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THE BRIDE OF LINDORF.
BY L. E. L.
Midnight is a wonderful thing in a vast city–and midnight was upon Vienna. The shops were closed, the windows darkened, and the streets deserted–strange that where so much of life was gathered together there could be such deep repose; yet nothing equals the stillness of a great town at night. Perhaps it is the contrast afforded by memory that makes this appear yet more profound. In the lone valley, and in the green forest, there is quiet even at noon–quiet, at least, broken by sounds belonging alike to day and night. The singing of the bee and the bird, or the voice of the herdsman carolling some old song of the hills–these may be hushed; but there is still the rustle of the leaves, the wind murmuring in the long grass, and the low perpetual whisper of the pine. But in the town–the brick and mortar have no voices of their own. Nature is silent–her soft, sweet harmonies are hushed in the great human tumult–man, and man only, is heard. Through many hours of the twenty-four, the ocean of existence rolls on with a sound like thunder–a thousand voices speak at once. The wheels pass and re-pass over the stones–music, laughter, anger, the words of courtesy and of business, mingle together–the history of a day is the history of all time. The annals of life but repeat themselves. Vain hopes, vainer fears, feverish pleasure, passionate sorrow, crime, despair, and death–these make up the eternal records of Time's dark chronicle. But this hurried life has its pauses–once in the twenty-four come a few hours of rest and silence.
Vienna was now still as the grave, whose darkness hung over a few lamps swung dimly to and fro, and a few dark shadows–which the crimes of men make needful. The weary watchers of the night paced with slow and noiseless steps the gloomy streets. God knows that many of those hushed and darkened houses might have many a scene of waking care within–many a pillow might be but a place of unrest for the aching head–still the outward seeming of all was repose.
One house, and one only, obeyed not the general law. It was a magnificent hotel in the largest square, and was obviously the scene of a splendid fête. Light and music streamed from the windows, the courtyard was filled with equipages, and a noisy crowd–part servants, part spectators–thronged the gates. Within, all was pomp and gaiety. The Countess von Hermanstadt was unrivalled in her fêtes. She knew how to give them–a knowledge very few possess. The generality labour under the delusion, that when they have lighted and filled their rooms, they have done their all. They never were more in error. Lighting is much–crowding is much also–but there lacks “something more exquisite still.” This something the countess possessed in its perfection. Any can assemble a crowd, but few can make it mingle. But Madame von Hermanstadt had a skill which a diplomatist might have studied. She saw–she heard everything; she knew who would and who would not understand each other; she caught at a glance the
