A TALE OF HOMBURG.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 198, 27 January 1875, Page 3

A TALE OF HOMBURG.

The Lutheran cemetery of Homburg von der Hohe has no special attraction for a stranger, unless it be the profusion of flower* which spring up round the graves. Roses red, white, and yellow, dahlias, geraniums, pansiee, sweet william, and a legion of wild flowers, seem to mock with their gaiety the sad shadows of the gravestones. Many of the monuments stand in a small plot of their own, fenced in by a miniature palisade, and laid out in flower beds and tiny paths, a space being left for a seat under a trellised canopy. These gardens are more generally left to the bounty of Nature than to the care of man, but occasionally may be seen a sombre figure stooping over a flower bed, or trimming the borders of some loved inclosure. I was strolling one June evening amid the tombs and roses, when I saw the seat in one of the little gardens occupied by a man clad in deep mourning. An Englishman, certainly, from his appearance, I at once judged him to be, before I had beared the voice of a little brown-eyed, ruddy child, who was toddling about the paths, and stooping over the flowers. Not far from the spot stood a manservant, hidden by the arbour from the view of the visitors to the grave. The occupant of the seat, who was a young man of neat, soldier-like appearance, was gazing vacantly upon the little girl, who was cm gaged in filling a wire basket with flowers, picked with no small amount of difficulty. When filled, this was carried to her father (for so I naturally guessed him to be), duly arranged by him, and then laid as an offering at the foot of the bright green mound. This done, the child, clambering up to her father’s side on the seat, asked him solemnly: ‘Will mother like to sm»ll them, father! ’ * I am sure she will, darling,’ was the reply. I was all this time concealed behind an adjoining monument, whence I watched every movement of the mourners who had so attracted my attention. Presently, the man-servant earning forward, intimated that it was getting late, and, with an air of authority, mingled with respect, opened the small gate of the inclosure for his master to pass out. The latter, kneeling for a moment, with hie forehead resting upon the cross, which sprang from some ivy-clad rock-work at the head of the grave, kissed the name inscribed, and, followed by his daughter, who insisted upon shutting the gate herself with great carefulness, took the path to the entrance of the cemetery. As soon as they were out of sight, I hurried to the spot which had already awakened in me a strong feeling of curiosity, and read these words, inscribed in gilt characters on a cross of white marble : Hier ruhet in Gott, Louise Margaretha Martyn, Geb. den 22 August 1849. Gest. den 3 Mai 1870. On the reverse of the cross, an English inscription ran thus : Here rests in peace, Louise Margaret Martyn, the dearly loved wife of Cyril John Martyn, late a Captain in Her Britannic Majesty’s th Hussars. Bom 22 August 1849. Died 3 May 1870. After gazing sadly at these words, and noting much that 1 have described, I bent my way •homewards, in a saddened state of feeling. It was easy enough to read a tale of sorrow in what I had seen ; but there was something more to be read between the lines, I felt sure. The expression of the widower’s face, and the authorative manner of the servant, could not but mean something. However, I soon afterwards entered the gardens of the Kurhaus, and mingled with the crowd of promenaders. My friend, Dr Fichte, had asked me to sup with him that evening ; he would be sure to know something about the Martyns, if there was anything worth telling, so that I did not fail to avail myself of his invitation. After our pleasant little meal,- when the doctor had pulled down from the wall a china pipe, with a stem as tall as himself, and I had filled my own pipe with caporal, I told him what I had seen in the cemetery. ‘Ah ! there’s a sad story about them, my friend, almost too sad for a happy meeting like the present; but you shall hear it. It was in 1869, somewhat early in the season, that an English gentleman, named Martyn, called upon me for advice. He was a stronglooking man of athletic build, and had one of your regular English faces, expressive of coolness and resolve. From his appearance, I should have said that there was not a healthier man in Homburg; nor was it easy for me, after a careful examination, to discover his ailment. But I need not tell you, that it is often the physician’s duty to devote his attention to an imaginary sickness, and to listen with as interested an air to delusions as to real suffering. Without entering into any technical details, it will be enough for me to say that my patient described himself as suffering from general debility and lack of energy. He said he was always losing ground, that luck was against him, and that there must be some one thing radically wrong in his constitution, which prevented his playing a successful .part in the world. He had tried all sorts of sys 7 terns, as he called them, but they had failed miserably, and he was now a broken-down man. He assured me that he had no mental cause of anxiety, that he was perfectly happy in his domestic relations, and that he was not in any degree hypochondriacal, I prescribed for him a course of bathing, early hours, and regular exercise, and, on his taking leave, begged for my wife to be allowed to make the acquaintance of Mr* Martyn. This request, you must understand, 1 made from a desire to have a few words’ conversation with my patient’s wife regarding his case. But as he grew fidgety and nervous on ray making the proposal, I bade him good-bye with the hope of seeing him again in my own house. His manner had tended to confirm my rising apprehension that my patient’s disease was not of such a nature as we can minister to, and, after a second prolonged visit from him, I felt the absolute necessity of putting myself into personal communication with his wife. I had already made her acquaintance in the gardens, and had been struck by her singular grace and sad beauty of expression. X called at their lodgings oneday after my afternoon’s work, and was ushered at once into a small room at the top of the house, which we# in Dorotheenetrasse, a street not much frequented, as you know, by your countrymen. To he continued.