Among the Mercenaries, popularly known as Hessians, employed
by England against America during the war of our
Revolution, was Gottfried Brückmann. He was, properly
speaking, a Waldecker, having been born in Pyrmont, an inconsiderable
city of that principality. From what we know of
his history, he seems to have shared largely in the passion for
music, which distinguishes many of his countrymen. To this
also he added a thirst for literary acquisition. But, being a
peasant by caste, he encountered not a few obstacles in these
higher pursuits. He became bellows-boy for the organ in the
church of his native town, and availing himself of chanceopportunities,
he attained some skill on that instrument.
He played well on the harpsichord, flute and violin. In
the French language, at that time so much in vogue
among the Germans, he became a proficient. Nevertheless,
he fretted under the governmental yoke that was laid so
oppressively and haughtily upon the necks of that class of the
people to which he belonged. His conduct exposing him to
suspicion, he fled into the region of country described as the
Hartz Mountains. Whatever of romance, literature, poetry,

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

descended into the mass of the population; whatever of
legendary tale or cabalistic observance was cherished by the
common heart; whatever of imaginative temper, ideal aspiration,
or mystic enthusiasm has ever characterized any portion
of his countrymen; Brückmann possessed; and in the vicinity
where he now found himself, there was a supply of objects
fitted to animate the strongest sentiments of his being, and
scenes and associations that were congenial with his inclinations; —
forests of oak and beech, fir and pine; every kind
and conformation of rock; birds of all descriptions; cloudpiercing
hills, unfathomable chasms; lakes embosomed in
mountains; waterfalls; mines and smelting-houses, with the
weird and tartarean look of the workmen and their operations;
gorgeous sunsets; dense and fantastic fogs; perennial
snows: points of local and traditionary interest; the Altar
and Sorcerer's Chair, the seat of the festival of the old Saxon
idol, Crotho; the grottoes Baumanshole and Bielshole; a cave
reputed, at the time, to have no termination; wildness, irregularity,
terror, grandeur, freedom and mystery, on every side.
In addition, were little villages and clusters of houses in
valleys embowered in forests, and overshadowed by mountains,
into one of which Brückmann's wanderings led him, that of
Rubillaud, through which runs the Bode. Here in the midst
of almost inaccessible rocks and cold elevations, he found
fruit-trees in blossom, fields green with corn, a small stonechurch
surmounted with a crucifix, a May-pole hung with
garlands, around which the villagers were having their Whitsun
dances. In this place he remained awhile, and was
engaged as a school-teacher for children, the parents of whom
were chiefly miners. Here, as we subsequently learn, he
became warmly attached to one of his pupils, Margaret Bruneau,
daughter of the Pastor of Rubillaud, who was a
Lutheran. In her he found tastes and feelings like his own.
With her he rambled among mountains, penetrated caves,
sang from rocks; and had such an intercourse as tended to
cement their affection, and prosecuted whatever plans were
grateful to their natures. But in the midst of his repose, came
that cruel and barbarous draft of the British Crown on the
German States. Some of the inhabitants of Rubillaud, who
were subjects of the King of Hanover, were enlisted in this
foreign service. Requisition was made on several provinces
then in alliance with England, Brunswick, Hesse Cassel,
Hanau, Anhalt and Waldeck; and on Brückmann's native
town, Pyrmont. The general league formed among these

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

princes against the peace and liberty of their people, would not
suffer that Brückmann should escape. He was seized, as if
he had been a felon, and forcibly taken to Rotterdam, the
place of embarkation. The reluctance with which this body
of levies contemplated the duty to which they were destined,
will be understood when it is told, that they were obliged to
be under guard on their march to the sea-coast; that many of
them, bound hand and foot, were transported in wagons and
carts; some succeeded in deserting; others making the attempt
were shot. Brückmann, for some instance of insubordination,
received a wound at the hand of his own Captain, from
which he never entirely recovered. Swords ruled souls.
Their avaricious and tyrannical lords let them out as slaves,
and had them scourged to their tasks. Brückmann and Margaret
parted in uttermost bitterness of spirit, and with the
fondest expressions of love. They wafted their adieus and
prayers to each other across the bridge of the Bode, over
which he was rudely snatched, to see her in this world no
more forever.

We shall not follow him through the fortunes of the war;
but hasten to its close, when he was stricken and overwhelmed
by the news of Margaret's death. A strong bond, and perhaps
the only one that attached him to his native country, was
broken; and, in common with many of his countrymen, he
chose to remain in America after the peace. These Germans,
such as survived,—more than eleven thousand of their
number having perished during the war,—scattered themselves;
some joined the settlements of their brethren in Pennsylvania,
some pushed beyond the Ohio, some were dispersed
in the New England States. Brückmann took up his abode
in New York. Those who returned to Germany he bade
plant Margaret's grave with narcissus, rosemary and thyme,
and visit it every Whitsun Festival with fresh flowers; while
he would hallow her memory with prayers and tears in his
own heart. He was disappointed in purpose, forsaken in
spirit, broken in feeling. Contrary to the usual maxim, he
loved those whom he had injured, and was willing that whatever
of life or energy remained to him should be given to the
Americans, while he remembered the land of his birth with
sorrow, upbraidings and despair.

Owing to our numerous and profitable relations with France
at this time, the French language had arisen in the popular
estimation, and was in great request. He would teach it, and
so earn a livelihood, and serve the land of his adoption.

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

Music too, the musical spirit of Margaret and of his native
country, that which survives in the soul when everything else
is prostrate, came over him. He would live again in song.
He would recall the scenes of the past. Margaret would
reappear in the tones of their love and their youth; her spirit
would echo to the voice of his flute; in song, like night, they
would meet again; by an invisible pathway of melody they
would glide on to the grave. Poor Brückmann! Poor
America! What with his deficiency in our tongue, and his
former services against our liberties, he obtained but few
scholars. Superior and more agreeable Frenchmen were his
rivals. Music! How could we pay for music, when we could
not pay our debts? The crescendo and diminuendo were
other than of sound our people had to learn. He grew
sicker at heart, his hopes had all fled, and his spiritual visions
seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer. He sat by the narrow
window of the small unlighted room he rented, in the night,
and played on his flute to the darkness, the air, the groups of
idle passers by, to memory and to the remote future whither
his visions were flying, and the fair spirit of his reveries had
betaken herself. Yet he had one and not an unconcerned
listener, and perhaps another. These were Jane Girardeau
and her father. Mr. Girardeau had discovered the sound of
the music proceeding from the hill behind his house, and his
daughter listening to it. He called her in; she would go up
to the chamber window, and repeat her curiosity. He ordered
her to bed; she would creep from her room, and sly into the
street that she might hear it. He detected her, rebuffed her,
and locked her into her room. “Can you indulge such extravagance?”
was the language of Mr. Girardeau to his
daughter. “Can you yield to such weakness? Will you
waste your time in this way? Shall I suffer in you a repetition
of all your mother occasioned me? Will you hazard
your reputation? Why will you so often break my commands,
and thwart my wishes? Shall I be compelled to resort to
harsh measures? Are you growing so perverse that moderation
is of no avail? I will have none of this. You are impudent,
beastly.”

His daughter ill brooked all this. To the mind of her
father, she was rash, reckless, turbulent, obstinate, wasteful,
inordinate, selfish, lavish, insensible. She was lavish, but only
of her heart's best affections; she was rash, not in head, so
much as in impulse; she was insensible, but only to the demands
of lucre; she was troubled, not turbulent; she was

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

inordinate, for no want of her heart had ever been supplied;
she was selfish in the sense of obeying her nature, while she
disregarded the behests of stupidity and meanness.

Jane had rebelled under the iron jurisdiction of her father.
Like the hidden fires of the earth she broke out wherever she
could find vent. She was held down, not subdued. She was
too elastic to flatten, too spiritual to stagnate. She rebounded
with a wild recoil. Her fits of anger, or sallies of spirit,
whatever they might be called, were frequent and energetic.
As she grew older, she became more sensible of her degradation
and wrongs, as well as more capable of redressing them.

She was the only child of an ill-assorted marriage. She
became of some service to her father. Her personal beauty
was an attraction to customers, and he valued her aid as shopgirl.
She presided over the department of the store devoted
to the sale of fancy goods, which, obtained in various ways,
afforded enormous profits, and became an item of trade,
that, notwithstanding her father's extensive and multifarious
business, he could not well forego. She was also a good accountant
and book-keeper. Brückmann was straitened for
means. His quarterly rent was due. He would make one
effort more; and that perhaps the most dangerous for a poor
man; he would borrow money. He knew of the broker near
by, he knew his reputation for great wealth. He had no
friend, no backer. He obtained a certificate from the parents
of one of his scholars, to the effect that he was believed to be
an honest man. He presented himself at the store of Mr.
Girardeau. Jane was there; she recognized in him the fluteplayer,
whom she had sometimes seen in the streets, or at his
window. Brückmann was a Saxon throughout; his eyes were
full blue, his complexion was light and fair, his hair was of a
sandy brown, thick and bushy. Dejection and disappointment
were evidently doing their work upon him. His face had
grown thin, his eyes were sunk, and his look was that of a
sick man. He addressed Mr. Girardeau in broken English.
“Speak in your own language,” said the latter gentleman,
“I can understand you.” He stated briefly his object. Mr.
Girardeau looked at the note, and replied in German, “Hard
times, Sir, hard times; securities scarce, liabilities uncertain,
business dull, great losses abroad, foreigners do not appreciate
our condition.” He then proceeded to interrogate Brückmann
on his business, circumstances, prospects. There were two
listeners to the answer, father and daughter, both intent, but
in a different manner. The old gentleman ordered Jane away

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

while he transacted a little private business. She retreated to
the back part of the store where she persistingly stood; and it
was obvious, although the stranger spoke in his own tongue,
she comprehended what he said. From one thing to another
Brückmann was led to recite his entire history; his birth, his
retreat to Rubillaud, his interest in Margaret, his enlistment,
his service in the war, Margaret's death, his present method
of support. Mr. Girardeau replied, in brief, that it was not
in his power to accommodate him. The agitation of Bruckmann
was evidently intense at this repulse; and there seemed
to be aroused a corresponding sympathy of distress in the
heart of Jane. The story of the stranger interested her, it
took strong possession of her imagination. As he left, her
thoughts followed him with that most agonizing sense of powerless
compassion. Could she but see him, could she but
speak with him, she would bestow upon him her condolences,
if she could offer him no more substantial aid.

Jane studied day and night how she might encounter the
unhappy stranger, the enchanting musician. To perfect her
for his purposes, her father allowed her to do a little business
in her own name. These earnings, ordinarily devoted to
some species of amusement or literary end, she now as sedulously
hoarded as increased. She discovered where Bruckmann
had some pupils in a private family. Thither, taking
her private purse, she went; sought her way to his room, and
seated herself among the scholars. She heard the recitation,
and the remarks that accompanied it. She discerned the
originality of Brückmann's mind, as she had formerly been
interested in the character of his sensibilities. He spoke in
a feeble tone, but with a suggestive emphasis. She knew well
the causes of his depression. He sang also to his pupils one
of his native hymns, she admired its beauty and force, and
perhaps more the voice of the singer. She stayed behind
when the scholars left. He spoke to her. She replied, to his
surprise, in his own language, or something akin to it. She
told him who she was, that she had heard his story, that she
compassionated his wants, that her father was abundantly
rich, and that from her own earnings she had saved him some
money. She pressed upon him her purse, which neither delicacy
demanded, nor would necessity allow that he should
refuse. She told him how much she had been interested in
his history; she desired him to repeat it. “Tell me,” said
she, “more about Margaret Bruneau.” He related as much
as the time would permit.

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

She was reproached, she was maledicted by her father, on
her return, although he knew not where she had been. An
Idea had seized her, and for that she was willing to sacrifice
everything. It had neither shape, nor color, nor definition, nor
end. She thought of it when she went to bed, she dreamed
of it, she awoke with it. She would see the stranger. She
went again to his school-room. She walked with him on the
Parade. “Tell me,” she would say, “more about Margaret.
How old was she? How did she look? How did you love
her? Why did you love her?” He would repeat all he had
said before and discover new particulars each time.

“Were her parents rich or poor?” asked Jane.

“Poor,” replied Brückmann.

“Happy, happy Margaret! O if my father were poor as
the sheerest mendicant I should be happy.”

“You may be able to do much good with your money,
sometime or another.”

“I see nothing before me but darkness and gloom,” replied
Jane. “My father,—you know what he is. My dear, dear
mother, too fond of her child, too opposed to her husband, too
indulgent, too kind,—she has gone from my love and my
approach forever. I may be in the midst of affluence, I am
cursed, blighted by a destitution such as you know nothing of.
Gold may be my inheritance, my prospects are all worthless,
fearful, sombre. You say you will meet Margaret in
heaven!”

“Speak freely with me,” said Brückmann, “I love to hear,
if I cannot answer. Margaret and I often talked of what we
could not comprehend. We strove to lift each other up, even
if we made no advance. She had a deep soul, an unbounded
aspiration. We sang of heaven, and then we began to feel it.
We were more Sphinxes than Œdipuses. Yet she became
Heaven to me, when there was none in the skies. She was a
transparent, articulate revelation of God.”

“How I should love Margaret!” said Jane to him one day.
“What was the color of her hair? like yours?”

“No,” replied Brückmann; “as I have told you, she was
not of German origin. Her ancestors came from Languedoc
in the Religious Wars. She was more tropical in her features,
and perhaps in her heart, than I. She had black hair and
eyes, she resembled you, Miss Girardeau, I think.”

“How I wish I could see her!” replied Jane. “You say
she does come to you sometimes?”

“Yes,” said Brückmann,” and since I have known you she

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

comes more frequently, more clearly. My perishing heart had
scarce power to evoke her. My song became too faint a
medium. You have revived those visions, those refreshing
communions.”

“Then I am happy,” said Jane; “I knew not that I had
such a power. You, sir, know not the misery of being able to
make no one happy. I torture my father, I plague Simon. I
am of use to no one. And my poor self answers not for
itself.” * * * * *

“How could you, Mr. Brückmann —”

“Call me not that,” he said, interrupting her, “call me
Gottfried, as Margaret always did.”

“Then you must do the same by me,” she replied, “you
must call me Jane; though no one does but father and Simon.
But if you will call me so, I shall forget that any one else ever
has. I was going to ask how you came to fight against our
poor country?”

“I never did,” he said, “my heart and soul were with the
Americans. I was forced into the work. I was bayoneted to
the lines. My musket shared the indisposition of its owner,
and shot at random. Wounds that had been spared by those
against whom I was arrayed, were anticipated by my own officers.
Often staggering under the effects of a blow received in Germany,
when I attempted to escape, have I been drawn out
against those, so called, my enemies; and at this moment am
I sensible of the pain.”

“Yet you might have been killed in battle,” said she,
“and I, poor, ridiculous, selfish me! should never have seen
you.”

“Nor I you,” he rejoined; “I know not which is the most
indebted.”

It cannot be supposed these interviews were had without
greatly provoking the indignation of Mr. Girardeau. He
noticed the frequent, and sometimes protracted absences of his
daughter; he traced them to the indigent German, whose
application for money he denied, to the villanous musician
that had given him so much annoyance. His passion had no
bounds. He ceased to expostulate; he raved, he threatened;
he shut Jane into her chamber, he barred the door, he declared
he would starve her. As Jane had never learned filial obedience,
so she had not disciplined herself to ordinary patience.
Even in matters that concerned her interest and happiness
most vitally, she was impetuous, inconsiderate. She could
bear imprisonment, she could bear starvation, she could bear

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

invective and violence; she could not endure separation from
Brückmann. She had, in respect of him, new and joyous sensations,
enchanting her whole existence. She looked on him as
a superior being. She felt that he alone could understand her,
appreciate her, sympathize with her. She felt that of the mass
about her, he only seemed to have a common nature with her.
She thought not of his poverty, or his dejection. She thought
only of his soul into which she could pour her own. She was
eager for him, as a child for its mother's breast. His love for
Margaret Bruneau only heightened his value in her eyes. He
seemed for his devotion to Margaret Bruneau, purer, greater,
diviner. He and Margaret constituted to her mind a delightful
company. She entered a magic circle when she came into
their communion. She became one of a glorious trio. Then
she saw herself interpreted and resembled in Margaret; and
she acted as a conjuration to bring that delightful vision from
the shades. Brückmann she assisted, encouraged, enlivened;
she rendered him more hopeful, more happy. And she herself
had no life, except as he was able to explain that life. His
soul seemed to respond to hers, and her own grew serener and
stiller as it received that response. “He, too, will suffer,”
she said to herself, “if he sees me not. His own heart will
break again. Margaret will come to him no more;” and
every thought of his uneasiness or suspense vibrated, like a
fire, through her.

Mr. Girardeau waited to see some tokens of his daughter's
repentance and amendment, but none appeared. The more
completely to secure his purposes, he instigated a prosecution
against Brückmann, on the score of debt, and he was thrown
into the City Jail. The old gentleman then approached his
daughter, apprized her of what had befallen her friend, and
announced his final decision. He told her if ever she saw
Brückmann again, if ever she communicated with him by word
or letter, he would turn her into the streets, he would close
his doors upon her forever, he would disinherit her, and cast
her off to utter shame, destitution and wretchedness. With
whatever tone or spirit this sentence may have been distinguished,
and there could be no mistake as to its general
purport, its effect on Jane was scarcely perceptible. Her die
was cast, her resolution taken. She undid the fastenings of
her room, she escaped into the street. Going to the Jail, she
obtained access to the cell and was locked in with Brückmann.
Through his drooping heart and wasting frame he received
her with a bland, welcome smile. She fell at his feet, and

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

poured herself out in a torrent of tears, her swollen heart broke
in sighs, sobs and convulsions. His kindness reassured her,
and she told him what had transpired. “But,” she continued,
“Gottfried, I must see you, I must be with you, I cannot live
away from you, I die without you. Existence has not the
faintest charm, not a solitary point of interest, if I am separated
from you. You have awakened within me every dormant
and benumbed faculty. You have spread over time the
hues of a higher being. You have given back to my soul the
only answer it ever received; with your eyes I have looked
into myself and discovered some beauty there, where before
was only a deep and frightful chaos. In a world of shallowness
and stupidity you alone have anticipated, understood,
valued me. I repose on you as on the breast of God. You
have introduced me to an elevated communion; you have
welcomed me to the participation of yourself and Margaret;
you have inspired me with a desire to know more of the laws
of the spirit's life. For all this I have made you no return.
I am little, how little, to you. You owe me nothing, I owe
you everything.”

“Jane,—” said he.

“Do not interrupt me now,” she continued. “Let my poor
soul have its say. It may be its last. I have now no home
on earth but you. May I remain with you? May I hear your
voice, look into your eyes, be blessed and illumined by your
spirit?”

“Is it possible,” said Brückmann, “that your father will
never relent? He needs you, his own fortune is under obligations
to you.”

“You know not my father,” was the decisive reply. “He
is fixed, inexorable, as the God he serves. I look to you, or
to vacancy, to nought, to the sepulchral abyss of my own
soul, to the interminable night of my own thoughts. To be
poor is nothing, to be an outcast is nothing; to be away from
you is worse than all calamities condensed in one blow. Do
not be distressed, my good Gottfried. I will not embarrass
you. Gottfried—I will marry you—I do embarrass you. I
do distress you—I will not. No! I go away—I leave you—
Farewell, Gottfried!”

“Stay!” replied he, “do not go away.”

“Speak to me,” she said. “Chide me, spurn me. I can
bear anything. I will not stir, nor wince, nor weep. I can
stiffen myself into insensibility. I will sit here unmoved as a
curb-stone. Speak, Gottfried, speak, if you kill me.”

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

“Jane,” said he, calmly but kindly, “you have nothing
to fear from me, we have nothing to fear from each other.
We know each other too well to be alarmed by surprises, or
perplexed at disclosures. We have no secrets to keep or to
reveal, no hopes to indulge or disappoint. Our natures are
bared to each other; our several destinies too well understood;
a word, the faintest expression of a wish is sufficient.
You know Margaret, I need not —”

“No, Mr. Brückmann, you need not—”

“Call me Gottfried. Margaret called me Gottfried. You
must never call me anything else.”

“Oh,” said she, “if I could do Margaret's least office for
you, if I could ever remind you of her! And this assimilates
me nearer to her. It gives me a prerogative, which, with all
my rashness, I should hardly otherwise dare to claim. But
you need not speak to me of her. I know all about it, and
you, and her. Yet, not as a beggar, not as a friend, not as
one who has the slightest demand on your notice, yet, I say,
obeying an impulse which I know how neither to control nor
define, but which is deep as the central fires of my being, I
ask for entrance, for a home, in that which you are, for fellowship
with you and all your life. Tell me more of Margaret;
I will grow up into her image; I will transmute myself to her
nature. You shall have a double Margaret; no, not double,
but one. Nay, if needs be, I will go out of myself; I will be
the servant of you both. Call me your child, your and Margaret's
child, your spirit-child, and so love me. And when
we get to Heaven, you may do what you will with me. Sure
I am, I shall never get there if you do not take me. I cannot
sing, as you say she could. But my soul sings. If my larynx
be inelastic, I can describe with my sensations as many octaves
and variations, as you on your flute; and with your nice
ear perhaps you could hear some pleasant strains. Away
from you, I am all discord, a harsh grating of turbulent
passion.”

“Have you thought,” asked Gottfried, “how we should be
situated. This prison is my home now, and I have no better
prospect for the future.”

“I have enough in my purse,” said Jane, “to release you.
You can teach as you have done. I perhaps could give instruction
in the more popular branches.”

“Dear Jane!” said he, “you are dearer to me than all on
earth beside. But how fade all earth-scenes from my thought!
I feel myself vanishing into the spirit-world. Daily I perceive

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

the hand of destiny lying more heavily upon me. Hourly
invisible cords are drawing me away. The echoes of my song
sound louder and louder from the shadowy shore.”

“Ah, dearest Gottfried!” said she; “if you die, I will die
too. I cannot live without you; I cannot survive you; I perish
with you. I will be absorbed with you into the Infinite.
All your presentiments I share.”

“We will be married,” said Gottfried. “We yield to the
Immortal Love. We rise to the empyrean of pure souls.
With you the past is nearer to me, the present more cheerful,
the future more hopeful. We shall all of us live a trebled
life. I have ever loved you; I will still love you; you deserve
my love. Margaret too will love you; and the Heaven-crowned
shall bestow her blessing on the Earth-worn.”

Jane procured his release from prison, by paying debts and
costs of suit. They went to the house of the Rev. Dr. —
a very kind and benevolent old clergyman, by whom the marriage
ceremony was performed, the wife and daughter of the
Rector being present as witnesses. They knelt on a couch
for an altar, her long black hair, gathered loosely about her
temples, and descending down her clear marble neck, her dark
eyes, a crimson flushing her face, contrasted with his light
thick hair, deep blue eyes, and flickering pale face; both subdued,
and somewhat saddened; yet the evening light of their
souls, for such it seemed to be, came out at that hour and shed
over them a soft, sweet glow. The old man blessed them,
and they departed.

They sought lodgings in a quarter of the city, at some distance
from their former abode. Brückmann was enabled to
form a small class in French. If female education, or the employment
of female instructors, had been as common in those
days as at the present time, Jane might have directed those
powers with which nature had enriched her, to some advantage.
She secured, in fact, but a solitary pupil, and that one
more anxious to be taught dancing and dressing, than to advance
in any solid acquisition. She found a more satisfactory
as well as promising task in perfecting Brückmann in the English
language. This difficulty once surmounted, she fancied
he would be able to pursue his practice to any desirable extent.
So five or six months passed away. — Whether it was the seeds of
disease constitutionally inherited, the effect of disappointment,
want, heart-ache, he had been called to endure, the internal
progress of his wound, or his own presentiments, acting upon an
imagination sufficiently susceptible—Brückmann fell sick. He

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

lay upon his bed week by week. Jane abandoned everything
to take care of him.

“Jane,” said he, “I must die.”

“I know it,” said she, “you told me you should soon die.
I believed it then, I am prepared for it now.”

“Voices,” he added, “are calling me away.”

“I know that too,” she replied; “I hear them.”

“An inward force propels my spirit from me.”

“Yes,” said she, “I feel it.”

She bent over him, not as over a sick and dying man, but a
convalescing angel. He seemed to her not to be wasting to
skin and bones, but to spirit and life. His eye brightened, his
smile was sweeter, as he grew paler and thinner.

“I wish you would sing to me, Jane?”

“I am full of music and song,” she said, “can you not hear
me? All that you have ever played, or sung, or spoken, leaps,
trills, is joyous, within me. Do you not hear a soft chanting?”

“Yes,” he replied; “it sounds like the voice of Jesus and
Margaret.”

“How glad I am our little Margaret is to have her birth-place
in song!” said Jane. “She feeds on melodies.—Yet if I
should die before her birth, will she die too? Tell me, Gottfried.”

“I think her spirit will go with ours,” he replied.

“Then we could train and nourish and mould the undeveloped,
unformed spirit in Heaven. And our other Margaret will
be there to help us bring up the little Margaret.—Will Jesus
bless our child, as you say he blessed the children of olden
time?”

“Yes,” replied Gottfried. “He died for all, and lives to give
all life.”

“I shall not need to make her clothes?”

“You had better do that, Jane, we may both survive her birth.”

In this exigency, their private funds having become well
nigh exhausted, she repaired to her father's house to procure
some articles of her own, out of which to prepare clothing for
the expected child. By a back entrance she ascended to her
old chamber, where, as the event should prove, Mr. Girardeau
detected her, and drove her off. At this moment, as she retreated
through the store, Nimrod, who in the mean time had
succeeded to the place of the deceased Simon, saw her, as has
been related in the previous chapter. Here also these two
episodical branches of this memoir unite.

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

When Nimrod learned from Mr. Girardeau who the woman
was, how she stood related to him, and what were her fortune
and condition, we may naturally imagine that his curiosity,
always restive, always errant, would be more than usually
aroused. A new object presented itself; he must pry into it.
Having ascertained the place of Jane and Gottfried's residence,
being out of an errand, he made bold to enter the house, and
knock at their door.

“Ax your pardon marm,” he said, shuffling into the room, as
Jane opened the door, and the sick man lay on the bed before
him; “hope I don't intrude. I sarve at Master Girarders, since
Simon's dead. I am the fellow what see you running out of
the store like a duck arter a tumble-bug. What was you so
skeered for? I wouldn't a hurt you any more than an old
shoe. I guess the old gentleman an't any better than he should
be—”

“Young man!” said Jane breaking in upon him, “whoever
you are, we have no connection with Mr. Girardeau.”

“Yes—marm,” said Nimrod, who nothing daunted, approached
the bed. Gottfried rose a little, with his wan beautiful
face. Jane, paler if possible, and more beautiful, held
her arm under his head, and her dark, loving eyes brimmed with
tears, the nature of which Nimrod could not understand.

“I vum,” said he, “I'm sorry. What is the matter? If the
Widder was here she would cure him in a wink. Won't your
Dad let you go home? Won't he give you a limb to roost on?
I tell you what it is, he's close as a mink in winter; he's hard
as grubbing bushes. I don't guess he's so poor.”

Jane, remembering her father's servants in Simon, who was
a perfect creature of his master, if at first she was annoyed
by the familiarity of Nimrod, or was suspicious of his motives,
soon perceived that his manner was undisguised and rusticity
sincere. She was led to question him as to himself, who he
was, &c. He gave her his real name, and that of his parents.
In fact he became quite communicative, and rendered a full
description of his family, their residence and mode of life. He
was pleased with his visit, which he promised to repeat, and
whenever he had a chance, he dropped in to see his new found
friends. As our readers will have anticipated the result of this
story of Gottfried Brückmann and Jane Girardeau, we shall
hasten to its close. When Mr. Girardeau became apprised of
the real situation of his daughter, he manifested deep disturbance
of spirit. He addressed himself anew to Nimrod. “That
girl,” said he, “is a runaway, a spendthrift, a wanton. She is

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

about to have a child, the fruit of her reckless, ruinous misconduct.
That child may do me an injury, a great injury.
The offspring of that viper may turn upon me with the malignity
of the mother. That child must be watched. You know,
Mr. Foxly, we are identified in interest. You know if I let
you go, or you me, we both fall. That child must be watched.
Do you understand?”

“That wa'nt in the bargain when I came to live with ye,”
replied Nimrod. “I must have a little more, a little of the
ready.”

Nothing could be more opportune to Nimrod. He was now
at liberty to prosecute his visits to Jane and Gottfried at his
leisure. Whatever money he obtained from Mr. Girardeau,
eked out by his own scant purse, he applied to their necessities.
He felt himself to be of more consequence than he had ever
been before, and although he exercised his function rather
pragmatically, he made himself greatly useful. Brückmann
grew more feeble; Jane approached the period of her child's
birth.

“Nimrod,” said she a few days before that event, “we are
going to die.”

“No, no,” he rejoined. “He'll give up the ghost as sure
as wild geese in cold weather. But you will come out as
bright as a yaller bird in Spring.”

“We must die — I shall die,” she continued, hardly noticing
what he said, having become quite used to his manner.
“We have loved, tenderly loved, if you know what that
means.”

“Yes — marm,” replied Nimrod. “If I am a Ponder and
you live in the city, you need'nt think we are as dull as millers
that fly right into your links, and never know whether they
are singed or not. When I have been by uncle Bill Palmer's,
that lives at the Ledge, as you go up to Dunwich, and seen his
Rhody out there, jolly! she has gone right through me like an
ear-wig; it sticks to me like a bobolink to a saplin in a wind.
I an't afeered of the old Harry himself, but I vum! I never dare
to speak to Rhody. But you great folks here don't care anything
about us, no more than Matty Gisborne, and Bet Weeks
down among the Settlers.”

“Yes I do care for you,” said Jane; “you have been very
kind to us. I know not what we should have done without
you. But we are really going to die. It has been foretold that
we should.”

“Oh yes,” said Nimrod, relapsing into a more thoughtful

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

mood, “I remember. I heard a dog howl in the streets the
other night, and I dreamed of seeing monkeys, and that is sartin
death.”

“You must bury us, Nimrod,” continued Jane. “And you
must promise one thing, to take care of our child. Its name is
Margaret, you must call it by no other. You will contrive
means to take it to your own home, the Pond. You are poor,
you say, that is the greatest of blessings. Your house is apart
from the world. Your little brother Chilion, you say, would
love it as his own sister. Now promise us, Nimrod, that you
will do all we desire.”

Nimrod not only promised, but volunteered a declaration
having the full weight of an oath, that her wishes regarding the
child should be studiously fulfilled. At this crisis they were
also visited by a daughter of the clergyman who married them;
she having become informed of their state, sought to minister
to their needs. Brückmann died as he had presaged. “Farewell,
Jane!” he said. “Yet not farewell, but, follow me. I
kiss you for the night, and shall see you in the morning. The
sun fades, the stars glow, brighter worlds await us. We go to
those who love us.” Nimrod bent reverently over the dead
form, that did perhaps what life itself could never have done,
made of the strong man a child, and tears gushed from his eyes.
Jane knelt calmly, hopefully by his side, kissed his lips, and
smoothed the bright curling locks of his hair. Nimrod, assisted
by the clergyman before mentioned, and some of Bruckmann's
countrymen that remained in the city as servants, bakers,
or scavengers, and could do little more for their old friend
than bear him to his grave, saw him decently buried. The
wife and daughter of the clergyman were with Jane at that period
which she had anticipated with so much interest. Her
hour came, and as she had predicted, a girl, the “little Margaret”
was born. She lingered on a few days, without much
apparent suffering or anxiety, blessed her child, and melted
away at last in the clouds of mortal vision. The child was
taken in charge by those ladies who had kindly assisted at its
birth. Mr. Girardeau, who had exhibited ceaseless anxiety,
as well as glimpses of some unnatural design, during these
events, the progress of which he obliged Nimrod carefully
to report, ordered the child to be brought to his house. His
language was, that “it must be put out of the way.” It was a
dark night; Mr. Girardeau, availing himself of a weakness of
his servant, plentifully supplied him with liquor. He also
threatened him, in case of disobedience, with a legal

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

prosecution on the score of his smuggling connections. Nimrod, sufficiently
in drink to make a rash promise, started for the child.
But apprehensions of some dark or bloody deed came over him;
the recollection of his solemn vows to the mother of the child
upbraided him; the spectral shadows cast by the street-lamps
startled him. He remembered the smuggling vessel which had
made another trip, and was about to return. The child was
delivered to him, and in place of going back to his master, he
made directly for the sloop, which was even then on the point
of sailing. The captain and crew, however serviceable they
might be to Mr. Girardeau's interest, cherished little respect
for his character, and Nimrod had no difficulty in enlisting
their aid for his purposes. We need not follow him all the
way to the Pond; or recite the methods he adopted to sustain
and nourish the child. On his way up the river he found
plenty of milk in the cabin. Leaving the vessel, he spent one
night in the shanty of an Irishman, whose wife having a nurseling
at her side, cheerfully relinquished to Margaret one half
of her supply. In one instance he found a sheep which he made
perform the maternal office. One night he slept with his charge
in a barn. On the third evening he reached his home. The
family were all abed; his father and mother, however, were soon
ready to welcome their son. Surprise was of course their first
emotion when they saw what he had with him. He recounted
the history of the child, and his purpose to have it adopted in
the family. The course of his observations on the subject was
such, as to allay whatever repugnance either of his parents may
have felt to the project, and they became as ready to receive
the child as they might have been originally averse.

“Call up Hash and Chilion,” said Pluck. “The child must
be baptized to-night.”

“Wait till to-morrow, do Dad,” said Nimrod. I guess she
needs something to wet her stomach more than her head.”

“Fix her something woman, can't wait.”

His wife prepared a drink for the child, while Nimrod aroused
his brothers. Chilion, then a boy, seven or eight years
old, held a pine-torch that streamed and smoked through the
room. Mistress Hart supported the child, while Nimrod and
Hash stood sponsors. The old man called her Mary. “No,
Dad,” interposed Nimrod, “it must be Margaret.”

“No! Mary,” replied his father, “in honor of my esteemed
wife. Besides, that's a Bible name, and we can't liquor up on
Margaret. Yours is a good name, and you never will see
cause to repent it, and there is Maharshalalhashbaz; that I

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

chose because it was the longest name in the Bible; I wanted
to show my reverence for the book by taking as much of it as
I could; and Chilion's is a good one too; all Bible names in
this family.”

“I tell you no, Dad, she must be called Margaret,” repeated
Nimrod.

“Do call her Margaret,” said Chilion.

“Well, well,” replied Pluck, “we will put it to vote. — Three
for Margaret, I shall call her Mary, and Hash goes for Peggy.
We won't break heads about it, if we do we shan't the bottle.
So here goes for Margaret and Mary.”

The family, severally and collectively, laid themselves under
strict injunctions to keep the history of the child a secret, and
to regard it as their own. Mr. Hart and his little son Chilion
were glad enough to receive it on its own account; Mistress
Hart, if for no other reason, in consideration of the money
Nimrod represented he would get from its grandfather, a reflection
that prevailed with Hash also. The secluded position
of the family rendered it possible indeed for children to be born
and die without exciting observation. Their neighbor, the
Widow Wright, was the only person from whom they had cause
of apprehension. It was presumed, however, to be an easy matter
to bring her into the arrangement of secrecy, which was accordingly
done by an oath sealed with a small douceur. In
behalf of the child were enlisted both the Widow's superstition,
and her avarice. What might befal her son Obed, then six or
seven years of age, she knew not. So Margaret was only spoken
of as a child of the Pond. When Obed asked his mother
where the little baby came from, she said it dropped from an
acorn-tree.

Such is the origin of Margaret, who a few months later has
been phantasmagorically introduced to our readers.

We might add, in conclusion of this chapter, that Nimrod,
the next year, made a visit to New York, and sought an interview
with his old Master. The disappointment, chagrin and
displeasure of the latter were evidently great. Their conference
was long and bitter. In the result, Nimrod declared in a
cant phrase that he would “blow” on the old gentleman, not
only as a smuggler, but as a murderer, unless he would settle
on the child a small annual sum, to be delivered at sight. To
such a bond Mr. Girardeau was obliged to give his signature.
He asked where the child was, but on this point Nimrod kept
a rigid silence.

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