Rockland Hill, —, —.

Here I am in my new home. Angel spirit of my mother! are you indeed hovering around your child, as in your last moments you assured me you would? When alone I fancy her near me, and my bitter, heart-aching sobs are soothed.

How all my sad forebodings have been dispelled. Though filled with grief for my mother’s loss, I feel I am not without friends. My new father and mother, as they insist upon calling themselves, are indeed kind to me. The husband is still a very handsome man, though past middle age, and “Aunt Mary,” as she permits me to call her—for “mother” I cannot say—is gentle and lovely in both person and mind. She treats me with all the affectionate tenderness of a mother. When we arrived at this beautiful place she introduced me to her niece Adelan, a bright, merry-looking girl, about my own age; and on showing me to my apartment, which is a beautifully furnished room, she threw open a door, which led into a fine large room, handsomely furnished also, with piano, harp and guitar, a large well chosen library, and writing and work-tables, with a number of comfortable chairs and lounges. The windows of this delightful room opened on a balcony that commanded a full view of the high mountains, which rise abruptly on the opposite side of the mountain stream, which dashes darkly, but brightly along at the foot of the lawn that leads from beneath our windows.

“This,” said Aunt Mary, “is Adelan’s study and yours. That door opposite yours leads to Adelan’s room, and here you are both free to come, whenever you wish, secure from interruption. These are your own apartments, subject to your own control. Adelan has often wished I had a daughter to cheer her solitary hours—now Providence has kindly bestowed upon me a daughter.”

Both aunt and niece tenderly caressed me when my grateful tears began to flow, and tried all in their power to dispel every feeling of restraint. If I am not content here it will be my own fault—were it not for the agonizing recollection that weighs on me like lead, that never again on earth am I to see my mother, I should even be happy. But, Father above, grant unto me a spirit of resignation; let me not grieve these kind friends by my wretchedness; teach me that in another world we shall meet again.

My mother spent all her childhood and girlhood at this beautiful place. My Uncle Walter’s father lived here, and this was her home for many years. How often have I heard her describe every place about it. Aunt Mary tells me the house is different, and that some changes have been made in the arrangement of the grounds. My aunt brought her husband a handsome fortune, which enabled him to put up a fine, commodious mansion-house on the estate, and throw more of the land into the immediate grounds of the house.

Mountains surround us on all sides. A rapid, dashing stream rolls along some distance from the house, and an undulating lawn sweeps down from the back part of the house to it. It is a wild, romantic spot. This morning on awakening I threw on my dressing-gown, and passing through “our study,” as Adelan calls our pleasant room, stepped out on the balcony. It was early morn, and I watched the curling mists sweep up the sides of these bluish green hills, forming themselves into fantastic shapes, as they felt the penetrating heat and light of the sun. They curled, waved, rolled together, and as the sun rose higher, beaming upon them, they gradually melted away. I gazed with an elevated spirit, then turned back to my sleeping-room, and kneeling, thanked God fervently for having made so beautiful a world. In such moments I feel my blessed mother near me, and the fancied waving of her angel wings brings gentle soothings to my wailing spirit.

I have been here now two months, and how quickly has sped the time. I am quite domesticated. I ride on horseback in the morning and evening with Uncle Walter; walk, sing and play duets with dear Adelan; and read with Aunt Mary. She is studying German of me, and after our lesson is over I read to her from the works of my “vaterland.” She is fond of books and study, and her heart responded when I read to her to-day those hopeful cheering lines of Novalis.

“Let him who is unhappy in the outdoor world—who finds not what he seeks—let him go into the world of books and art—into Nature, that eternal antique and yet eternal novelty—let him live in that Ecclesia pressa of the better world. Here he will be sure to find a beloved and a friend—a fatherland and a God.”

These words sound to my ears like my mother’s strong heart words. Blessed mother! thou art ever with me!

We paid a visit yesterday to some very nice people, who live four or five miles off, across the mountains; and yet they are our nearest neighbors. The day passed delightfully. It was a true summer outdoor visit. There was a large family of beautiful children; fine, noble-looking boys, and bright-eyed, laughing girls. They grew fond of me, and twined their arms about me tenderly. I taught them German games, into which they entered with spirit, and I quite forgot in their shouts of merry, gleeful laughter, the heavy, tearful cloud that hung over me when I awakened in the morning. We returned by moonlight; my aunt and Adelan in the carriage, uncle and I on horseback. The road for the greater part of the way lay beside the beautiful Undine stream, that gurgles and dashes daily before my eyes, as I look from the balcony. I slackened the reins of my horse, and my uncle kindly loitered with me beside the dancing waters, whose fairy billows glittered with the moon’s silvery rays. The rich silver flood of light that came pouring down from heaven touched every wavelet that went dancing along, as if rejoicing in its snowy crest. I wished I could linger by this flashing streamlet all night, and when a turning of the road bore me from the sparkling, joyous waters, I sighed inwardly a sad, unwilling good-bye, as I would in childhood to a darling playmate—nay, to crowds of playmates—for in the tiny white-crested billows I fancied the shining locks and flashing eyes of the lovely water-nymphs; the rippling dash of the waters I told myself was their sweet spirit-talk. It was a lovely, moonlight, waking dream to me.

Adelan is quite a pretty girl, I think—little and delicate in form, and merry and bright as a bird. She is a sunbeam to us. She chants and warbles all the day long. Her voice is very melodious, and great care has been taken in its culture—indeed much care has been given to her education. She is a great heiress, I am told, inheriting a large property; and Lizzie, the little maiden who waits upon us, said to me this morning, as I was looking at Adelan on the lawn from my room window, that old Nancy, the nurse, had told her “Miss Adelan would marry Mr. Lewis sometime.” This “Mr. Lewis” is my aunt and uncle’s only son, who I have never seen; as he is away finishing his studies at a university. In the fall he will have completed them, and will then return to his home. A picture of him as a bright-looking, handsome boy hangs in Aunt Mary’s dressing-room. She talks of him constantly, with much affection and pride, and his letters prove that he is affectionate as well as clever in mind. Adelan has never displayed any embarrassment when talking of him. Strange if she loves him and yet preserve it so secretly from me, for she is a warm-hearted, frank creature, and innocent and artless as a young child; but Love—sad, naughty Love—teaches, even the most guileless, art.

This morning we both arose very early and wandered out in the mountain paths, far from the house, long before breakfast. Nurse Nancy would make us eat before starting, one of her white rolls, which, with a glass of the sparkling spring-water, quite invigorated us. The sun shone brightly, and the clear blue sky with its wavy, wreathy clouds were reflected in the quiet parts of the stream most vividly. As we roamed along we came to a rude bridge that spanned our beautiful stream. It was a spot of peculiar beauty—high mountains environed us, covered with tall trees of luxuriant foliage. Dashing and foaming along came the mountain waters, and as they rolled away they formed cascades in their impetuous flow. The sky above was blue; rich, heavy clouds at times obscured the brilliancy of the blessed sun; but as we paused upon the bridge, the clouds swept aside and the sun shone out brightly. The dancing, coquettish waves, as they caught the glittering sunbeams, seemed to leap along their rocky bed more joyously, and made me almost certain I could see the wild, reckless Undine spirits of the flood. I had brought my camp-stool and sketching-paper with me, for it pleases my uncle to find beside his plate at the breakfast-table sketches of our morning rambles, and this beautiful view I determined to secure for him. Adelan left me making my sketch, to gather wild flowers. She came up to me at last, with a handfull of St John’s wort, fox-glove, wild roses, and sweet violets. When I was a child and used to gather wild flowers for my mother, she would repeat to me a simple little story, which she called “Woman’s Hopes.” Adelan’s bunch reminded me of it, and as she threw herself beside me on the grass I repeated it to her.

“Some merry, laughing children were tripping along gayly, one bright summer’s morning, when they stopped to admire and gather the road-side flowers. The flowers had just awakened from their sleep and were in tears.

“‘Languish not, pretty ones,’ said the children caressingly, ‘you shall be our dearly loved flowers. We will take you home with us, give you fresh spring-water, and set you before a mirror which shall reflect your beauties.’

“One gay, vain little flower, at these bright promises, lifted up its drooping head, rolling off the sparkling dewy drops proudly, but the little humble violet sighed, for it knew its moments were numbered. A few short hours passed, and the sportive children were chasing butterflies—but the poor wild flowers! where were they? Cast aside and forgotten!”

Summer is fast waning—a year has passed since my blessed mother died. What agony I suffered then, and how wildly I wished for death. So lonely and cheerless seemed my future without her sweet smile and heart-cheering words. But Heaven has raised up dear friends to me, and has granted unto me a sweet peaceful frame of mind. My mother’s death has been hallowed unto me. Faith and resignation have been bestowed upon me. I see before me a reunion with her in another world. Now, my life-path is no longer gloomy, and I feel that I can rouse my suffering spirit. As my mother used to wish, I have learned to act as well as meditate. I do not often permit myself to contemplate and brood over past sorrows. I do not permit myself even to take up this little book, unless I am sure my mind is in a healthy state; but when sad, languid feelings come over me, I rouse myself, and shake off the morbid sentimentality to which woman is so prone. “I hear the voice of my soul—thy actions, and thy actions alone, determine thy worth.”

I practice with Adelan, read with Aunt Mary, and share my uncle’s outdoor exercises, of which he is so fond; and how happy it makes me to see that they look for my coming, and feel that every occupation must be shared with me. I know my mother would smile upon me if she were alive, and feel that I had tried to discover my mission, and perform its duties. How often I repeat to myself those lines of hers, and they give me strength.

Thy earthly bonds are tightening,

Thy powers are failing fast,

Awake, oh! Spirit hear me,

And break these chains at last.