrida smiled her acceptance of the 
 apology, and her hand lay passive in his, 
 as with a vivid blush she continued — " I 
 do think the stranger attributed my agi- 
 tation to bashfulness and timidity ; doubt- 
 less, he thought me a poor weak fool, 
 charmed with his notice; for he told a 
 long story about the omnipotence of pas- 
 sion, and tried to tangle me in a maze of 
 danger and imprudence — to — to — " and 
 her very temples burnt with the fire of in- 
 dignation — " to meet him again, and 
 alone, on the mountain." 
 
 " Dastard ! villain ! did he — did he 
 dare V? burst from the lips, from the heart 
 of Xavier. 
 
 " Heed it not, my friend ; he little knew 
 the mind he tempted. But I was obliged 
 to compromise with my proud feelings,
 
 278 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 and remembering all the cautions neces- 
 sary to our situation, and the dangers 
 threatening the discovery of my dear fa- 
 ther, to stoop to subterfuge. I told him 
 my actions were not in my own govern- 
 ance; that — that — " 
 
 " Proceed, dearest Sigrida." 
 
 " That there was one, in my own sphere, 
 who claimed all my time, and all my in- 
 terest. "Tis true, Xavier, you were at Sa- 
 verdsio — " raising her innocent eyes to 
 his face—" but I longed to crush all his 
 vain hopes, by explaining that I seldom 
 moved alone." 
 
 " You were right, Sigrida: but did you 
 think of me ?" and his voice softened into 
 tenderness — " at such a moment, did you 
 indeed calculate upon the devotion my 
 heart never fails to pay ?" 
 
 " Yes, I always think of you when ab- 
 sent:— how can I fail to think of you, 
 when I look at my dear father; and to 
 pray for you too, Xavier, as his deliverer 
 and best friend ?" 
 
 " And will you ever pray for me in ab-
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 279 
 
 sence ? — and will you ever think of me in 
 absence ?" eagerly questioned the youth- 
 ful lover, pressing her hand to his lips, 
 and painfully recalled to the purport of 
 his mission. " Will you, though destined 
 to sojourn in the country you hate, soften- 
 ing all asperity, bless with pity and with 
 friendship, the son of one of her nobles? — 
 sweet Sigrida, will you cherish past happy 
 hours of fellowship and confidence? — 
 will you remember, that the son of Ban- 
 ner is still the nephew of de Stiernhelm ?" 
 
 " No country can change your heart," 
 faltered Sigrida, and tears dimmed her 
 radiant eyes; " yes, my friend, my prayers 
 and my interest will journey with you, 
 will abide with you, even within the state- 
 prison of my unfortunate countrymen." 
 
 Xavier fearfully shuddered. 
 
 " Doubt it not — fear it not," she ar- 
 dently pursued ; " for will you not lack 
 our prayers more than when at Saverdsio ?" 
 
 " Virtue," exclaimed the youth, faintly 
 smiling, " is scarce virtue till tried ; and
 
 280 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 the prayers of the good and the pious are 
 ever as extreme unction to the soul. Yet 
 I meekly trust, Sigrida, even in Denmark, 
 the seeds of de Stiernhelm's precepts will 
 not be lost, will not be choked and smo- 
 thered by the rank tares of pernicious cus- 
 tom. Tis true, I go to mingle in new 
 scenes, and with new associates, but my 
 heart feels an adamantine shield in his ex- 
 ample. But of all this we can converse 
 at a fitter season — I pray you, of the 
 stranger. Did his presumption bear him 
 to the very gate of your dwelling?" 
 
 " I believe it would have borne him 
 within the gate of my dwelling," said Si- 
 grida, " for he was a strange bold man ; 
 and Hetha says, long after it was dusk, 
 she traced him wandering round the gar- 
 den. But why look you so grave and so 
 fierce, good Xavier? the waste, you know, 
 is common to every one ; and if he had 
 tarried till morning, we could not have 
 chased him thence." 
 
 " And did Hetha m^e concealment
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 281 
 
 from your father?" asked Xavier; " did 
 she recommend silence on a subject so 
 imperious ?" 
 
 " She wept and trembled as I recited 
 all that had passed ; and she besought 
 me, as I valued his liberty and his life, 
 not to disclose it to my father : she told 
 me of past sufferings, and past wrongs, 
 until she impressed the necessity so for- 
 cibly, that the very rack could not have 
 extorted it ; she " 
 
 " Doubtless, she counsels well," inter- 
 rupted Xavier, " for she judges from her 
 knowledge of the past; I but from the 
 present." 
 
 i( She said," resumed Sigrida, " that a 
 few days would weary out his patience, 
 and that quitting Rustgoden, all would be 
 well." 
 
 Xavier shook his head and sighed. 
 
 " When prone to evil, man is not so 
 easily discomfited," he observed ; " but 
 we will hope the best, yet sorely does it 
 grieve me to quit you in such a season,"
 
 282 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 u I fear but for my dear father," said 
 Sigrida; " for myself, he cannot harm 
 me: his love — what is his love to me?" 
 
 " His love," echoed Xavier — " has he 
 presumed — has he urged his love ?" 
 
 " He has tried to bribe Hetha with his 
 gold and his promises, as if fidelity could 
 be bribed, or love be purchased. He 
 knows little of love, forsooth ! Do you 
 think, Xavier, love can be won with gold ?" 
 
 " With gold," he exclaimed; " oh no ! 
 true, disinterested, pure, genuine love, 
 lives in the heart, and spurns the bribe of 
 empires." 
 
 " 1 am sure, if he was an emperor, I 
 could not love him," said Sigrida eagerly; 
 " and so, Xavier, neither his gold or his 
 love can harm me." 
 
 Xavier gazed upon her glowing cheek 
 and animated features, until the love he 
 had elicited, felt to kindle within him, 
 until conviction almost explained the mys- 
 tery of his feelings. 
 
 " My friend — my angel friend !" he
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 283 
 
 urged, " you must hide that beguiling face 
 — you must shut yourself close up, almost 
 from the light of heaven — you must go no 
 more, alone and unguarded, from the cot- 
 tage ; no, not even on the errand of be- 
 nevolence, must you visit Rustgoden. 
 The wolf prowls in open day, and jus- 
 tice, and common honor, lives no more in 
 Sweden." 
 
 " Yet there is a Power," exclaimed Si- 
 grida, raising her eyes, her clasped hands, 
 in pious appeal, " awful and omnipotent, 
 who watching over the destitute and the 
 helpless, readeth in secret, and knoweth 
 the actions and the hidden springs of 
 every heart ! who fitteth the back to the 
 burden — who chasteneth in grace, not 
 wrath P 
 
 " And who will uphold, who will gra- 
 ciously defend thy innocence," piously 
 pronounced Xavier, " spite of the machi- 
 nations of evil, and the malevolence of 
 man ! Yet does prudence and discretion 
 remain to ourselves. Whilst in a land of
 
 284 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 anarchy and violence, we must be wary, 
 neither must we sink into the trance of 
 self-security. Promise me then, dear Si- 
 grida, never, for a single instant, to forget 
 the dangers of the present hour ; never, 
 though this stranger come no more, alone 
 to dare the mountain-passes: promise me, 
 to submit all to the wisdom of my pastor- 
 uncle. And could I know you at Sa- 
 verdsio — could I leave you beneath his 
 sheltering wing — how light would seem 
 my journey ! how slight the pang of se- 
 paration !" 
 
 " If my promise can soften fatigue, can 
 reconcile distance, go in peace," said Si- 
 grida; "be satisfied, experience has made 
 me wise, nor tremble for my safety even 
 at Rustgoden. But see, yonder comes my 
 dear father — 'tis your turn to promise now : 
 remember, we must sink the stranger, and 
 all his train of terrors." 
 
 Two days did Xavier tarry beneath the 
 humble roof of Ladislaus ; and swift and 
 transient were those days ; bright as the
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 285 
 
 brightest sunbeam, flitting as the hopes 
 of promise ; a brief, a gilded era, too pure, 
 too exquisite to last; a dream of bliss, shin- 
 ing in the long years of futurity, and beg- 
 garing all of splendour and of greatness. 
 Ladislaus greeted him with friendship — 
 Sigrida's magic voice lulled him into the 
 oblivion of every care: for love, infant 
 love, in all his gay and subtle colourings, 
 veiled every thorn, and scattered nought 
 but deathless roses ! He thought of the 
 stranger — he watched for the stranger — 
 but no stranger came to scare felicity — 
 Sigrida whispered Hetha had prophecied 
 aright: and though his heart told him, 
 Sigrida, once seen, was never to be for- 
 gotten, suspicions and forebodings mar- 
 red not his paradise. He yielded to the 
 trance of illusion; for what, alas ! is hap- 
 piness, but illusion ?— he thought security 
 had dawned, because actual danger was 
 not apparent. 
 
 With the earliest blush of that day des- 
 tined to banish him from Rustgoden, Xa-
 
 286 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA 
 
 vier arose. ' As he gazed upon the mists 
 scudding like seas of vapour, upon the 
 growing glory of the east, upon the far- 
 spreading scenes of interest and endear- 
 ment, the first tear of despondence trem- 
 bled in his eye : perhaps, for the last time 
 he beheld them in peaceful security ; the 
 storm of war might gather, might in- 
 volve, might overwhelm; the perturbed 
 and wilful passions of men, might sweep 
 all in one black and shapeless ruin. He 
 thought of the armed intruder, who, for 
 a season, had chased the bosom's calm of 
 Sigrida — of the possibility of his return— 
 of his own fated absence from Sweden, 
 until every claim to fortitude vanished ; 
 until wondering, how for two whole days 
 he could have partaken of peace, he rush- 
 ed from his chamber, to seek Sigrida, to 
 mould fresh injunctions, and extort fresh 
 promises. 
 
 The hour of adieu found him scarce 
 less perturbed or less melancholy: Si- 
 grida tried to smile, but her smile was as 
 
 ,
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 287 
 
 the flickering sunbeam which precedes 
 the shower; she tried to assume some- 
 what of her native sportiveness, but the 
 effort died in the birth, and the very feint 
 betrayed her inward feelings." 
 
 " Why this gloom, my children?" said 
 Ladislaus, reading, and pitying every 
 struggle: " the performance of our duty 
 ought to invigorate, not depress." 
 
 " True, but friendship," faltered Xa- 
 vier, breathing a heavy sigh. " Dear sir, 
 can we part from those we love — " and 
 his eyes rested on Sigrida — " without a 
 painful struggle of the heart ?" 
 
 " We part not for an eternity," rejoined 
 Ladislaus — " we part, I trust, to meet in 
 happier times." 
 
 " God grant it !" asperated Xavier. 
 " Where'er I go, where'er my destiny 
 may lead me ; whether my days be bright 
 in joy, or shrouded in sorrow — whether 
 hope or disappointment checker my path 
 through life — the dear haunts of my 
 youth, the remembrance of my beloved
 
 288 THE FESTIVAL OF MORA. 
 
 friends in Dalecarlia, will be a halcyon 
 dream of blessedness — a dream, I shall 
 wear in my memory, I shall treasure in 
 my heart's core, until that memory shall 
 have ceased, and that heart have forgot- 
 ten to palpitate " 
 
 He trembled as he spoke ; his cheeks, 
 his lips were bloodless ; yet as he sprang 
 to the side of Sigrida, as he grasped her 
 extended hand, the crimson tide rushed 
 back, and died his very temples. She 
 shrunk not, neither did she chide, al- 
 though, for the first time, he kissed her 
 polished cheek, and pressed her to his 
 bosom: it was a struggle of feeling, of 
 mingled transport and of grief: one mo- 
 ment, Sigrida sobbed upon his neck; 
 the next, saw him hurrying through the 
 garden. 
 
 " Be comforted, my darling child," im- 
 plored Ladislaus, dashing a tear from his 
 eye; and then he followed the fugitive, 
 for he had many questions to propose, 
 and much advice to offer.