{"id":25975,"date":"2026-01-20T22:11:30","date_gmt":"2026-01-21T02:11:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=25975"},"modified":"2026-01-20T22:11:32","modified_gmt":"2026-01-21T02:11:32","slug":"mary-shelley-the-pilgrims","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/mary-shelley-the-pilgrims\/25975\/","title":{"rendered":"Mary Shelley: The Pilgrims"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cThe Pilgrims\u201d is a short story by Mary Shelley, published in 1837 in The Keepsake and later included in the collection Tales and Stories (1891). Burkhardt of Unspunnen, a lonely old knight, lives tormented by painful memories. One night, two young pilgrims arrive at his castle seeking shelter, and he welcomes them generously. The strangers, moved by their host’s obvious distress, beg him to share the reason for his sorrow. Burkhardt then recounts the story of an irreparable loss and devastating regret that consumes his existence.<\/p>\n\n\n

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\"Mary<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Pilgrims<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Mary Shelley
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The twilight of one of those burning days of summer whose unclouded sky seems to speak to man of happier realms, had already flung its broad shadows over the valley of Unspunnen; whilst the departing rays of a gorgeous sunset continued to glitter on the summits of the surrounding hills. Gradually, however, the glowing tints deepened; then grew darker and darker; until they finally yielded to the still more sober hues of night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Beneath an avenue of lime trees, which, from their size and luxuriance, appeared almost coeval with the soil in which they grew, Burkhardt of Unspunnen wandered to and fro with uneasy step, as if some recent sorrow occupied his troubled mind. At times, he stood with his eyes steadfastly fixed on the earth, as if he expected to see the object of his contemplation start forth from its bosom; at other times, he would raise his eyes to the summits of the trees, whose branches, now gently agitated by the night breeze, seemed to breathe sighs of compassion in remembrance of those happy hours which had once been passed beneath their welcome shade. When, however, advancing from beneath them, he beheld the deep blue heavens with the bright host of stars, hope sprang up within him at the thoughts of that glory to which those heavens and those stars, all lovely and beauteous as they seem, are but the faint heralds; and for a time dissipated the grief which had so long weighed heavily upon his heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From these reflections, which, from the intensity of his feelings, shut him out, as it were, from the busy world and its many paths, he was suddenly aroused by the tones of a manly voice addressing him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Burkhardt advancing, beheld, standing in the light of the moon, two Pilgrims, clothed in the usual coarse and sombre garb, with their broad hats drawn over their brows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPraise be to God!\u201d said the Pilgrim who had just before awakened Burkhardt\u2019s attention, and who, from his height and manner appeared to be the elder of the two. His words were echoed by a voice whose gentle and faultering accents showed the speaker to be still but of tender years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhither are you going, friends? what seek you here, at this late hour?\u201d said Burkhardt. \u201cIf you wish to rest you after your journey enter, and with God\u2019s blessing, and my hearty welcome, recruit yourselves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNoble sir, you have more than anticipated our petition,\u201d replied the elder Pilgrim, \u201cour duty has led us far from our native land, being bound on a pilgrimage to fulfil the vow of a beloved parent. We have been forced during the heat of the day to climb the steep mountain paths; and the strength of my brother, whose youth but ill befits him for such fatigues, began to fail, when the sight of your castle\u2019s towers, which the moon\u2019s clear beams discovered to us, revived our hopes. We resolved to beg a night\u2019s lodging under your hospitable roof, that we might be enabled, on to-morrow\u2019s dawn, to pursue our weary way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFollow me, my friends,\u201d said Burkhardt, as he, with quickened step, preceded them, that he might give some orders for their entertainment. The Pilgrims rejoicing in so kind a reception, followed the knight in silence, into a high vaulted saloon; over which, the tapers, that were placed in branches against the walls, cast a solemn but pleasing light, well in accordance with the present feelings of the parties.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The knight then discerned two countenances of great beauty, the pleasing impression of which was considerably heightened by the modest yet easy manner with which the youthful pair received their host\u2019s kind attentions. Much struck with their appearance, and demeanour, Burkhardt was involuntarily led back into the train of thoughts from which their approach had aroused him; and the scenes of former days flitted before him as he recollected, that in this hall, his beloved child was ever wont to greet him with her welcome smile on his return from the battle or the chace; brief scenes of happiness, which had been followed by events that had cankered his heart, and rendered memory but an instrument of bitterness and chastisement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Supper was soon after served, and the Pilgrims were supplied with the greatest attention, yet conversation wholly languished; for his melancholy reflections occupied Burkhardt, and respect, or perhaps a more kindly feeling, towards their host and benefactor, seemed to have sealed the lips of his youthful guests. After supper, however, a flask of the baron\u2019s old wine cheered his flagging spirits; and emboldened the elder Pilgrim to break through the spell which had chained them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPardon me, noble sir,\u201d said he, \u201cfor I feel that it must seem intrusive in me to presume to seek the cause of that sorrow which thus severely oppresses you, and renders you so sad a spectator of the bounty and happiness which you liberally bestow upon others. Believe me, it is not the impulse of a mere idle curiosity that makes me express my wonder that you can thus dwell alone in this spacious and noble mansion, the prey to so deeply rooted a sorrow. Would that it were in our power, even in the slightest degree, to alleviate the cares of one who with such bounteous hand relieves the wants of his poorer brethren!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thank you for your sympathy, good Pilgrim,\u201d said the old noble, \u201cbut what can it avail you to know the story of those griefs which have made this earth a desert? and which are, with rapid pace, conducting me where alone I can expect to find rest. Spare me, then, the pain of recalling scenes which I would fain bury in oblivion. As yet, you are in the spring of life, when no sad remembrance gives a discordant echo of past follies, or of joys irrecoverably lost. Seek not to darken the sunshine of your, I trust, unsullied youth, with a knowledge of those fierce, guilty beings who, in listening to the fiend-like suggestions of their passions, are led astray from the paths of rectitude; and tear asunder ties which nature, by the holiest bonds, had seemed to unite to their very souls.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Burkhardt thus sought to avoid the entreaty of the Pilgrim. But the request was still urged with such earnest though delicate persuasion, and the rich tones of the stranger\u2019s voice awoke within him so many thoughts of days long, long past, that the knight felt himself almost irresistibly impelled to unburden his long closed heart to one who seemed to enter into its feelings with a sincere cordiality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour artless sympathy has won my confidence, my young friends,\u201d said he, \u201cand you shall learn the cause of that sorrow which gnaws my heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou see me now, indeed, here, lonely and forsaken, like a tree shaken by the tempest\u2019s violence. But fortune once looked upon me with her blandest smiles; and I felt myself rich in the consciousness of my prosperity, and the gifts which bounteous Heaven had bestowed. My powerful vassals made me a terror to those enemies which the protection, that I was ever ready to afford to the oppressed and helpless, brought against me. My rich and fertile possessions not only supplied my family with profusion, but enabled me, with liberal hand, to relieve the wants of the poor; and to exercise the rights of hospitality in a manner justly becoming my state and my name. But of all the gifts which Heaven had showered upon me, that which I most prized was a wife, whose virtues had made her the idol of both the rich and the poor. But she who was already an angel, and unfitted for this grosser world, was too soon, alas! claimed by her kindred spirits. One brief year alone had beheld our happiness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy grief and anguish were most bitter; and would soon have laid me in the same grave with her, but that she had left me a daughter, for whose dear sake I struggled earnestly against my affliction. In her were now centered all my cares, all my hopes, all my happiness. As she grew in years, so did her likeness to her sainted mother increase; and every look and gesture reminded me of my Agnes. With her mother\u2019s beauty I had, with fond presumption, dared to cherish the hope that Ida would inherit her mother\u2019s virtues.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGreatly did I feel the sad void that my irreparable loss had occasioned me; but the very thought of marrying again would have seemed to me a profanation to the memory of my Agnes. If, however, even for a single instant I had entertained this disposition, one look at her child would have crushed it; and made me cling with still fonder hope to her, in the fond confidence that she would reward me for every sacrifice that I could make. Alas! my friends, this hope was built on an unsure foundation! and my heart is even now tortured when I think on those delusive dreams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIda, with the fondest caresses, would dispel each care from my brow; in sickness and in health she watched me with the tenderest solicitude; her whole endeavour seemed to be to anticipate my wishes. But, alas! like the serpent, which only fascinates to destroy, she lavished these caresses and attentions to blind me, and wrap me in a fatal security.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMany and deep were the affronts, revenged indeed, but not forgotten, which had long since caused (with shame, I avow it) a deadly hatred between myself and Rupert, Lord of W\u00e4dischwyl, which the slightest occasion seemed to increase to a degree of madness. As he dared no longer throw down the gauntlet, I having always in single combat come off the victor, he found means, much harder than steel or iron, to glut his revenge upon me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDuke Berchtold of Z\u00e0hringen, one of those wealthy and powerful tyrants who are the very pests of that society of whose rights they ought to be the ready guardians, had made a sudden irruption on the peaceful inhabitants of the mountains, seizing their herds and flocks, and insulting their wives and daughters. Though possessed of great courage, yet being not much used to warfare, these unhappy men found it impossible to resist the tyrant; and hastened to intreat my instant succour. Without a moment\u2019s delay, I assembled my brave vassals, and marched against the spoiler. After a long and severe struggle, God blessed our cause; and our victory was complete.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn the morning, that I was about to depart, on my return to my castle, one of my followers announced to me that the Duke had arrived in my camp, and wished an immediate interview with me. I instantly went forth to meet him; and Berchtold hastening towards me, with a smile, offered me his hand in token of reconciliation. I frankly accepted it; not suspecting that falsehood could lurk beneath so open and friendly an aspect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018My friend,\u2019 said he, \u2018for such I must call you; your valour in this contest having won my esteem, although I could at once convince you that I have just cause of quarrel with the insolent mountaineers. But, in spite of your victory in this unjust strife, into which doubtless you were induced to enter by the misrepresentations of those villains, yet as my nature abhors to prolong dissensions, I would willingly cease to think that we are enemies; and commence a friendship which, on my part, at least, shall not be broken. In token, therefore, that you do not mistrust a fellow soldier, return with me to my castle, that we may there drown all remembrance of our past disunion.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDuring a long time, I resisted his importunity, for I had now been more than a year absent from my home; and was doubly impatient to return, as I fondly imagined that my delay would occasion much anxiety to my daughter. But the Duke, with such apparent kindness and in such a courteous manner renewed and urged his solicitations, that I could resist no longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHis Highness entertained me with the greatest hospitality and unremitted attention. But I soon perceived that an honest<\/em> man is more in his element amidst the toils of the battle, than amongst the blandishments of a court; where the lip and the gesture carry welcome, but where the heart, to which the tongue is never the herald, is corroded by the unceasing strifes of jealousy and envy. I soon too saw that my rough and undisguised manners were an occasion of much mirth to the perfumed and essenced nothings who crowded the halls of the Duke. I however stifled my resentment, when I considered that these creatures lived but in his favour; like those swarms of insects which are warmed into existence from the dunghill, by the sun\u2019s rays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI had remained the unwilling guest of the Duke during some days; when the arrival of a stranger of distinction was announced with much ceremony; this stranger I found to be my bitterest foe, Rupert of W\u00e4dischwyl. The Duke received him with the most marked politeness and attention; and more than once I fancied that I perceived the precedence of me was studiously given to my enemy. My frank yet haughty nature could ill brook this system of disparagement; and, besides, it seemed to me that I should but play the hypocrite if I partook of the same cup with the man for whom I entertained a deadly hatred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI resolved therefore to depart; and sought his Highness to bid him farewell. He appeared much distressed at my resolution; and earnestly pressed me to avow the cause of my abrupt departure. I candidly confessed that the undue favour which I thought he showed to my rival was the cause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018I am hurt, deeply hurt,\u2019 said the Duke, affecting an air of great sorrow, \u2018that my friend, and that friend the valiant Unspunnen, should think thus unjustly, dare I add, thus meanly of me. No, I have not even in thought wronged you; and to prove my sincerity and my regard for your welfare, know that it was not chance which conducted your adversary to my court. He comes in consequence of my eager wish to reconcile two men whom I so much esteem; and whose worth and excellence place them amongst the brightest ornaments of our favoured land. Let me, therefore,\u2019 said he, taking my hand and the hand of Rupert, who had entered during our discourse, \u2018let me have the enviable satisfaction of reconciling two such men, and of terminating your ancient discord. You cannot refuse a request so congenial to that holy faith which we all profess. Suffer me, therefore, to be the minister of peace; and to suggest that, in token and in confirmation of an act which will draw down Heaven\u2019s blessing on us all, you will permit our holy church to unite in one, your far-famed lovely daughter, with Lord Rupert\u2019s only son; whose virtues, if reports speak truly, render him no undeserving object of her love.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA rage, which seemed in an instant to turn my blood into fire, and which almost choked my utterance, took possession of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018What!\u2019 exclaimed I, \u2018what, think you that I would thus sacrifice, thus <\/em>cast away my precious jewel! thus debase my beloved Ida? No, by her sainted mother, I swear that rather than see her married to his<\/em> son, I would devote her to the cloister! Nay, I would rather see her dead at my feet, than suffer her purity to be sullied by such contamination!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018But for the presence of his Highness,\u2019 cried Rupert wrathfully, \u2018your life should instantly answer for this insult! Nathless, I will well mark you, and watch you, too, my lord; and if you escape my revenge, you are more than man.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018Indeed, indeed, my Lord of Unspunnen,\u2019 said the Duke, \u2018you are much too rash. Your passion has clouded your reason; and, believe me, you will live to repent having so scornfully refused my friendly proposal.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018You may judge me rash, my Lord Duke, and perhaps think me somewhat too bold, because I dare assert the truth, in the courts of princes. But since my tongue cannot frame itself to speak that which my heart does not dictate, and my plain but honest manner seems to displease you, I will, with your Highness\u2019 permission, withdraw to my own domain; whence I have been but too long absent.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018Undoubtedly, my lord, you have my permission,\u2019 said the Duke haughtily; and at the same time turning coldly from me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy horse was brought, I mounted him with as much composure as I could command; and I breathed more freely as I left the castle far behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDuring the second day\u2019s journey I arrived within a near view of my own native mountains; and I felt doubly invigorated, as their pure breezes were wafted towards me. Still the fond anxiety of a father for his beloved child, and that child his only treasure, made the way seem doubly long. But as I approached the turn of the road which is immediately in front of my castle, I almost then wished the way lengthened; for my joy, my hopes, and my apprehensions crowded upon me almost to suffocation. \u2018A few short minutes, however,\u2019 I thought, and then the truth, ill or good, will be known to me.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen I came in full sight of my dwelling, all seemed in peace; nought exhibited any change since I had left it. I spurred my horse on to the gate; but as I advanced, the utter stillness and desertion of all around surprised me. Not a domestic, not a peasant was to be seen in the courts; it appeared as if the inhabitants of the castle were still asleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018Merciful Heaven!\u2019 I thought, \u2018what can this stillness forbode! Is she, is my beloved child dead?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI could not summon courage to pull the bell. Thrice I attempted, yet thrice the dread of learning the awful truth prevented me. One moment, one word, even one sign, and I might be a forlorn, childless, wretched man, for ever! None but a father can feel or fully sympathize in the agony of those moments! none but a father can ever fitly describe them! My existence seemed even to depend upon the breath of the first passer by; and my eye shrank from observation lest it should encounter me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was aroused from this inactive state, by my faithful dog springing towards me to welcome my return with his boisterous caresses, and deep and loud toned expressions of his joy. Then, the old porter, attracted by the noise, came to the gate which he instantly opened; but, as he was hurrying forward to meet me, I readily perceived that some sudden and painful recollection checked his eagerness. I leaped from my horse quickly, and entered the hall. All the other domestics now came forward; except my faithful steward Wilfred, he who had been always the foremost to greet his master.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018Where is my daughter? where is your mistress?\u2019 I eagerly exclaimed; \u2018let me know but that she lives. Yet stop, stop; one moment, one short moment, ere you tell me I am lost for ever!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe faithful Wilfred, who had now entered the hall, threw himself at my feet; and with the tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks, earnestly pressed my hand, and hesitatingly informed me that my daughter lived: <\/em>was well, he believed, but \u2014 had quitted the castle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018Now, speak more quickly, old man,\u2019 said I hastily, and passionately interrupting him: \u2018What is it you can mean? my daughter lives; my Ida is well, but she is not here.<\/em> Now, have you and my vassals proved recreants, and suffered my castle in my absence to be robbed of its greatest treasure? Speak! speak plainly, I command ye!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018It is with anguish, as great almost as your own can be, my beloved master, that I make known to you, the sad truth, that your daughter has quitted her father\u2019s roof to become the wife of Conrad, the son of the Lord of W\u00e4dischwyl.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018The wife of Lord Rupert\u2019s son! my Ida the wife of the son of him whose very name my soul loathes!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy wrath now knew no bounds; the torments of hell seemed to have changed the current of my blood. In the madness of my passion I even cursed my own dear daughter! Yes, Pilgrim, I even cursed her on whom I had so fondly doted; for whose sake alone life for me had any charms. Oh! how often since have I attempted to recall that curse! and these bitter tears, which even now I cannot control, witness how severe has been my repentance of that awful and unnatural act!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDreadful were the imprecations which I heaped upon my enemy; and deep was the revenge I swore. I know not to what fearful length my unbridled passion would have hurried me; had I not, from its very excess, sunk senseless into the arms of my domestics. When I recovered, I found myself in my own chamber, and Wilfred seated near me. Sometime, however, elapsed before I came to a clear recollection of the past events; and when I did, it seemed as if an age of crime and misery had weighed me down, and chained my tongue. My eye involuntarily wandered to that part of the chamber where hung my daughter\u2019s portrait. But this, the faithful old man, \u2014 who had not removed it, no doubt thinking that to do so would have offended me, \u2014 had contrived to hide, by placing before it a piece of armour, which seemed as though it had accidentally fallen into that position.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMany more days elapsed ere I was enabled to listen to the particulars of my daughter\u2019s flight; which I will, not to detain you longer with my griefs, now briefly relate. \u2014 It appeared, that urged by the fame of her beauty, and by a curiosity most natural, I confess to youth, Conrad of W\u00e4dischwyl had, for a long time sought, but sought in vain, to see my Ida. Chance, at length, however, favoured him. On her way to hear mass at our neighbouring monastery, he beheld her; and beheld her but to love. Her holy errand did not prevent him from addressing her; and well the smooth-tongued villain knew how to gain the ear of one so innocent, so unsuspicious as my Ida! Too soon, alas, did his accursed flatteries win their way to her guiltless heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy child\u2019s affection for her father was unbounded; and readily would she have sacrificed her life for mine. But when love has once taken possession of the female heart, too quickly drives he thence those sterner guests, reason and duty. Suffice it therefore to say she was won; and induced to unite herself to W\u00e4dischwyl, before my return, by his crafty and insidious argument that I should be more easily persuaded to give them my pardon and my blessing, when I found that the step that she had taken was irrevocable. With almost equal art, he pleaded too that their union would doubtless heal the breach between the families of W\u00e4dischwyl and Unspunnen; and thus terminate that deadly hatred which my gentle Ida, ever the intercessor for peace, had always condemned. By this specious sophistry, my poor misguided child was prevailed upon to tear herself from the heart of a fond parent, to unite herself with an unprincipled deceiver, the son of that parent\u2019s most bitter enemy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The pain of these recollections so overcame Burkhardt, that some time elapsed ere he could master his feelings: at length he proceeded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy soul seemed now to have but one feeling, revenge.<\/em> All other passions were annihilated by this master one; and I instantly prepared myself and my vassals to chastise this worse than robber. But such satisfaction was (I now thank God) denied me; for the Duke of Z\u00e0hringen soon gave me memorable cause to recollect his parting words. Having attached himself with his numerous followers to my rival\u2019s party, these powerful chiefs suddenly invaded my domain. A severe struggle against most unequal numbers ensued. But, at length, though my brave retainers would fain have prolonged the hopeless strife, resolved to stop a needless waste of blood, I left the field to my foes; and, with the remnant of my faithful soldiers, hastened, in deep mortification, to bury myself within these walls. This galling repulse prevented all possibility of reconciliation with my daughter, whom I now regarded as the cause of my disgrace: and consequently, I forbad her name even to be mentioned in my presence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYears rolled on: and I had no intelligence of her until I learned by a mere chance that she had with her husband quitted her native land. Altogether, more than twenty, to me long, long years, have now passed since her flight; and though, when time brought repentance, and my anger and revenge yielded to better feelings, I made every effort to gain tidings of my poor child, I have not yet been able to discover any further traces of her. The chance of so doing was indeed rendered more difficult, by the death of my faithful Wilfred, shortly after my defeat, and by the character of his successor; an individual of strict integrity, but of an austere temper and forbidding manners. Here, therefore, have I lived a widowed, childless, heart-broken old man. But I have at least learned to bow to the dispensations of an All-Wise Providence, which has in its justice stricken me, for thus remorselessly cherishing that baneful passion which Holy Law so expressly forbids. Oh! how I have yearned to see my beloved child! how I have longed to clasp her to this withered, blighted heart! With scalding tears of the bitterest repentance have I revoked those deadly curses, which, in the plenitude of my unnatural wrath, I dared to utter daily. Ceaselessly do I now weary Heaven with my prayers to obliterate all memory of those fatal imprecations; or to let them fall on my own head, and shower down only its choicest blessings on that of my beloved child! But a fear, which freezes my veins with horror, constantly haunts me lest the maledictions which I dared to utter in my moments of demoniac vindictiveness, should, in punishment for my impiety, have been fulfilled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOften, in my dreams, do I behold my beloved child; but her looks are always in sadness, and she ever seems mildly but most sorrowfully to upbraid me, for having so inhumanly cast her from me. Yet she must, I fear, have died long ere now; for, were she living, she would not, I think, have ceased to endeavour to regain the affections of a father who once loved her so tenderly. It is true that at first she made many efforts to obtain my forgiveness. Nay, I have subsequently learned that she even knelt at the threshold of my door, and piteously supplicated to be allowed to see me. But my commands had been so peremptory, and, as I before observed, the steward who had replaced Wilfred, was of so stern and unbending a disposition, that, just and righteous as was this her last request, it was unfeelingly denied to her. Eternal Heaven! she whom I had loved as perhaps never father loved before \u2014 she whom I had fondly watched almost hourly lest the rude breeze of winter should chill her, or the summer\u2019s heat should scorch her \u2014 she whom I had cherished in sickness through many a livelong night, with a mother\u2019s devotion, and more than a mother\u2019s solicitude, even she,<\/em> the only child of my beloved Agnes, and the anxious object of the last moments of her life, was spurned from my door! from this door whence no want goes unrelieved, and where the very beggar finds rest! And now, when I would bless the lips that even could say to me, \u2018she lives,\u2019 I can no where gather the slightest tidings of my child. Ah, had I listened to the voice of reason, had I not suffered my better feelings to be mastered by the wildest, and fellest passions, I might have seen herself, and perhaps her children, happy around me, cheering the evening of my life. And when my last hour shall come, they would have closed my eyes in peace, and, in unfeigned sorrow have daily addressed to Heaven their innocent prayers for my soul\u2019s eternal rest; instead of the hirelings who will now execute the mummery of mourning, and impatiently hurry me to an unlamented, a lonely, and an unhonoured grave. To those children also, would have descended that inheritance which must at my decease fall to an utter stranger, who bears not even my name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou now know, Pilgrims, the cause of my grief; and I see by the tears which you have so abundantly shed, that you truly pity the forlorn being before you. Remember him and his sorrows therefore ever in your prayers; and when you kneel at the shrine to which you are bound, let not those sorrows be forgotten.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The elder Pilgrim in vain attempted to answer; the excess of his feelings overpowered his utterance. At length, throwing himself at the feet of Burkhardt, and casting off his Pilgrim\u2019s habits, he, with difficulty exclaimed, \u201cSee here, thine Ida\u2019s son! and behold in my youthful companion, thine Ida\u2019s daughter! Yes, before you kneel the children of her whom you so much lament. We came to sue for that pardon, for that love, which we had feared would have been denied us. But, thanks be to God, who has mollified your heart, we have only to implore that you will suffer us to use our poor efforts to alleviate your sorrows; and render more bright and cheerful your declining years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In wild and agitated surprise, Burkhardt gazed intently upon them. It seemed to him as if a beautiful vision were before him, which he feared even a breath might dispel. When, however, he became assured that he was under the influence of no delusion, the tumult of his feelings overpowered him, and he sank senselessly on the neck of the elder Pilgrim; who, with his sister\u2019s assistance, quickly raised the old man, and by their united efforts restored him, ere long, to his senses. But when Burkhardt beheld the younger Pilgrim, the very image of his lost Ida, bending over him with the most anxious and tender solicitude, he thought that death had ended all his worldly sufferings, and that Heaven had already opened to his view.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGreat God!\u201d at length he exclaimed, \u201cI am unworthy of these thy mercies! Grant me to receive them as I ought! I need not ask,\u201d added he, after a pause, and pressing the Pilgrims to his bosom, \u201cfor a confirmation of your statement, or of my own sensations of joy. All, all tells me that you are the children of my beloved Ida. Say, therefore, is your mother dead? or dare I hope once more to clasp her to my heart?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The elder Pilgrim, whose name was Hermann, then stated to him, that two years had passed since his parent had breathed her last in his arms. Her latest prayer was, that Heaven would forgive her the sorrow she had caused her father, and forbear to visit her own error on her children\u2019s heads. He then added that his father had been dead many years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy mother,\u201d continued Hermann, drawing from his bosom a small sealed packet, \u201ccommanded me, on her death-bed, to deliver this into your own hands. \u2018My son,\u2019 she said, \u2018when I am dead, if my father still lives, cast yourself at his feet, and desist not your supplications until you have obtained from him a promise that he will read this prayer. It will acquaint him with a repentance that may incite him to recall his curse; and thus cause the earth to lie lightly on all that will shortly remain of his once loved Ida. Paint to him the hours of anguish which even your tender years have witnessed. Weary him, my son, with your entreaties; cease them not until you have wrung from him his forgiveness.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs you may suppose, I solemnly engaged to perform my mother\u2019s request; and as soon as our grief for the loss of so dear, so fond a parent, would permit us, my sister and myself resolved, in these pilgrim\u2019s habits, to visit your castle; and, by gradual means, to have attempted to win your affections, if we should have found you still relentless, and unwilling to listen to our mother\u2019s prayer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPraise be to that God, my son,\u201d said Burkhardt, \u201cat whose command the waters spring from the barren rock, that he has bidden the streams of love and repentance to flow once more from my once barren and flinty heart. But let me not delay, to open this sad memorial of your mother\u2019s griefs. I wish you, my children, to listen to it, that you may hear both her exculpation and her wrongs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Burkhardt hid his face in his hands, and remained for some moments earnestly struggling with his feelings. At length, he broke the seal; and, with a voice which at times was almost overpowered, read aloud the contents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy beloved father, \u2014 if by that fond title your daughter may still address you, \u2014 feeling that my sad days are now numbered, I make this last effort, ere my strength shall fail me, to obtain at least your pity for her you once so much loved; and to beseech you to recall that curse which has weighed too heavily upon her heart. Indeed, my father, I am not quite that guilty wretch you think me. Do not imagine, that, neglecting every tie of duty and gratitude, I could have left the tenderest of parents to his widowed lonely home, and have united myself with the son of his sworn foe, had I not fondly, most ardently, hoped, nay, had cherished the idea almost to certainty, that you would, when you found that I was a wife, have quickly pardoned a fault, which the fears of your refusal to our union had alone tempted me to commit. I firmly believed that my husband would then have shared with me my father\u2019s love, and have, with his child, the pleasing task of watching over his happiness and comfort. But never did I for an instant imagine that I was permanently wounding the heart of that father. My youth, and the ardour of my husband\u2019s persuasions, must plead some extenuation of my fault.

\u201cThe day that I learnt the news of your having pronounced against me that fatal curse, and your fixed determination never more to admit me to your presence, has been marked in characters indelible on my memory. At that moment, it appeared as if Heaven had abandoned me, had marked me for its reprobation as a parricide! My brain and my heart seemed on fire, whilst my blood froze in my veins. The chillness of death crept over every limb, and my tongue refused all utterance. I would have wept, but the source of my tears was dried within me.

\u201cHow long I remained in this state I know not, as I at length became insensible, and remained so for some days. On returning to a full consciousness of my wretchedness, I would instantly have rushed to your abode, and cast myself at your feet, to wring from you, if possible, your forgiveness of my crime; but my limbs were incapable of all motion. Soon, too, I learned that the letters, which I dictated, were returned unopened; and my husband at last informed me, that all his efforts to see you had been utterly fruitless.

\u201cYet the moment I had gained sufficient strength, I went to the castle, but, unfortunately for me, even as I entered, I encountered a stern wretch, to whom my person was not unknown; and he instantly told me that my efforts to see his master would be useless. I used prayers and entreaties; I even knelt upon the bare ground to him. But so far from listening to me, he led me to the gate, and, in my presence, dismissed the old porter who had admitted me, and who afterwards followed my fortunes until the hour of his death. Finding that all my attempts were without hope, and that several of the old servants had been discarded on my account, with a heart completely broken, I succumbed to my fate, and abandoned all farther attempt.

\u201cAfter the birth of my son (to whose fidelity and love I trust this sad memorial) my husband, who, with the tenderest solicitude, employed every means in his power to divert my melancholy, having had a valuable property in Italy bequeathed to him, prevailed upon me to repair to that favoured and beauteous country. But neither the fond attentions of my beloved Conrad, nor the bright sunshine and luxurious breezes of that region of wonders, could overcome a grief so deeply rooted as mine; and I soon found that the gay garden of Europe had less charms for me, than my own dear native land, with its dark, pine-clad mountains.

\u201cShortly after we had arrived at Rome, I gave birth to a daughter; an event which was only too soon followed by the death of my affectionate husband. The necessity of ceaseless attention to my infant, in some measure alleviated the intense anguish which I suffered from that most severe loss. Nevertheless, in the very depth of this sorrow which almost overcharged my heart, Heaven only knows how often, and how remorsefully, while bending over my own dear children in sickness, have I called to mind the anxious fondness with which the tenderest and best of fathers used to watch over me!

\u201cI struggled long and painfully with my feelings, and often did I beseech God to spare my life, that I might be enabled to instruct my children in His holy love and fear, and teach them to atone for the error of their parent. My prayer has in mercy been heard; the boon I supplicated has been granted; and I trust, my beloved father, that if these children should be admitted to your affections, you will find that I have trained up two blessed intercessors for your forgiveness, when it shall have pleased Heaven to have called your daughter to her account before that dread tribunal where a sire\u2019s curse will plead so awfully against her. Recall then, oh, beloved parent! recall your dreadful malediction from your poor repentant Ida! and send your blessing as an angel of mercy to plead for her eternal rest. Farewell, my father, for ever! for ever, farewell! By the cross, whose emblem her fevered lips now press; by Him, who in his boundless mercy hung upon that cross, your daughter, your once much loved Ida, implores you, supplicates you, not to let her plead in vain!<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cMy child, my child!\u201d sobbed Burkhardt, as the letter dropped from his hand, \u201cmay the Father of All forgive me as freely as I from the depths of my wrung heart forgive you! Would that your remorseful father could have pressed you to his heart; with his own lips have assured you of his affection; and wiped away the tears of sorrow from your eyes! But he will cherish these beloved remembrances of you; and will more jealously guard them than his own life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Burkhardt passed the whole of the following day in his chamber, to which the good Father Jerome alone was admitted; as the events of the preceding day rendered a long repose absolutely necessary. The following morning, however, he entered the hall, where Hermann and Ida were impatiently waiting for him. His pale countenance still exhibited deep traces of the agitation he had experienced; but having kissed his children most affectionately, he smilingly flung round Ida\u2019s neck a massive gold chain, richly wrought, with a bunch of keys appended to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe must duly instal our Lady of the Castle,\u201d said he, \u201cand invest her with her appropriate authorities. \u2014 But, hark! from the sound of the porter\u2019s horn, it seems as if our hostess would have early calls upon her hospitality. Whom have we here?\u201d continued he, looking out up the avenue; \u201cBy St. Hubert, a gay and gallant knight is approaching, who shall be right welcome \u2014 that is, if my lady approve. Well, Willibald, what bring you? a letter from our good friend the abbot of St. Anselm. What savs he?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cI am sure that you will not refuse your welcome to a young knight, who is returning by your castle to his home, from the emperor\u2019s wars. He is well known to me, and I can vouch for his being a guest worthy of your hospitality, which will not be the less freely granted to him, because he does not bask in the\u00a0golden<\/em>\u00a0smiles of fortune.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, no, that it shall not, my good friend; and if fortune frown upon him, he shall be doubly welcome. Conduct him hither, instantly, good Willibald.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The steward hastened to usher in the stranger, who advanced into the hall, with a modest but manly air. He was apparently about twenty-five years of age; his person was such as might well, in the dreams of a young maiden, occupy no unconspicuous place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir Knight,\u201d said Burkhardt, taking him cordially by the hand, \u201cyou are right welcome to my castle, and such poor entertainment as it can afford. We must make you forget your wounds, and the rough usage of a soldier\u2019s life. But, soft, I already neglect my duty, in not first introducing our hostess,\u201d added the aged knight, presenting Ida. \u201cBy my faith,\u201d he continued, \u201cjudging from my lady\u2019s blushing smile, you seem not to have met for the first time. Am I right in my conjecture?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe have<\/em> met, sir,\u201d replied Ida, with such confusion as pleasantly implied that the meeting was not indifferently recollected, \u201cin the parlour of the Abbess of the Ursulines, at Munich, where I have sometimes been to visit a much valued friend.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe abbess,\u201d said the young knight, \u201cwas my cousin; and my good fortune more than once gave me the happiness of seeing in her convent this lady. But little did I expect that amongst these mountains the fickle goddess would again have so favoured a homeless wanderer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, Sir Knight,\u201d replied Burkhardt, \u201cwe trust that fortune has been equally favourable to us. And now we will make bold to ask your name; and then, without useless and tedious ceremony, on the part of ourselves and our hostess, bid you again a hearty welcome.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy name,\u201d said the stranger, \u201cis Walter de Blumfeldt; though humble, it has never been disgraced; and with the blessing of Heaven, I hope to hand it down as honoured as I have received it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Weeks, months, rolled on, and Walter de Blumfeldt was still the guest of the Lord of Unspunnen; till, by his virtues, and the many excellent qualities which daily more and more developed themselves, he wound himself around Burkhardt\u2019s heart; which the chastened life of the old knight had rendered particularly susceptible of the kindlier feelings. Frequently would he now, with tears in his eyes, declare that he wished he could convince each and all with whom his former habits had caused any difference, how truly he forgave them, and desired their forgiveness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould,\u201d said he one day, in allusion to this subject, \u201cthat I could have met my old enemy, the Duke of Zahringen, and with a truly heartfelt pleasure and joy have embraced him, and numbered him amongst my friends. But he is gathered to his fathers, and I know not whether he has left any one to bear his honours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each time that Walter had offered to depart, Burkhardt had found some excuse to detain him; for it seemed to him that in separating from his young guest, he should lose a link of that chain which good fortune had so lately woven for him. Hermann, too, loved Walter as a brother; and Ida fain would have imagined that she loved him as a sister: but her heart more plainly told her what her colder reasoning sought to hide. Unspunnen, who had for some time perceived the growing attachment between Walter and Ida, was not displeased at the discovery, as he had long ceased to covet riches; and had learnt to prize the sterling worth of the young knight, who fully answered the high terms in which the Prior of St. Anselm always spoke of him. Walking one evening under the shade of that very avenue where he had first encountered Hermann and Ida, he perceived the latter, at some little distance, in conversation with Walter. It was evident to Burkhardt that the young knight was not addressing himself to a very unwilling ear, as Ida was totally regardless of the loud cough with which Burkhardt chose to be seized at that moment; nor did she perceive him, until he exclaimed, or rather vociferated, \u201cDo you know, Walter, that, under this very avenue, two pilgrims, bound to some holy shrine, once accosted me; but that, in pity to my sins and forlorn condition, they exchanged their penitential journey for an act of greater charity; and have ever since remained to extend their kind cares to an aged and helpless relative but too little worthy of their love. One, however, of these affectionate beings is now about to quit my abode, and to pass through the rest of this life\u2019s pilgrimage with a helpmate in his toilsome journey, in the person of the fair daughter of the Baron de Leichtfeldt; and thus leave his poor companion to battle the storms of the world, with only the tedious society of an old man. Say, Sir Knight, will thy valour suffer that such wrong be done; or wilt thou<\/em> undertake to conduct this forsaken pilgrim on her way, and guide her through the chequered paths of this variable life? I see by the lowliness with which you bend, and the colour which mantles in your cheek, that I speak not to one insensible to an old man\u2019s appeal. But soft, soft, Sir Knight, my Ida is not yet canonized, and therefore cannot afford to lose a hand, which inevitably must occur, if you continue to press it with such very ardent devotion. But what says our pilgrim, does she accept of thy conduct and service, Sir Knight?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ida, scarcely able to support herself, threw herself on Burkhardt\u2019s neck. We will not raise the veil which covers the awful moment that renders a man, as he supposes, happy or miserable for ever. Suffice it to say, that the day which made Hermann the husband of the daughter of the Baron de Leichtfeldt, saw Ida the wife of Walter de Blumfeldt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Six months had passed rapidly away to the happy inhabitants of Unspunnen; and Burkhardt seemed almost to have grown young again; such wonders did the tranquillity which now reigned within him perform. He was therefore one of the most active and foremost in the preparations, which were necessary, in consequence of Walter suggesting that they should spend Ida\u2019s birthday in a favorite retreat of his and hers. This chosen spot was a beautiful meadow, in front of which meandered a small limpid river, or rather stream; at the back was a gorgeous amphitheatre of trees, the wide spreading branches of which cast a refreshing shade over the richly enameled grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In this beauteous retreat, were Burkhardt, Walter, and his Ida, passing the sultry hours of noon, with all that flow of mirth which careless hearts can alone experience; when Walter, who had been relating some of his adventures at the Court of the Emperor, and recounting the magnificence of the tournaments, turning to his bride, said; \u201cBut what avails all that pomp, my Ida. How happy are we in this peaceful vale! we envy neither princes nor dukes their palaces, or their states. These woods, these glades, are worth all the stiffly trimmed gardens of the Emperor, and the great Monarch of France, to boot. What say you, my Ida, could you brook the ceremony of a court, and the pride of royalty? Methinks even the coronet of a duchess would but ill replace the wreath of blushing roses on your head.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGently, my good husband,\u201d replied Ida, laughing, \u201cthey say, you know, that a woman loves these vanities too dearly in her heart, ever to despise them. Then how can you expect so frail a mortal as your poor wife to hold them in contempt? Indeed, I think,\u201d added she, assuming an air of burlesque dignity, \u201cthat I should make a lofty duchess, and wear my coronet with most becoming grace. And now, by my faith, Walter, I recollect that you have this day, like a true and gallant knight, promised to grant whatever boon I shall ask. On my bended knee, therefore, I humbly sue that if you know any spell or magic wile, to make a princess or a duchess for only a single day, that you will forthwith exercise your art upon me; just in order to enable me to ascertain with how much or how little dignity I could sustain such honours. It is no very difficult matter, Sir Knight: you have only to call in the aid of Number Nip, or some such handy workman of the woods. Answer, most chivalrous husband, for thy disconsolate wife rises not until her prayer is granted.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy, Ida, you have indeed craved a rare boon,\u201d replied Walter, \u201cand how to grant it may well puzzle my brain, till it becomes crazed with the effort. But, let me see, let me see,\u201d continued he, musingly; \u201cI have it! \u2014 Come hither, love, here is your throne,\u201d said he, placing her on a gentle eminence richly covered with the fragrant wild thyme and the delicate harebell; \u201ckings might now envy you the incense which is offered to you. And you, noble sir,\u201d added he, addressing Burkhardt, \u201cmust stand beside her Highness, in quality of chief counsellor. There are your attendants around you: behold that tall oak, he must be your Highness\u2019 poursuivant; and yonder slender mountain ashes, your trusty pages.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is but a poor fulfilment of the task you have undertaken, Sir mummer,\u201d said Ida, with a playful, and arch affectation of disappointment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave patience for a brief while, fair dame,\u201d replied Walter, laughing; \u201cfor now must I awaken your Highness\u2019 men at arms.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then, taking from his side, a silver horn, he loudly sounded the melodious reveill\u00e9e. As he withdrew the instrument from his lips, a trumpet thrillingly answered to the call; and scarcely had its last notes died away, when, from the midst of the woods, as if the very trees were gifted with life, came forth a troop of horsemen, followed by a body of archers on foot. They had but just entirely emerged, when numerous peasants, both male and female, appeared in their gayest attire; and, together with the horsemen and the archers, rapidly and picturesquely ranged themselves in front of the astonished Ida, who had already abdicated her throne, and clung to the arm of Walter. They then suddenly divided; and twelve pages in richly emblazoned dresses advanced. After them followed six young girls, whose forms and features the Graces might have envied, bearing two coronets placed on embroidered cushions. In the rear of these, supporting his steps with his abbatial staff, walked the venerable Abbot of St. Anselm; who, with his white beard flowing almost to his girdle, and his benign looks, that showed the pure commerce of the soul which gave life to an eye, the brightness of which seventy years had scarcely diminished, seemed to Ida a being of another world. The young girls then advancing, and kneeling before Walter, and his wife, presented the coronets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ida, who had remained almost breathless with wonder, could now scarcely articulate, \u201cDear, dear Walter, what is all this pomp \u2014 what does \u2014 what can<\/em> it mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMean! my beloved,\u201d replied her husband, \u201cdid you not bid me make you a Duchess? I have but obeyed your high commands, and I now salute you, Duchess<\/em> of Z\u00e2hringen!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The whole multitude then made the woods resound with the acclamation, \u201cLong live the Duke, and Duchess of Z\u00e2hringen!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Walter, having for some moments, enjoyed the unutterable amazement of the now breathless Ida, and the less evident but perhaps equally intense surprise of Burkhardt, turning to the latter, said, \u201cMy more than father, you see in me the son of your once implacable enemy, the Duke of Z\u00e2hringen. He has been many years gathered to his fathers; and I, as his only son, have succeeded to his title, and his large possessions. My heart, my liberty, were entirely lost in the parlour of the Abbess of the Ursulines. But when I learnt whose child my Ida was, and your sad story, I resolved ere I would make her mine, to win not only her love, but also your favour and esteem. How well I have succeeded, this little magic circle on my Ida\u2019s finger is my witness. It will add no small measure to your happiness, to know that my father had for many years repented of the wrongs which he had done you; and, as much as possible to atone for them, entrusted the education of his son to the care of this my best of friends, the Abbot of St. Anselm, that he might learn to shun the errors into which his sire had unhappily fallen. And now,\u201d continued he, advancing, and leading Ida towards the Abbot, \u201cI have only to beg your blessing, and that this lady, whom through Heaven\u2019s goodness I glory to call my wife, be invested with those insignia of the rank which she is so fit to adorn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Walter, or as we must now call him, the Duke of Z\u00e2hringen, with Ida, then lowly knelt before the venerable Abbot; whilst the holy man, with tears in his eyes, invoked upon them the blessings of Heaven. His Highness then rising, took one of the coronets, and placing it on Ida\u2019s head, said, \u201cMayst thou be as happy under this glittering coronet, as thou wert under the russet hood, in which I first beheld thee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGod and our Lady aid me!\u201d replied the agitated Ida; \u201cand may He grant that I may wear it with as much humility. Yet thorns, they say, spring up beneath a crown.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTrue, my beloved,\u201d said the Duke, \u201cand they also grow beneath the peasant\u2019s homely cap. But the rich alchemy of my Ida\u2019s virtues will ever convert all thorns into the brightest jewels of her diadem.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

FINIS<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThe Pilgrims\u201d is a short story by Mary Shelley, published in 1837 in The Keepsake and later included in the collection Tales and Stories (1891). Burkhardt of Unspunnen, a lonely old knight, lives tormented by painful memories. One night, two young pilgrims arrive at his castle seeking shelter, and he welcomes them generously. The strangers, moved by their host’s obvious distress, beg him to share the reason for his sorrow. Burkhardt then recounts the story of an irreparable loss and devastating regret that consumes his existence.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":25974,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[606,630,582,772],"class_list":["post-25975","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-mary-shelley-en","tag-realism","tag-romance-en","tag-united-kingdom","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":606,"label":"Mary Shelley"},{"value":630,"label":"Realism"},{"value":582,"label":"Romance"},{"value":772,"label":"United Kingdom"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/01\/Mary-Shelley-Los-peregrinos.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":606,"name":"Mary Shelley","slug":"mary-shelley-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":606,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":9,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":630,"name":"Realism","slug":"realism","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":630,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":52,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":582,"name":"Romance","slug":"romance-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":582,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":772,"name":"United Kingdom","slug":"united-kingdom","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":772,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":92,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25975","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=25975"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25975\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/25974"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=25975"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=25975"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=25975"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}