THE ROBBER’S TOWER. A TRUE ADVENTURE.
After a long period of debility, the consequence of a dangerous wound received in the great “Battle of the Nations,” fought near Leipzig, I found myself so far recruited in the autumn of 1815, as to undertake a long-planned excursion to the residence of a widowed aunt, who lived, with two daughters, on the family estate of her deceased husband, near the sources of the Elbe, in Bohemia. I proceeded by slow journeys, and at noon, on the fifth day after my departure from Berlin, reached a small post town, a few miles from my destination. Here I heard, with inexpressible sorrow, that my aunt had very recently lost her eldest daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen, by fever. I had not seen my cousin since her childhood, but my reminiscences of a delightful visit to my hospitable aunt during the happy days of boyhood were acutely roused by this afflicting intelligence; and to save my bereaved relatives from the agonizing necessity of announcing their loss, I folded some crape round the sleeve of my uniform, and, with no enviable feelings, journeyed onward to the house of mourning. About a mile from the little post-town my carriage turned a sharp angle on the road, and suddenly one of the finest prospects in this romantic district burst upon me. Between the giant stems of a dozen venerable oaks I beheld a wide and fertile vale, through which the infant Elbe was gliding like a silver serpent. The middle ground was varied by green and swelling hills, crowned with copses of oak and beech, while in the distance towered the vast and awful forms of the venerable Giant mountains. On the slope of the highest intermediate hill stood the modern and elegant mansion of my aunt, surrounded by a well-wooded park, above which, on the summit of a dark and frowning rock, appeared the decayed but still imposing castle of my late uncle’s ancestors, which retained its ancient and characteristic name of the “Robber’s Tower.” A large portion of this once extensive pile was now a shapeless mass of stones, over which the giant ivy mantled in green and prodigal luxuriance; but the keep, a round tower of vast dimensions, still defied the tooth of time, and threw up its lofty head with Titan grandeur.
During my slow progress up the hilly roads, I recognised many spots endeared to me by vivid recollections of former enjoyment, but now they suggested no pleasurable associations; my fancy was haunted by the image of the disconsolate mother, and I could find no relief from depressing anticipations but in the hope that my unexpected arrival would afford at least a temporary relief to the mourners. The afternoon was considerably advanced when I arrived at the house; and my poor aunt, to whom the crape on my arm revealed my knowledge of her recent loss, clasped me in a maternal embrace, and, leaning her head upon my shoulder, sobbed aloud. Her once full and finely formed person was wasted with sorrow and want of sleep, and her expressive features were furrowed with the lines of deep and heart-rending misery. She was the living image of woe and desolation. “Dearest nephew!” she said at length, in a low and broken voice, “why did you not arrive three weeks sooner? You would then have found me rich and happy in the possession of two daughters; but it has pleased Heaven for wise purposes to sear me to the quick, and to deprive me of a moiety of all I valued in this world: for what has a widowed mother on this earth but her children!” At this moment entered Julia, her surviving daughter, a beautiful girl of seventeen; but grief had preyed upon her bloom, and her cheek was fair and spotless as her snowy neck, which rose in delicate proportion from the crape handkerchief which shaded her youthful bosom. She had heard of my arrival, and, while the ready tears started into her large and expressive blue eyes, she permitted me to salute her cheek, but her emotion forbade all audible welcome. Feeling how premature would be all attempts at consolation, I gradually led my aunt and cousin to discourse of the departed Cecilia, and had ere long the pleasure to see them more tranquil, and able to speak of her with comparative firmness and resignation. From their conversation I gathered that she was perfectly conscious of her approaching death, but was neverthe-
